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.