Thursday, March 27, 2025

Tokyo: Answers soon? Maybe.

Tokyo: Still so many questions

But on the way to getting some answers. 

Recap: 

Was training for Tokyo Marathon. On an Alter G treadmill for the last few months, due to a stupidly stubborn case of plantar fasciitis. About two-ish weeks before Tokyo, did my last long run, a twenty miler. It was a glorious-Morgan-Freeman-could-have-narrated-it success. I was queen of the world phenomenal. Fast (for me). Relentless (I only whined a little).  Top of my game awesomely high on endorphins for about five minutes after I stepped off the machine.  Then, no warning,  passed out. 

Emergency room did all the blood tests, brain scans, chest x-rays.  I was fine and blood test was almost great. Almost because, hey, I'd just run twenty miles so of course certain elements were a little depleted. My primary care doctor 1,200 miles away, said I needed a checkup before I went to Tokyo. Didn't happen. Had a snowstorm instead which interfered with travel so couldn't get home to New England.

But weather was clear for Tokyo. And I couldn't not show up. Okay. could have opted out but why would I do that? Plus, I didn't have trip insurance so it wasn't like I was getting my money back if I canceled. 

Started the race and immediately felt weirdly yucky. But that's normal.  The first mile is a liar. But things didn't get better as the race continued. Took myself off the race course at mile 6 because of strange symptoms: lightheadedness and chest heaviness. 

Now: 

Still tormenting myself. Oh, the questions. Should I have stayed the course? Why did I drop out? Seriously was it really that bad? When did I become a person who calls it quits? Will I ever run again? Should I ever run again? Do I have the guts to ever run again?

Doctor says no running for now. Doctor says I did the right thing, dropping out. But what do doctors know? 

More than me. For instance, did you know that doctors think marathons are bad for you? Ugh. 

First test. Holter monitor, two weeks. Result: Some abnormal electrical stuff that according to google can kill me. Or not.  Awesome. 

Second test. Stress test: Passed with flying colors. 98th percentile for age and gender.  

And I need another test. If I pass that test, then supposedly I'm fine. But no running until after that.

So I wait while insurance messes with my life. 

Insurance and doctors don't speak the same language. Doctor orders a test to be completed within 24 hours. 'Urgent.' Insurance sees 'hours.' Thinks days. Sees 'urgent.' Thinks, "Nah."

So while I wait for that 'urgent' test to be scheduled,  I google symptoms, stress, take my mind off things by watching the news, stress, contact my elected reps and tell them to do something for crying out loud because my country's going down the tubes, stress, write this, stress. 

Are my running days over? I hope not.  I was just getting started. Because that's the thing. You can be running fifty years, like me. And maybe half those years are good years. The rest, you struggle. But you keep going through the struggle because you remember the good years and know it's just a matter of time before they return because they do. They always truly do. And that's where I was. Things were super starting to go my way. Just one short month ago I was charging like horses, slow, graying, old horses. But still. I was mighty. Unstoppable even.  And now who knows? 

Universe, if you'd like to give me a break, that would be great. It's my time to shine. C'mon. Let's do this. 


 

Friday, March 7, 2025

Tokyo: So many questions.

More navel gazing. Searching for truth. Searching for motive. Why did I remove myself from the Tokyo Marathon course? 

Yes. The race management was inept. The fact that they didn’t put runner safety first and foremost speaks to a set of values I can’t even begin to understand and makes me hate everything about those race organizers. 

But I’ve been in awful situations before, and I’ve always powered through. The fact that I dropped out of Tokyo fascinates me. It’s out of character.  I have a history of not only putting up with shit but overcoming it. I know to wait things out. Here’s one of my running mantras, to show you what I mean. For me, it’s funny and stupid and gets to the heart of everything about the sport:  If you’re feeling good during a marathon, don’t worry. That will change. (And vice versa.) 

I’ve used that same mindset to wait out shitty bosses. Yes, I’m absolutely talking about you, the one who finally screwed up so badly you eventually got demoted. 

I know to bide my time, keep stepping forward. For years, life was all about scrimping and saving, working three jobs at a time, getting the kids through college, caring for my parents, running marathons all over these once-united states and in a lot of countries too. I know how to overcome. I have that skillset. I AM that skillset. 

Why did I, a person who never gives up, do just that? Where did I go wrong? Or, alternately, maybe, where did I go right? 

My journal writing from the morning after Tokyo fascinates me and would probably bore you to pieces. Some of what I wrote that morning is in the previous post. But a lot of what I wrote is intensely private. Up until that morning, I don’t think I realized some things. Of the dozen or so furiously scribbled, tear-splattered pages, all but a few are dedicated to thoughts of my parents. Most are about my mother. 

Makes sense in some ways because I was supposed to be in Tokyo before this. She was the reason I didn’t go to Tokyo when I had an opportunity for grad school. The week before I was to leave, she got seriously ill and was scheduled for surgery. 

I had put at least a month’s worth of work into prepping for the Tokyo workshop. After taking the previous year off from grad school to recoup some of what I’d lost when my dad passed, I was so ready to begin living again, and so excited for an adventure in a new country. I contacted the only family member who could possibly be able to step up to help. That family member said no. They were vacationing with friends. Ouch. That’s putting it mildly. 

I had no other options, so I canceled the trip. This involved a ton of phone calls to grad school people, airlines, the trip insurance company, my mom’s doctor who needed to sign off on the paperwork saying that the reasons I needed to cancel the trip were valid. 

A few days later, on the day – no, at the very minute – the airport shuttle should have been picking me up, my mother called with good news. Her latest lab results showed that the issue had resolved. She wouldn’t need surgery. It was miraculous. Truly. 

“Isn’t that great?” she said. “This means you can still go to Tokyo.” 

There were so many times, while caring for my mom and dad, that I had to bite my tongue, remove myself from their presence, because if I didn’t get some space away, if I said what I was thinking and said it with the emotion that I was feeling at the time, it would have absolutely, positively obliterated them. This was one of those times. 

“It’s a little too late for that now, mom.” That was all I said. Right there? One of the proudest moments of my life. I didn’t know I had that amount of restraint in me. 

Hmm. Not sure what happened here. Started talking Tokyo and ended up on my mom. That’s all for now. While I’m still hurting here, that knot of regret buried deep inside is starting to loosen just a bit. I’m not sad about skipping the marathon. But don’t even get me started on how much I miss my mom. 

 

 

 

Thursday, March 6, 2025

Why did I DNF at the Tokyo Marathon?


I’m still trying to figure out what happened. The intent of this post is to help me understand what went wrong so I can make informed decisions about what to do next. 

I went halfway across the world to DNF – did not finish, a marathon. My first ever marathon DNF. I did not expect or intend to DNF. To say that my spirit is crushed doesn’t even begin to touch the emotions that even now, four days after the race, continue to raise hell with my brain and my guts. 

I need to start at the start of all this. I’ll begin by telling you a bit about this marathon. The Tokyo Marathon is one of the original six Abbott Marathon Majors. I decided a few years ago that completing all six would be a cool goal. At that point, I’d already finished the first three – Boston (eight times), New York, and Chicago. I didn’t run them because they were Abbotts. I ran them because I wanted to run them. Running the Abbotts is some people’s thing. It wasn’t mine. It’s still not my thing in some ways. 

The Marathon Majors is basically a group of races sponsored by Abbott. That's it. Yes, the races are considered prestigious in the running world. But in my opinion, all marathons are pretty prestigious. What makes some more prestigious than others? Well, in the case of a few marathons, like Boston and Athens, there’s history and tradition. But in my opinion the lure of the Abbotts is mainly a product of good marketing. Still, marketing manipulation be damned, I was getting set to retire and then travel a little. I figured, why not run those other three races? It’s good to have goals, right? 

I trained hard for the first three of those Abbotts, which I did randomly over several years, with no particular goals in mind other than to experience new places. For Berlin, my first retirement-era Abbott, I barely ran. My mother passed shortly after I signed up. Her death was unexpected. It was traumatic. During that time when I should have been racking up miles, I was deep in grief fog territory. For months, I had trouble functioning day to day. Getting out of bed was an achievement. Training properly for a marathon was outside my abilities. But I was signed up, so I went to Berlin. Don’t know how I finished. But I don’t know how I had the gumption to start either. 

By London several months later, I was almost back to normal – or whatever we call that state of mind when we can get out of bed and function appropriately even though we’ve recently lost a loved one. I sort of trained. Sort of didn’t. London has generous time limits. I knew I’d be slow, but I also knew that I’d finish. I didn’t put in the work necessary to finish any faster than I was likely going to because I didn’t need to and didn’t want to.  I was slowly coming to the realization that when it comes to marathons, I was getting burnt out. 

Then -- almost a year and another bunch of marathons after London ( guess I wasn’t as burned out as I thought because I kept signing up for races) I got into the Tokyo Marathon. On paper, I now had five of Abbott’s six stars. 

When you complete all six Abbott marathons, you get a fancy silver medal commemorating that achievement. I’m not a big bling person. I know lots of marathoners who devote entire rooms to medal displays. My medals? Some are in a box in my attic. Some hang from my bureau mirror, and some are on various clothing hooks in my laundry room. My medals generally end up living wherever I drop them when I return from a race. I think I even have a few in the car somewhere. What I’m saying is that the bling is nice, but that’s not why I run. Honestly, I don’t know why I run. I don’t enjoy it that much anymore. That’s a topic to explore another day. 

For me getting that six-star medal at the completion of the Tokyo Marathon was a fun extra, but not the end all and be all of my existence. This becomes important later, trust me. I wanted to finish all six Abbotts. That’s a definite. But getting the medal? Not a motivator. 

I was stressed about doing Tokyo from the minute I signed up. I used to be a middle-ish of the pack runner. But these last few years, I have been more than happy finishing at the back. But to run Tokyo, even to be a back of the packer, I needed to step up and train because the Tokyo Marathon has strict time limits. You WILL get swept if you don’t hit certain course points by specific times. 

I knew this when I signed up. I knew this as I trained. I actually trained!!!!!  For the first time in years. I trained consistently, running or cross training at least four days a week. Weight training two times a week. Ran two 20-milers. Lost a bunch of weight in the process. And was ready for the big day. Based on my training times, I should have had no problem whatsoever on race day. 

You can only control so much. 

I did all I could to ensure that I would cross that Tokyo finish line. I write that now because I keep having to remind myself that yes, I put in the work. The beating myself up part of DNFing? Killing me still.  

Here’s the thing. I wasn’t swept. I took myself off the course. That’s another fact I have to keep reminding myself of. I. Took. Myself. Off. The. Course. Ugh. I still can’t believe I did that. I still don’t know if I did the right thing, although all my running friends assure me that I did. I am still so angry at the circumstances that played into the choice that I made to DNF. There were many factors. All of them were out of my control. I need to keep reminding myself of that. Yet another reason why I write all of this out today. 

Now I’m going to talk about fainting. Specifically, me and fainting. 

Fifteen years ago, I fainted at work. It was a week before Christmas. I had just returned from bringing my students to the gym. I was alone in my classroom. I remember standing behind my desk, looking out the window and thinking about how pretty it was outside, how the sky, the brick apartment buildings, the few leaves on the blighted trees were unusually brilliantly colored. Next thing I know, I’m waking up from a deep sleep on what I thought was my bed. It took a few seconds for me to realize I was laying on the wooden floor behind my desk. I had a splitting ache above one ear, likely where my head smacked into my metal desk as I fell.  I remember grabbing my pocketbook and rushing down the two flights of stairs to the nurse’s office. There, nurse Cathy, who also happens to be a dear running friend, asked me where my students were, asked me to tell her the time, and asked a few other questions as well. I had a hard time putting words together. I remember I could see the clock on the wall, but couldn't say what time it was. We figured that I was likely unconscious 15 minutes or so. 

Went by ambulance to the hospital and was monitored overnight. All test results were normal. Had one more fainting spell in the hospital bed but that passed quickly. The docs couldn’t explain why I fainted. Had no concussion but developed vertigo, likely due to the head injury. 

The vertigo lasted a good six months. Sometimes I could cope with it. But often I could not. I was out of work a lot during that time. Thankfully, I had the sick days and a kind, understanding boss. Since then, I’ve had occasional vertigo episodes that spring up randomly, but nothing that’s lasted very long or been serious enough for treatment.

Two years ago, my last year teaching, I fell down a half flight of concrete stairs at work. My classroom was on the top floor of a four-floor building. Yes, there was an elevator, but only administrators and folks with disabilities were given keys. The rest of us had to schlep up and down the stairs like good little minions, which is yet another reason why I hate the district in which I worked. It was lunchtime and I was bringing things out to my car. My hands were full, so I wasn’t holding on to the banister. I got dizzy and missed a step, falling a good ten to twelve feet. I had enough presence of mind to roll when I landed, and in the process protected my head. My back and one arm took the brunt of the fall. Thankfully, other than a lot of soreness, there was no injury. I spent months in physical therapy though because my back ached so badly. This fall occurred about a month before my mother passed. 

And now I remember something else. I actually DID train for Berlin. Or started to train at least. I had started back to running seriously just a few weeks before the fall. Then, due to the back injury, I couldn’t run or engage in any other strenuous activity for six weeks. My Berlin training was temporarily on hold. While I was recovering from the fall, that’s when my mom suddenly fell ill and life fell apart. 

I hope I’m not boring any of you reading this. There’s a connection to Tokyo here, I promise. And besides, I’m not writing this to entertain anyone. I’m writing this for me, so I can make sense of why I chose to travel 6,000 miles to a race that I then pulled out of. 

So to summarize so far: Abbotts, fainting, head injury, vertigo, dizziness, injury, major life impacts. 

Now fast forward to eighteen days before the Tokyo Marathon. 

In November as I got deep into training, I developed plantar fasciitis. Fun. To keep training for Tokyo, I had physical therapy twice a week. Because the sole of my foot was so inflamed, I couldn’t run outside. Instead, I ran indoors on an anti-gravity treadmill. Over time, I was able to increase body weight on the treadmill from sixty percent with pain to, in my final sessions, 85 percent with barely a tweak. I have great physical therapists. 

Eighteen days before Tokyo, I did my second of two twenty-mile training runs. As with all my previous Tokyo long runs, I took no water the first hour of my run (the Tokyo sweeps times are super stringent the first seven miles) then hydrated and took in nutrition as I normally would. The run was epic. I was consistent, strong, unstoppable. I was psyched. I was ready for Tokyo. More than ready. I was no longer holding up the caboose end of things. I was the comeback kid, the scrappy underdog. In that last long run, I finally broke through and shed a decade of slower than slow and steady. I was finally, once again, a middle-of-the-packer.

Five minutes after I stopped running. Everything changed. I remember talking with the physical therapists and basking in their praise. Then I started seeing spots and I asked to sit down. Next thing I know, I’m surrounded by concerned faces. I’d passed out. Or had a seizure. They, the physical therapists and the nurse they’d called over from the next office, couldn’t tell for sure. They said my eyes rolled up into my head and my left hand was shaking. I was out about a minute. I have no memory of any of this. 

At the ER, they found nothing wrong. EKGs, x-rays, all kinds of bloodwork, including two tests for heart attack enzymes. No diagnosis. No suggestions on what to do next.  

To say this experience scared the daylights out of me would be an understatement. The only positive in all this? I was sitting down when it happened, so I didn’t hurt my head, like I did when I fainted years back. 

All good? No. I live in two states. I’m fully covered for doctor visits in one state. In the state where I fainted, I’m only covered for emergency services. 

Called my doctor back home and she wanted to see me and run a few tests.  We made an appointment, and I booked a flight for the next week. I was exhausted. That episode took a lot out of me. I took several days off from training, and slept a ton, ate a lot and drank gallons of water. I returned to the alter g when I started feeling normal. Only I wasn’t. Each of the three times I got on the treadmill, I had to cut the session short because I started getting lightheaded. I didn’t want to pass out again. 

My flight home to see my doctor got canceled due to bad weather, so getting a second opinion, or even a definitive first opinion before the race was out. 

On the phone, my doctor said that if I still planned on going to Tokyo, I should go to the emergency room and get retested. My response: “What’s the point? The tests after I passed out were fine. And I’d just run twenty miles.” Plus, I was thinking that the visit might not be covered by my insurance, because my insurance only covered emergencies. And deliberately going to an ER when you’re feeling okay isn’t exactly an emergency, so I’d have no ground to stand on if my insurance decided to not foot the bill. 

So to review. In a matter of a few days, I went from having my best run in years, to being absolutely terrified about vertigo, head injuries, passing out.

I looked into canceling the trip because that made the most sense. Turns out I’d bought travel insurance for the flight, which was good. But I hadn’t bought travel insurance for the actual week-long visit, which was very bad. That was just plain stupid on my part. 

I flew to Tokyo and decided that I’d decide whether to run once I was there. 

Very few people knew I was running Tokyo. I decided I’d keep things that way because my situation was so iffy. But I’d forgotten about the energy and enthusiasm that surrounds you when you travel with other marathoners. It’s intoxicating and leads to all kinds of craziness. I posted on social media that I was running Tokyo. I spent lots of money on Tokyo Marathon branded clothing. For all intents and purposes, I was cementing my plans to run the marathon. I started envisioning the start, the finish, the triumph after. I truly believed I was going to be okay. 

Now comes the hard part. 

The morning of the race, I woke up bloated. Not ideal, but it happens. My mouth was cottony. No idea why. Normally in the few hours before a marathon, I’m drinking a lot of water and running back and forth to the bathroom. But not this morning. In addition to having tight sweeps times, Tokyo is notorious for having long lines at bathrooms that might be ten minutes off the course. Like most of the runners I know, I can’t afford to wait in line fifteen or twenty minutes once the race has begun. Every runner I know is doing the same thing as I am, deliberately limiting water intake before the race. I reminded myself that I trained this way, too. So I should be okay. 

I try to NOT think about the fact that taking in limited water may have been one of the reasons I passed out/seized after that twenty-mile run. But the thought is there anyhow. Maybe I passed out because I was dehydrated? Sure, the ER tests didn’t show evidence of dehydration, but that could be because I was plied with water,  juice, and goldfish crackers by the physical therapy staff and nurse once I regained consciousness.

Tokyo has stringent requirements regarding hydration. Runners aren’t allowed to carry their own water or electrolyte drinks. You go through security before you get into your corral. Security checks for everything. Tokyo promised to provide copious amounts of water and a Gatorade-like product at all hydrations stops, which start at the three-kilometer mark then continue at every two or three kilometers after. When I expressed concerns about potential lack of water to a friend who’d run the race before, she told me not to worry. “They have plenty of water,” she said. Those were her exact words. 

We are in our corral, a section of road, by 7:45. For the next 90 minutes we sit on hard gravel and chat. There are plenty of portable toilets, but there is nothing for us to drink. Normally, I’m running back and forth to the bathroom right before a race. Today, I don’t need to. My mouth is parched. 

The race starts and I soon run into trouble. My legs don’t want to work properly. Around me, people are pushing, shoving, elbowing. I tell myself things will get better. Remind myself that the first mile is a liar. That’s a saying you see a lot on runner T-shirts. 

But things don’t get better. Instead, I find it hard to breathe. My chest feels heavy and my shoulders and arms feel weak. My throat hurts because it’s so dry. I’d trained and planned to run the first seven miles, then run/ walk the rest of the race. A good strategy in theory.  But the reality is that I’m only a half mile in and gasping for air. I slow down and walk fast for a minute or so, then start running again. Then I’m gasping then walking. I proceed this way until the first water stop only there’s nothing there. Even interspersing my running with walking, I still made it to the first stop in under twelve minutes. The timing was great. My body wasn’t though. And the water stop was shit. 

I nearly walked off the course right then and there. There were still at least 5,000 runners behind me. And yet the water stop had run out of cups. Volunteers were telling people to cup their hands and were pouring water directly into runners’ hands. I’d never witnessed such insanity. This was supposedly one of the top marathons in the world, with the most stringent time requirements. And if runners wanted the water that they’d paid for, that they’d been promised, they had to stand patiently, clock ticking away, and wait for a volunteer to pour water into other runners’ hands then back to their hands. 

I was angry, disgusted, and worried that I wasn’t taking in enough fluids. You never want to start a race dehydrated. You can’t come back from that. Things will only get worse. And if the reason you fainted a few weeks ago was because of dehydration? Well, that’s a death sentence right there.  

And too, if the race was managed so ineptly that they’d run out of supplies at the first stop, then it was more than likely that the rest of the race would be even more of a shit show. How was I going to survive another 39 kilometers? How were any of us?  

Now I need to mention something else. I was a water stop captain for the Boston Marathon for ten years. I was so good at what I did that I received an award. I was one of only ten volunteers to receive this award. When it comes to supporting runners, I know what I’m doing and what needs to be done. I knew with every bone in my aching body that this entire set up was dangerous. Knowledge is power. But knowing too much can be devastating. Sometimes it's better to be ignorant about things like what dehydration can do to your body. It's easier to continue if you don't know what to expect.Especially when you have 25 miles of next to no water ahead of you. 

And then the dizziness hit. The faint at your teacher desk, fall down the school stairs, pass out at the physical therapists’ office dizziness. But along with that came something brand new: a crushing sensation in my chest and – the only way I can describe this -- a feeling of impending doom. Everything felt horribly off. 

My body was sending signals that I didn't understand. I tried ignoring them. I tried positive self-talk. You can do this! Don’t you want that six-star medal? Maybe at the next water stop things will be different. 

The next water stop was even more disorganized. Even more lacking. They had cups, but I had to wait along with other runners, while the volunteers poured water into them. Then wait for more. We each got about an inch of water at a time. And the clock kept ticking. The more water you needed, the longer you waited for it. 

At that point, I knew I was done. The writing was on the wall. I was lightheaded. I was angry. But what about that six-start medal? 

“Fuck that,” I told myself. “It’s probably worth a buck fifty anyhow. Is my health worth only that much?”

I was done. I stopped running and walked. I walked slowly because I was worried that I’d fall and hit my head. 

At mile six, I asked a volunteer if I could cross the road to the sweeps bus which was just a few yards away. He said no. He pointed down the side of the road I was on and said I needed to go all the way down the street until I hit the turnaround point, then walk back up the opposite side of the road if I want to get on the sweeps bus, in total a mile or so. 

First no water. And now this. Another unbelievable slap in the face. When a runner says they’re lightheaded, you help them. You don’t tell them to keep walking. You take their arm, if necessary, and you guide them. Job one: safety. What a shit show. 

As I write this back at my house, in my comfy robe and with my cats purring nearby, I’m wearing a holter monitor, which is measuring my heart activity for the next two weeks. I’m also keeping track of my symptoms in a log that I have to turn in to my doctor. I’m taking and recording my blood pressure several times a day. I’m hoping that in a few weeks I’ll have some answers. I never want to DNF again. It’s too painful. 

I think back on those moments during the race when I started feeling off.  Feeling lightheaded. Pressure on the chest and shoulders. Weakness in my arms. That frightening sense of impending doom. I remember thinking that if I passed out on the course, I’d land on hard pavement. And if Tokyo was so mismanaged it couldn’t even provide basics like the water it promised us, how likely was I to receive adequate medical care? 

I know I did what was right for me at the time. To do otherwise would have been disrespectful to myself and might have, to paraphrase the great Steve Prefontaine, involved sacrificing the gift of a healthy body.  By dropping out, I think I hope that I truly gave my best. But I have to wonder, if Tokyo had done its part and given me and all the other runners the water that we were promised, would I have dropped out? Would I have needed to even consider dropping out? 

Considering that Tokyo is a major race, I had a right to expect a well-run marathon. I have never run such a mess of a race. And I’m so angry that I didn’t get what I deserved. What all of us runners deserved. 

I’ve written angry letters to the Tokyo race organizers and to Abbott. I got a form letter back from Tokyo, thanking me for writing them. I got a personal reply from Abbott telling me that someone would get back to me in the next few days. We shall see. Right now, I have no faith whatsoever in either organization.

I have new places to explore and more races to run. This DNF sting is a killer. But I'll get past it, even if it's just one angry step at a time. Life marches on. So do I. More later. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, January 12, 2025

On faking it in really nice shoes and other things

Googling “how to get over feeling sorry for yourself,” and thought, “Why not share?” That’s the short answer to “Why are you writing this?”

 

Other things I have googled today: 

how to handle toxic people, calories in stroopwafels, toxic positivity, when to take a rest day, why do I keep doing this to myself. That last search item was more of a waste of time than anything, I think because the wording was too vague. I also played Wicked’s “Dancing through Life” at least five times because I like the song, am massively crushing on Jonathan Bailey, and hope to one day have the kind of personality where I am blithely comfortable with dancing through life because, “life’s more painless for the brainless,” per lyricist Stephen Schwartz, and who doesn’t want a painless life?

 

Me? I tend to RUN through life. In really nice shoes. That’s an Alexis from Schitt’s Creek reference and it’s somewhat true too. Yes. I’m referring to running in the sporting sense. But also. . . here’s where I just deleted everything I could write about but won’t at least right now. Buy the book. 

 

Yesterday I drove a small moving van for a couple of hours, with snow falling but thankfully not sticking on road. I love to drive, and snow usually doesn't bother me. But I’d never driven a vehicle this size or weight before. I was terrified. Took about an hour of singing to Wicked and Chappell Roan to calm down as I drove. Then I cleared out a 10x10 storage space: boxes and bags of clothing, home décor items, some furniture. The bags were light enough. But some of the boxes were close to one hundred pounds, shaped awkwardly. Took a ton of NOT dancing through life, NOT skimming the surface to load everything. No panic attacks, thankfully. But I certainly wasn’t keeping cool, like Stephen Schwartz’s lyrics recommend. God Jonathan Bailey is hot. 

 

Easy drive back with lots of singing to stay alert. I kept the windows closed so no living things were harmed by my croaking. Also, the singing kept me from delving too deeply into my own psyche. The feeling sorry for myself clouds were definitely gathering at this point. My arms ached, back ached, the “I’m too old for this” voices in my head were whining non-stop. 

 

Thank God for Chappell Roan. I sang a lot to Femininomenon. I’ve also decided to rename Fall 2024. Henceforth for me it’s Femininomenon Fall because I moved halfway across the country,  slogged a couple of marathons in far off lands, moved part-time back near home, and learned to take up space/ scream like my life depends upon it: Did you hear me? Play the fucking beat!”

 

As I was in the process of making the 20 or so trips (not exaggerating, that number might even be a little low) from parked van to new to me condo, body aching, dying inside from self-pity, an elderly neighbor approached and said he wished he could help but he couldn’t. 

 

If I had a nickel for every empty offer over the last five, ten years, lifetime. . . 

 

Then he followed that up with some comment about how strong I am. If knowing how weak you are is a sign of strength, well yeah, I guess I win. Now must google “fake it ‘til you make it” songs. Ugh. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, December 14, 2024

Hi. I'm injured.

 Hello. Meet injured runner me. 

 

First. Never ever ever ever ever ever ever under any circumstances EVER tell an injured runner, or any runner for that matter, that running is bad and they shouldn’t do it. 

 

A few days back I had to set someone straight about some things. Okay. I didn’t have to. I could have walked away. I did walk away. Limped away. Eventually.  

 

I’d just run – yes it was a run, not a slog or jog or run/ walk. It was eleven miles of heaven. Fast too. For me I mean. Not Boston qualifying fast. Not place in the top half of a race fast. But fast enough to leave me feeling like my own hero. And who doesn’t want to be that? 

 

Granted, I can’t take full credit for this, my best run in years. I ran it with the help of an anti-gravity treadmill. 

 

I am an injured runner with a hugely important, once-in-a-lifetime-I-kid-you-not event on the horizon.  I need to be faster than my usual slow. I need to actually train.  I need all my body parts to work.  

 

Step by step, I’ve been working at getting faster. Also step by step I’ve been developing an injury. I’m at that point where I’ve tried all the things: rest, ice, compression, elevation, Advil, stretching, cross training, complaining. 

 

I’m at the bring in the big guns so I can keep training point. Found an Alter G and found a physical therapist.

 

Finding the Alter G was easy. 

 

The PT part? Complicated. 

 

I live in a constant state of Iowachusetts. Iowachusetts is what happens when your kids live in two particular, vastly different locations and you can’t stand being away from either of them for too long. 

 

There are insurance issues regarding who I can see where. My insurance only works in the state of the dropped R. My PT appointment there is soon but not as soon as I want. 

 

Ugh. No one ever said it would be easy. Or worth it. Or asked if I wanted fries with that. Don’t you hate when you know what you need and paperwork gets in the way of you getting it?  Why can’t people just give me what I need when I need it? 

 

So. After my eleven-mile fantasy run, awash in endorphins and renewed hope, I stopped into an Iowan orthopedic urgent care place, ready to pay out of pocket to get a diagnosis so that I could immediately start getting care for my heel that needs to heal.  

 

First thing out of the medical person’s mouth as I followed his blue clothed body down the corridor to the exam room was not “how are you,” or “my name is,” or “what do you think of the weather.” You know, normal pleasantries that you’d expect given the circumstances.  This person’s first words were, “Oh you’re a runner. You know you need to stop that.”  He laughed. 

 

Okay so I laughed politely for a half second, but thought, “what a jerk.” His next words – we’re still walking down a corridor: “Let’s get you to x-ray.”  I reminded? explained to him that, as it said on the paperwork he was holding, I was paying out of pocket and politely (barely) asked what that would cost and above all else how the heck did he know that I even needed an x-ray. He shrugged and said the x- ray was procedure, and he’d ask the doctor about cost and necessity. That’s how I found out this blue guy wasn’t the doctor. 

 

Still have no idea what his job was, other than to rub me the wrong way, because as soon as he left the room to get that info, I bolted to the front desk and said I wanted my money back. “Said” here means demanded. 

 

The reason (s): Fifty years a runner. Twenty-five years in and out of physical and other kinds of therapy. I’m an educated consumer. At least look at my foot first, flexibility, movement, etc. before asking me to spend another couple of hundred or more out of pocket. 

 

Blue guy comes out and asks why I’m leaving. 

 

I could have repeated what I told the desk person. But why would I do that?

 

Me: Let me give you some advice. Never EVER tell a marathoner to stop running. 

 

Him, laughing. Laughing!!! “I was just joking.” 

 

Oh yeah. He went there. He was just joking.

 

Think I blacked out from rage at that point. Think I barked out some choice words before limping out of that clinic in a self-righteous huff, the most satisfying of the huffs. 

 

On the Alter G yesterday, someone came up to me and asked what I was doing and why. I told her about my injury and my upcoming race. That’s the answer to the doing part. When I figure out the actual why, maybe someday I’ll tell someone. Until then: Why not?

 

Tuesday, December 10, 2024

I'm trying to talk about stickers but can't seem to get there

 New computer. More writing. 

 

Today I am determined to finish what I sort of started yesterday, a brief rundown on the meanings behind my laptop stickers. 

 

Never thought I’d become a sticker person, yet here I am. 

 

What exactly IS a sticker person? I have no idea. All I know is that for some time in my life, I saw people divided into two categories: sticker people and non-sticker people. This begs more exploration. But not today. I have places to be and physical therapists to see. 

 

When I turned in my computer a few days ago, I was a bit surprised at the weepiness that welled up inside me during what should have been a simple, bloodless act: transitioning from a dirty, dusty, sticker plastered, crunchy keyed mess filled to the brim with photos and writing to this sleek and almost empty metal box filled with all kinds of possibilities. 

 

My old computer had personality. This new one is a blank. The duality to me is clear: death and life, out with the old and in with the new. Yes, I know I’m over thinking. But am I? Really?

 

For me, tossing things I’ve had around for ages is hard. I could write books on saying goodbye to my kids’ baby clothes and toys. Could go into excruciating detail, stomach hurting stuff, about cleaning out my childhood home. In the grand scheme of things, trading in one computer for another is about as minor as it gets. 

 

Or is it? 

 

I’m at that point in my life where I’m starting to think about who I am, who I was, who I want to be, and what, if any, marks I will leave --intended or not, upon this world. In truth, I’ve thought this way almost my whole life and will likely one day write a longwinded explanation about that. 


“Almost” because a person’s got to live in the present once in a while, right? You can’t always be thinking about the meaningfulness or meaninglessness of your actions, can you? Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the spontaneity? 

 

Stickers for me represent spontaneity. They’re stupid little acts of rebellion against a society that wants me and others like me – women of a certain age maybe? to continue being the good little girls we were raised to be. 

 

Is that a stupid characterization? Maybe. Maybe not. And it’s too narrow. I could write more on that but don’t have time. 

 

My stickers make me smile. They remind me who I am and sometimes they remind me of who I aspire to be. And because they’re on things the public might see, like my laptop and my car, they let strangers know who I am too. 

 

That’s some scary shit, letting strangers know who you are. Especially in this day and age. Cue the web search on human psychology, fear, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, and so much more. 

 

Think I’m done writing for now. I’m wanting to veer off into topics on safety, protecting oneself through anonymity, politics, changes in society, the importance of holding some things close, and holding your enemies closer, being a force for good, rising up once more even when you know you’re going to get knocked down again. Which brings me back to reality. Gotta get to that physical therapy appointment and heal some overworked body parts. I only have a few months until the next big adventure. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday, December 9, 2024

I got a new computer

 I got a new computer.

 

Promised myself that as soon as I got the new computer, I would start writing. 

 

The new arrival entered my world yesterday, satiny finish, smooth keys. Not a cat hair or crumb in sight. I am not worthy. This thing is hot.  

 

Spent the last hour exploring social media in a way I have not been able to since the old guy gasped its last breath. Yes, I have a cell phone. But I have no patience for tiny screens and tinier keyboards. My one true love’s cause of death: age (damn you, built-in obsolescence), suffocation (cat fur), and drowning (an unfortunate wine spill – is there ever a fortunate wine spill?). 

 

Moving on. As we all must. 

 

Confession: I teared up as I bid au revoir to Mac 2018. Given the depth, breadth, and sheer number of losses the last few years, which I mostly handled dry-eyed, this was a bit of a shocker. Crying over a piece of hardware? That’s just weird. 

 

For me, sadness over the big things leaks out slowly and always when I’m least prepared. Yay for coping. Yay for trauma. Yay for emotional numbness. Yay for when the tears finally start to come. 

 

I love my new Mac. I love that the biggest problem in my very own tiny snow globe of a life the past month has been living without my old Mac. 

 

The other day I volunteered with a local refugee organization. A grownup woman cried in my arms. Now what do I do? 

 

This piece didn’t turn out as I’d hoped. And it’s not done. I’m glad.