Forward is a pace: Marathon 98, Sydney, Australia, pt 1

Been home for a week and finally feel back to somewhat normal. Twenty-nine hours total, waiting in airports, flying on planes, and crossing fifteen time zones takes a toll. Some U.S. runners at the Sydney Marathon arrived just a day or two before the race, then left shortly after. I’m sure most finished much faster than I did. I marvel at how their bodies and brains coped. Oh, to be young and/ or nuts. 

Sitting down now to write this, not because of some pressing urge to talk about the marathon, but rather because the further away I get from the day the less I remember. And then there’s the fact that it’s not just the marathon I want to write about, because the marathon was only a tiny part of a much larger experience that encompassed three weeks total of eating everything in sight, drinking too much wine, hiking, exploring, swimming, snorkeling, and in general just being – as in truly being in the moment – in a country that left me wanting so much more for myself and the world around me. 

That reminds me of another similarly blissful time. Years back, I’m talking 95 marathons ago, so ancient history, my younger daughter and I hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and stayed for a few days. It was mid-July with temps breaking 100. We spent most of our time there coping with the heat by sitting in a creek in our shorts and T-shirts, cool water rushing over our thighs and bellies, tiny fishes pooling around us. Surrounding us, the cool green colors of cottonwood, willows, mesquite, desert grasses, punctuated by the red orange rocks that kept us close. Above, turquoise sky. Nothing else but the sounds of nature.

I remember pulling a Tony Hillerman book, The First Eagle, from the camp bookcase. Finished that story the first day, then devoured it all over again on day two. Since then, I’ve read every one of his books at least twice. First randomly, then the second time in publishing date order with the AAA Navajo Nation map nearby for quick referencing. Not sure what my daughter chose to read, but she was similarly engaged with her own literary finds. 

When our time was up and home duties beckoned, I recall feeling a profound sense of loss, like every step forward was taking me further from home. In the canyon, everything felt right. Life was exactly how it was supposed to be down there. 

Australia felt sort of like that. 

The trip was an escape from reality, for sure. 

The marathon? Not so much. And that was a good thing. That was the best thing. Because while life here in the U.S. right now is fraught with stress and anxiety, at least I've got this concrete stupendousness to remind me that forward motion matters: I ran – well in truth ran-walked -  a marathon in Australia!!!!! Wow!!!

Forward is a pace. More later. I need a nap. 

Drama at the not okay motel

 

Time: 7 AM, day 2 of 3, road-tripping.  

Place: Basic chain motel right off the NY Thruway.  

Been stopping here for at least ten years. After each visit, I resolve to stay somewhere else next trip, then promptly forget. The price is reasonable, especially if you have pets, which I do. The convenience is exceptional. Minutes off the highway. Easy on and off. 

But the place is going downhill. It’s clean, but old and worn out.   The walls are thin, so getting a good night’s sleep isn’t always guaranteed, and the room is always short something. Last visit, the wastebasket was missing. This visit there was no hand soap (I used the shower gel).  

After today's little bit of excitement, I think I'll remember to stay away from this place next road trip.  

It started with a cat, as most of my road trip misadventures usually do. First thing this morning, I’m prepping for our drive today. It’s a long one. At least eight hours. I managed to get two of the cats in their carriers, pretty quickly too. The third was another story. Patrick was being obstinate, ignoring my begging, pleading, yelling. Then, in classic cat being a cat fashion, he slinked, slanked, slunked? under the bed. 

The clock is ticking as the other two kitties, siblings Alexis and David Rose, wait patiently for our little orange buddy to get his act together, which he doesn’t. After a twenty-minute workout during which I bruised my knees and strained my back, I head to the office to ask for help. On the way, I see a pickup idling in the lot. 

The driver wears a day glo yellow top and a safety vest. I’m thinking maybe he’s an employee of the property and is there to fix up the parking lot, which absolutely needs it. I’m thinking maybe no one at the front desk will be able to help me because they’re busy with checkouts and I better try to handle this myself. I approach the driver and hold up a bill, asking him if he’d like to make a quick couple of bucks and help me get my cat into his carrier.

Now, I’m right next to his truck window and see he's probably a guest, like me. There's a woman in the passenger seat. My age, but a little worse for wear -- thin face, yellowed skin, peroxide blonde shag. Her teeth aren't quite right. She's wearing dentures that are too big for her mouth. She’s smoking a cigarette. “I’d help you, but I’m allergic to cats.”

The guy is also my age, a little stocky, graying, bearded, red faced. His eyes are narrowed, face expressionless, staring at something in the distance. 

“I have a kid who can help you. He’s a loser. A crack head. He’ll be right down.” He nods and I look where he’s looking. On the second-floor balcony of the motel, a young man is sauntering/ walking/ taking his time moving. 

I don’t know what to say. I’m trying to figure out what the driver means. Looks like a normal person. Walking like a normal person.  What’s this guy up to? Bragging about his kid in some weird, unsettling way? Maybe the kid is some sort of genius? Is what he’s saying some sort of inside joke with the wife or girlfriend, whoever she is? 

The kid approaches the truck, and the yelling starts.  “Don’t you fucking ever wake me up like that again or I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.” He’s addressing dad. 

He's college age, maybe mid-twenties. Six feet tallish. Solid muscle, 220-240. Think refrigerator. Linebacker. He IS the brute squad. He’s yelling the same thing over and over: “Don’t fucking wake me like that ever again or I’ll fucking kill you.” Fists clenched, arms stiff at his side. Giving his father the same dead-eyed look the guy is giving him. 

The father of the year gives it right back, calling the kid a loser, a crack head. He repeats this many times and then says what I don’t want to hear: go help with the cat. 

The kid is, quite obviously, going nuclear. And I’m standing there wondering who’s going to die first. And what’s wrong with this kid? It’s obvious there’s something wrong with him. Is it drugs though? My mind goes:

This kid is enraged. And there’s something more.  Gotta be neurodivergence, probably never recognized/ celebrated/ explored.  You can see it in his body language and hear it in his words.  

This father likes tormenting his kid. 

This kid deserved better. Even now as a grown-up he deserves better. 

This father has done unspeakable things. I just know it.    

This mother (I've decided she's the mother) she’s done terrible things too, like sitting by and doing nothing while her kid is viciously verbally attacked. 

I’ve had this kid in school. In my head I name names. I see faces.  

Then I realize I’m feet away from the whole scene and I leave – no one notices -- and race to the office where the desk kid – yes, kid – can’t be more than 18 if that, does nothing.  We can both hear the yelling. He’s acting like this is normal. I ask him if he’s going to call the police. He looks at me like I’m nuts. 

He gets a broom and accompanies me back to the room. He starts walking toward the yelling, but I insist we avoid them and take the long way around. He pushes the broom under the bed and Patrick runs out the other side. I scoop up Patrick and deposit him in his carrier. The whole thing takes less than a minute. 

I finish loading the car. A few rooms away, the father and son are still going at it. The guest next door to me steps outside onto the crumbling cement landing and lights a cigarette. She glances briefly in the direction of the yelling, then turns away, stares off into space,  and takes a few more drags of the butt. Next room down, another guest comes out. He looks neither left nor right. He loads his car, reverses fast,  and leaves. 

Meanwhile I pack the three carriers and arrange them carefully. Once I turn the car toward the exit, I gun it past the pickup, still idling, the son still raging, the dad in the driver's seat still egging him on. 

Six hundred miles, three cups of coffee and a whole bunch of adrenaline rushes later, I’m writing this and thinking about lots of things but mainly these:  

1. Should I have called the police? And the other side of that question -- Why was I the only witness disturbed enough by this to want to call the police? 

2. Why didn’t I write this down/dictate all this to myself earlier? The words I wanted to write were so fluid in my head this morning. The phrasing luminous. The connections deep and oh so important. (Joking of course.) But now I’m too tired.  The words have dried up. I can’t think.  Maybe that’s a good thing. Ugh. 

3. One of these days, that kid is going to kill someone.   

 

 

Gus #2: Strange places and sad choices

It’s me and four cats. Day two on the road. Driving highway all day clouds your head and blears your eyes. Legs and back are stiff. I’m not hungry or thirsty, though for the last nine hours I’ve had nothing but a couple of sips of water, one large coffee, a bottle of diet soda, two small energy bars, and an egg salad sandwich. 

Was not looking for complications, though when you’re on the road for several days at a time, you do your best to anticipate wrenches. 

I just want to get the cats out of their carriers, feed and water them, and let them roam around a bit while I doze. Watching them explore the room will assuage my guilt at forcing them into their carriers, messing with their schedules, driving them halfway across the country when they were perfectly content back in their little house among the other little houses among the cornfields of central Iowa. 

When we pulled into the hotel parking lot, the sun was just beginning to set and the air, comfortable all day, was starting to chill. It was that time of day when it gets dark and cold pretty fast. Late May.  The anniversary of my grandmother’s death. That thought shoots out of nowhere. It’s been twenty-three years but still feels like it just happened.  

While the other kitties dart from their carriers, Gus stays in his. The last three hours, he’s been mewing, breathing a bit heavily. At the last gas stop, I zipped open his carrier to give him some treats. He poked his little head out. I thought for a second about removing him from the carrier and cuddling him a bit, but immediately my head created this movie reel where, me exhausted and him energized, he leaps from my arms and runs into traffic. So I pushed his little head back in, it’s soft and slightly larger than the palm of my hand,  and told him we only had a few more hours. 

Got into the habit, when my daughters were young, of making sure that from the driver’s seat I could always see them, either by turning my head quickly or by looking in the rear-view mirror. I’m the same with my cats. From the mirror, I could see all four of them. Shortly after we got back on the road after that last stop, Gus made a sound that I’d never heard come from him before. Part yelp. Part meow. Soon after, he began mouth breathing. I’m an experienced enough cat person to know that this is not good, and warrants investigating. 

We still had 150 miles left of our drive. He was fine at the last rest stop, when he tried to get out of the carrier and I’d pushed him back in. I convinced myself that the reason he was mouth breathing was because he was stressed and that everything would be fine once we got to the hotel. 

But Gus stayed in his carrier. Finally, I shook him from it. He lay on his side on the floor breathing heavily. I picked him up and put him on my shoulder. He whined as though he was in pain. His body writhed. I put him down on the cool tiles on the bathroom floor. He lies still, his only movement the heaving of his chest. 

Not sure what the term is for when you are utterly exhausted, yet you go into hyperdrive. Not a second wind. Definitely an out of body thing. My phone was at less than 10 percent, so I plugged it into the wall. I started up my laptop and googled emergency vets, part of me wondering if I was overreacting, and part of me wishing I’d done this search hours ago. 

The animal hospital answers on the second ring and tells me to bring in Gus immediately. I bundle Gus in some clothes and get him in the car. Dazed, worn out. That was me. Can’t even begin to imagine how the poor little guy was feeling. Luckily, the vet was only four miles and two highways away. Made it in ten minutes to a shopping plaza with two other businesses, an insurance place – closed for the evening, and a pot store. 

I knew nothing about this place or these veterinarians. I was 800 miles away from one home and 400 miles away from another in a strange place among other strange places. I was in such a rush I hadn’t googled reviews or medical backgrounds. For all I knew these people were drug addicts and murderers practicing vet medicine without licenses. 

These nameless, faceless office people waited while I filled out paperwork, and my credit card approved their $500 base fee. Then they took Gus. I wasn’t allowed to go with them. 

At that point I was still thinking that Gus would be okay, that maybe he was just dehydrated or stressed. I was telling myself that this was all a waste of time and money. There were two other people in the waiting room. Silence. Plate glass windows showed how dark it was outside. Hardly any cars in the lot. Felt like we were the last people on earth. The silence was overwhelming. There was too much time to think. My phone was charging at the one electrical plug I could find, next to a coffee maker. I could have gotten a free coffee, but to say I was already over wired at that point would be an understatement. No seat nearby so I was pacing, but not for long. 

Within ten minutes, the vet beckoned me to follow her, past closed doors into a small examination room. Where’s Gus?

She starts by immediately crashing all my hopes. Do you have any support with you? 

I said no and I’m strong and I give her the back of the matchbook summary: I’m a marathoner, raised two kids on my own and also cared, usually alone, for sick then dying loved ones for ten years. I repeat: I’m strong.

She tells me Gus isn’t good. There’s something wrong with his heart and I need to make some decisions because he’s suffering. 

Strong me starts swaying. She helps me sit down and gets me a cup of water. 

Me, wondering where she got her vet degree and if she got off on killing pets: “How certain are you?”

She rattled off the tests they’d done on him and said she was 100 percent sure that Gus was dying, but they could do more tests if I wanted. 

What I said, roughly:

“I don’t know you. I don’t know this place. You don’t know me or my cat. He was fine this morning. I need more answers.” 

I handed her my credit card, which she would need to charge in order to authorize more tests. I asked to see Gus but was told it wasn’t possible just yet. He was hooked up to an IV and was in an oxygenated incubator. I asked if maybe possibly the stress that he was under right now, being with strange people in a strange place, might be the real problem. 

Her answer: No. 

This was followed by an hour of pacing, phone charging, googling the vet and clinic reviews, and searching out reasons for sudden cardiac failure in felines. 

When the vet returned with the test results, I knew it was over. 

They gave me Gus, wrapped in a blanket, and told me to take all the time I needed. I asked if he was in pain. When they said that, yes he was, I said give me just a minute. I didn’t want him suffering any more than he already was. At this point for him, every breath was torture. 

I stayed with him as they administered the medicine. As he took his last breaths, I told him what I hope he already knew: that he was a good boy who deserved better than this. I said other things too, but that’s between him and me. 

I left with a hefty credit card bill, and a sandwich-sized baggy full of Gus’s fur. Drove back to the hotel I don’t know how. Gave the other three cats lots of treats and cuddles. Imagined my grandmother meeting up with Gus and welcoming him into her cozy heaven apartment,  walls decorated with my daughters’ finger paintings. I dreamt she was keeping watch over all my other pets gone too soon and saying to them, when they saunter into the kitchen after a good night’s sleep, “Did you dream about the kitty and doggy?” which is a weird little phrase she used all the time with my kids. 

Slept a little. 

The next day drove the last leg of the trip. I don’t remember anything about that day which must mean it was uneventful which was the best thing I could hope for at that point. 

Gus, on the other hand, was everything I could hope for. Someday I’ll write about how he stole my heart, flooded my house – he truly did this is not an exaggeration, called me mom – he did I am convinced of this, and was simply the best cat ever. 

 

 

Gus had a white bowtie-shaped marking at his throat and a cumberbund-shaped mark at his belly. He was always dressed for a good time. 

 

 

 

 

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. 

 

 

 

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.