Time to write about Gus, #1

My Gus Gus died a few weeks ago and I need to write about him. I realized this the other day when I heard someone say, “Gus!” and my stomach dropped. Suddenly it was the last night of poor Gus's life, and we were back at the soulless, sterile budget motel in Syracuse right off the New York Thruway. 

It was dusk. I was exhausted, back aching, legs stiff. I'd just driven 500 miles with two quick breaks,  totalling maybe 15 minutes, for gas and the bathroom. 

Too many trips from car to room, unloading cat carriers, food bag, bowls, litter, scoop, litter boxes, my one travel bag. The soundtrack: blighted and otherworldly -- engines droning, whooshing.The smell: dystopian highway – asphalt, exhaust, and that faint garbage-decaying smell that always seems to hover around roadside lodgings. Then stomach-growling, eyes stinging from too much road, watching the other cats prowl around, sniff at corners, roll on the bed, lap up the water I’d just put out for them,  but Gus not moving. Then shaking Gus from his pet carrier because he wouldn’t or couldn’t leave it even though for hours he’d been mewing to get out. Not annoying mewing, more like the noise you might make if you were a sweet cat who didn't want to be a bother but who needed a few minutes of your time to perhaps have a little chat and maybe a snuggle.

It was the second day of our three-day trip from Iowa to Massachusetts. The first day, I drove six hours. Totally uneventful. The cats were great. No meows, peeps. Very calm, all of us. Even the traffic outside Chicago, normally a bumper car nightmare, was relatively tame. Day two was eight-ish hours. Day three would be another six. On my own, I do the trip in two days. But with pets, I figured taking three days was more humane. I was used to twelve-hour drives. They were not. 

To say the cats were not thrilled about taking this or any journey would be an understatement. 

The party starts with the packing. First, there’s the clawing as I maneuver them into their carriers. Then there’s the usual torturous meowing while I drive. And even though I try to drown them out by hitting eleven on the volume button, it doesn’t change the fact that I can still hear them, and I can’t help putting myself in their paws. Meow. How would I feel if I was suddenly ripped from all that I knew, thrown into a cage, jostled around for hours, then deposited in a strange new land where I didn’t understand the sights, smells, sounds? Stressed. That’s how I’d feel. Stressed. Meow. And more than a little resentful. Maximum meow. 

For this trip, I was ahead of the game though. Found some calming treats that the cats totally obsessed over. Started dosing them the day before the trip. Then on departure day covered the car and carriers with Feliway spray. Doused the bathroom too. Why the bathroom? Been a cat person for over thirty years now and am privy to at least one cardinal cat travel rule: Cats are obligated to hide when they know a car trip is imminent. Through trial, error, and too many bandages, I’ve learned that using the bathroom as packing central is the best way to ensure that I’ll get them in their carriers. You try trapping six pounds of fluff balled up in a far corner behind a heavy washing machine. It doesn’t take long to figure out you need an alternative method. 

Gus used to be that tiny kitty, nimble enough to hop, skip, claw over dirty laundry and countertops,  under beds and behind refrigerators. He’d put up such a fight I’d end up having to cancel and reschedule vet appointments. It truly was an act of God, actually getting him into his carrier. Gus was a force of nature. A hurricane in cat form. 

I learned to lure him into the bathroom under the pretense of giving him a treat, then BAM! Lock the door. WHAM! Use both hands to grab each set of legs, pretty much hog-tying the poor baby.  POW! Kick the carrier out from its hiding place and WHOOSH! Dump him headfirst into it. Nine years of vet visits, this was the norm. 

A master manipulator, the look he’d shoot me once he was safely zipped up – indignant, pleading, devastated? Killer. Gus knew how to play me. 

I remember for this last trip, for the first time in his life Gus did not put up a fight about getting into his carrier.  Gus was docile. Eerily so. I took his shift in personality as a sign that the Feliway and treats were working. Looking back now, I’m not so sure about that. 

Gus

Autopilot: love it hate it need to crash it

In the last week since this latest 1,400-mile drive to Massachusetts, I have shopped, ellipted, run, weight-trained, spaced out in front of the TV – wow there’s a lot of crap on TV, wasted too much time on Facebook and political websites, and even tried reading a book. 

It was in the process of trying to read the book that I realized something was wrong.  “Trying” to read a book? I don’t normally “try” to read books. For me, reading isn’t a trying kind of thing. I try to run. I try to watch what I eat. I try to not scream every time I read about our democracy dying. But for me, reading – real reading as in books, not this dopamine-hit social media stuff, is like breathing. It’s not something I need to think about. It's simply something I do. I sit down, open a book, read. 

I tried that last night, opened a book I mean. Stared at the same paragraph for a while, then realized I was daydreaming. Force myself to read the paragraph, the page. Tried to remember what I read. Couldn’t. Repeated the process. Same result. No recall whatsoever. Dropped the book and popped open my phone screen to Duolingo. Practiced French for a half hour or so. Was able to focus a little. Evidence? I graduated to the next level. Have no idea what I read or said,  but Duo keeps giving me points so guess I generated just enough focus to learn a little and/ or game the system.  

I realized that I’ve been operating on autopilot. I know why too. A horrible thing happened on my drive here from Iowa. I’m shattered. No that’s not it. I don’t know yet what the word is to describe what’s going on. I don’t have the words. Been trying to find them. Three times now, including today, I’ve tried writing about what happened. Not there yet, but each keystroke, each attempt, feels like a chipping away. Not like Michelangelo breathing life into stone, Instead, think axe to iceberg to beating heart.  Getting there but it’s coming slowly.  A person can only take so much. 

A ten-pound cat? Even less. And there. That’s the horror. My cat died while we were traveling, and it's my fault. Or at least partly my fault. But it feels like it's all my fault. And that's an awful feeling. 

Runners: The things we carry in our cars. Part 2, in which resolve returns

I wrote the original post ten years ago almost to the day  -- Runners: The things we carry in our cars. I was wasting time when I wrote that. Didn't feel like running, so I wrote instead.  

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/05/runners-things-we-carry-in-our-cars.html

Ten frickin' years ago. A few things have changed, but procrastinating continues to be one of my favorite hobbies. 

Yesterday I took on the onerous task of attempting to clean out my car. The mess had reached such epic proportions that no more than one primary school-aged grandchild could fit in the back seat. This is Iowa, the state of "if you build it they will come." Perhaps if my car has room for more than one grandchild? Maybe more will come? Doubt it, but one can dream. 

In addition to taking me to runs all over tarnation, my aging, trusty steed is now charged with driving me halfway across the country and back a few times a year, so these days there is a definite midden-like, archeological aspect to cleaning out my favorite dumping ground. 

There are certain items that definitely and only pertain to the grit and grime of excessive travel, like bits of kitty litter, chewed up cat toys, toll and gas receipts, the rest area promotional detritus that seemed spur-of-the-moment interesting: Amish handicraft stores, upstate New York wineries, retail outlet malls, hotel lists right off 80 and 90. Ugh. 

But even with all that, the running crap still abounds. 

Question. How many half-empty water bottles can one rusting mid-sized SUV hold? 

Answer. The limit does not exist. 

Here are some other marathony treasures I found during my foray into the mess that is my auto. 

Three mostly- empty tubes of Aquaphor. 

Zero bars of Body Glide. Moved away from that faithful friend back when multi-day races became a thing and needed to up the lubrication to industrial-strength. Oh, the chafing. 

One tangled, broken headset that is not in any way, shape, or form compatible with 21st century technology. 

Two phone chargers, also ancient. 

No space blankets, but one sweatshirt for a race I didn't show up for because I was still dealing with dizziness, which begs the question: keep the sweatshirt or donate it?  The generally accepted integrity move is never wear items from a race you didn't run. But it's a nice sweatshirt and I DNS'd -- did not show -- because of medical issues, not due to laziness. I need to think about this. 

Two blankets, both Dollar Store fleece, which make great post-run seat covers. 

One towel, disgustingly stiff. I have no idea why. Ick. 

Coins. So many. Mostly pennies. 

Thousands of pens. Why????

A ridiculous amount of single gloves/ mittens. How the heck does that happen? How does one lose just one glove, over and over and over again? 

One race bib. No safety pins attached. Again, why do I have this???? Safety pins are the whole reason to hold onto those bibs. 

One marathon medal. WTF??? Who the heck am I even? When did I become that person who is so underwhelmed about finishing 26.2 miles that I forget to take the medal, the evidence of completing that massive physical feat, into the house and at least show some respect for my efforts by dumping it on a bureau or countertop?

I remember that race too. It was awesome. In Vermont last year. Weather was perfect. Lots of big-ass hills. I ran the first half at a pace a half hour faster than I'd been running that distance the whole previous year, then walked the last half because that's my thing now, either run/ walking the entire distance, or running for awhile then walking the remainder: My creative, though possibly somewhat useless method of staving off hip replacement surgery for a few more years, fingers crossed. 

Off on a few more adventures soon. With 91 marathons under my belt, 100 beckons. Then maybe I'll stop. The mojo is definitely not what it once was.  The knees, hips, and what few brain cells I have left are no longer in sync with the whole marathoning process. Though the other day the grandkid did take a peek at my London Marathon medal and asked me if I'd won. I thought about telling him how just getting to the starting line feels like a win these days, even if the finish line feels a bit anti-climactic. 

"Did I win? That's a good question," I said, buying time while I figured out what words should come next because words matter.  "Nope. I haven't won yet. But maybe one of these days, if I keep trying." 

I didn't believe my words, even as I said them. But even we grown ups know that sometimes, even when you fake it you do eventually make it. The trying is the main thing. The trying is the point of it all. I want my grandson to know that.  Then this occurred to me: Words matter. But actions? Those define. 

And now all I want to do is run. 

Crap. I don't think I'll be stopping at 100. 

Lost faith in humanity? Run London

 London Marathon Class of ‘25 

“This is bloody tough. But so are you." Nike sign around mile 20 or so. 

There were a lot of sights at the London Marathon that made my eyes water. But that sign brought me to tears. Not because I was falling apart when I saw it. Just the opposite. I was fine. Enjoying a walk in the park almost literally, except I was strolling through a big city. 

Was the race bloody tough? No. Not at all. Not one bit. Not even an iota. If anything, it was absurdly easy. 

There was no pressure. No physical issue to overcome. Granted, I needed some serious pep talks with myself in the days before the race so I stayed calm and centered, but that’s what I did every Monday morning for 30 years of teaching, so not so unusual.

With London ’25, I got what I trained for. And I was more than happy for that much. 

For Tokyo eight weeks ago, I did NOT get what I trained for. I passed out two weeks before it, then nearly passed out during it, so removed myself from the course and got my first marathon Did Not Finish, along with all the emotional baggage that goes with that. Also, tons of medical tests.  

Passed all the tests with flying colors. It’s looking more and more like the fainting was medication related. More specifically,  I was on the wrong type/ dosage of blood pressure medication, which I’d just started a few months before the fainting episode. 

Even so a few days before London, doctor advised me to err on the side of caution and avoid strenuous activity until my cardiology appointment this July. How does one do that when one has a marathon, which is rather strenuous, coming up? Also, what the heck does strenuous mean when you’re a marathoner? 

What’s easy for me might be strenuous for someone my age who doesn’t marathon and might be overly easy for a marathoner ten years my junior or more difficult for a marathoner ten years my senior. 

Given that I had all day and most of the night to finish the London Marathon, I opted to be mindful and keep my heart rate low and walk instead of run. Not that I’d do a good job running anyhow, since I haven’t exerted myself since Tokyo. 

Walking 26.2 miles is not overly difficult when you're used to covering that distance at a speedier rate. The soles of my feet started aching early on, due to the repetitive slap slap on pavement. But the aching was easy to ignore. I had a great time. I talked with people. Smiled a lot. Teared up a bit. Did not get dehydrated like some. Found the weather to be just right while many other participants thought it was too hot. 

I enjoyed my long walk. Got in marathon 91. And now it’s time to get training for some future events. I’ll start running again, a little bit at a time. I don’t want to overdo things. Don’t want to get too crazy but certainly think it’s okay to elevate that heartrate just a little. Plus, walking was fun. It was much easier than running, and a lot less mentally taxing. I'll keep walking, but I'll start adding running back in. 

What was mentally taxing? The hype surrounding the Abbott World Marathon Majors. The London Marathon is one of the original six. The others: Berlin, Chicago, New York, Boston, and bane of my existence Tokyo. 

The marketing for these events has pushed me to the edge. Isn’t it awesome. Aren’t we special. Whoop de doo. Spend all your money on all our things. Ugh. I’m at the point where I’m ready to run. Far from all the advertising. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad I got London done, for a second time in fact. I’m grateful that I got the opportunity and that I had the time and physical ability to train. Best of all, it was an honor to be among the best of the best. 

Nope. Not talking about the frontrunners. I’m talking about the volunteers, the screaming supporters, and my favorites, the charity runners, especially the first-time runners whose stories simultaneously break your heart and feed your soul. I got to witness fathers and mothers running on behalf of their sick children, sons and daughters running for ill or departed moms, dads, aunts, uncles, friends. I saw Big Bens, knights in shining armor, men in black, princesses, queens, soldiers, rhinoceroses, boxes, rainbows, test tubes, roosters, teddy bears, Roman centurions, candles, and that’s just what I remember off the top of my head. 

The joy was overwhelming. London Marathon 2025 was a 26.2-mile hug that I didn’t even know I needed until that darn Nike sign smacked me right in the eyeballs. 

If you’ve lost faith in humanity, run or walk the London Marathon. I’m glad I got to be there and witness bloody toughness, unbounding resilience, and pure love like I never thought possible. 

It wasn’t about the run for me. But then again, it rarely is. Mojo isn’t quite back yet. But something good is growing. Maybe in a few miles I’ll figure out what that is. Guess I better get moving.  

 

On not running

The body wants what it wants. 

Doctor says no running until we figure out whatever is going on re: dizziness/ lightheadedness. 

Treadmill stress test was a joke. 98th percentile for age and gender. Could have stayed on the apparatus longer, but medical staff said they had all the info they needed. Would have stayed on longer if they'd said that another minute or three would push me into a higher fitness category. 

Felt a little dizzy for a few minutes after the effort though, which wasn't much of an effort. 

Another test coming up soon, but not soon enough for me. Not exactly known for being patient when people get in the way of me getting what I know is within my reach. 

There's some possibility that this might be an easy fix. Might not be related to issues with my health at all. The symptoms might be blood pressure med side effects. Started on BP meds in November, shortly after marathon 90. Dizziness might have started around the same time though not 100 percent sure. 

Working out lowers your bp. That three hours on the treadmill right before I fainted? That was a tough, fast run.  I took in limited water the first hour to mimic conditions at the Tokyo marathon, then might not have gotten enough fluids in those last two hours to make up for that. Dehydration also a factor? Possibly. 

Then, long strenuous run ends, and I walk and drink for a bit after -- ten minutes or so. Then get off treadmill. Stand around talking with the physical therapist for a few minutes. During cool down and standing around, bp is probably falling, and perhaps exacerbated by the bp meds, falls too far and/ or too fast. And maybe that's why I went down. 

There's a good chance I don't need bp meds. There's a good chance I was on the wrong dose or wrong kind of bp med. There's a good chance that the Tokyo DNF is not due to my head panicking, but bp meds holding me back. I'm off bp meds for the next week and recording my stats daily. Hoping for answers. 

But it always comes back to the Tokyo DNF. Was the DNF a head issue or a heart issue? Or a combination of both? 

And then there's this: Did I mention that I wasn't the first person to pass out at the physical therapist's office? A week before, another patient, female and about my age, also passed out. She wasn't working out heavily though. She was there for hand therapy. Like me, she went to the ER after.  Like me, she got a clean bill of health. Crazy. Was there something in the air? Literally?

The more I learn the less I know. 

Doctor says no running until this gets resolved. Great. Telling someone who's run their entire adult life to not run? Clawing at walls here. Now I get why my cats -- all indoor -- get so aggravated with me sometimes.  

Easy fix when I get too aggravated by doc's words: picture myself passing out on concrete, head first. So I walk, mainly indoors on a treadmill but a bit outside too. I bike indoors. I ellipt a little but worry about getting my heart rate up too much. Walking seems to be the safest bet right now.  

Another test in a few weeks. If I don't pass that, I guess I keep walking. Getting the okay to run would be better though. I have another marathon soon. This one I can walk entirely if I want. No big issues with time constraints. At this point, feeling super de-conditioned, so running the race in its entirety is out of the question even if I got the doc's okay to do so. But walk-running that race, even just a little bit, would be quite nice. A real confidence-booster. Something I need badly right now. 

Glad I got this off my chest. Helps with the feeling of powerlessness, a little, to write this down. Now, I gotta run. Er. Walk. At least I still get to do that. 

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. 

 

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.