Marathon 13: Lessons from Providence

My long run prep is pretty standard: carbing up, hydrating, Body Gliding, blister-taping, and of course a minute or two of freaking out: “Dear God what was I thinking? I can’t run blank blank blank  miles. This sucks this sucks bleah bleah bleah poor me. Oh wait. I chose to do this. Okay. Cool.” 

I download songs that make me want to move, like my latest favorite “Shake it out,” by Florence and the Machine, which, not coincidentally, is about spiritual rebirth. Sometimes I google quotes, some silly – “The problem with jogging is that the ice falls out of your glass” (Martin Mull) – some profound -- "Hard things take time to do. Impossible things take a little longer." (Percy Cerutty).  Fuck yeah, Percy.

Lately, I’ve gotten circumspect. Perhaps it’s collateral damage from the last year’s travails, or maybe it’s just part of the process of aging.  I’ve been chewing on my past and wondering about the future. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I’ve added a new twist to my pre-run repertoire: I remind myself to look for the lessons that day’s run will teach me. And during the run, maybe as I’m faltering up one of the many mountain ranges that lately have invaded my running routes, maybe as I catch a glimpse of myself in a storefront window and see, like a ghost, something more than me or someone I once was,  I ask: Where am I taking myself today? Who will I be when this ends?

In the pre-dawn hours of this past April 15, I remember thinking in those terms. I was up early not for my own long run but in preparation for supporting the long run of thousands of others. I wore my favorite top, a blue Boston Athletic Association technical shirt with Boston Marathon 2008 in gold lettering down one sleeve. Over that I wore my orange American Liver Foundation Run for Research singlet from that same race.  I topped all that off with my brand-new, optic yellow 2013 Boston Marathon volunteer jacket. I was spiffy times infinity.

What will I learn today? How will I grow? I asked these questions, even though today I wasn’t going to be wearing out my knees and angering my blisters. I was headed off, along with 8,000 other volunteers,   to visit for several hours with 30,000 of our dearest friends and family members – our Boston Marathoners. 

It was a perfect day for the marathon – cool temps, cloudy skies.  We set up our tables on Route 16 in Wellesley in front of the town hall, the halfway point of the marathon, thirteen long tables on each side of the road stacked up to four levels high with cups of water and Gatorade.

It was a typical pre-race morning except for a heart-ripping half minute. I remember standing among our volunteers as we, along with all the other yellow-jacketed folks from Hopkinton into Boston, held many seconds of silence for the victims of the Newtown tragedy. I remember my throat closing up from the sadness.

And then the day improved as we cheered on our friends and loved ones. Several hours later, as the horde thinned out  we began our clean up, laughing and marveling over the sights we’d seen: our charity runners smiling and posing for pictures, Joan Benoit -- a hot pink blur, scores of soldiers in camouflage -- backs bent under heavy packs, our wheelchair athletes -- arms whirring like spokes, ultramarathoner Dean Karnazes -- shirtless. 

We were headed east toward home nearly an hour from Boston, the hydration stop cleared ages ago, when we got the news about two explosions at the finish line. 

From the back seat, the friend who’d gotten the update on his iphone: “Maureen, do you want me to drive?”

Me, one hand on the swerving wheel, the other scrolling through the phone for my Boston daughter’s number: “No. I’m fine.”

Him from the back, sharper now, as the car danced upon the broken lines between the travel and passing lanes: “Maureen, do you want me to drive?”

“I’m FINE.”

Four weeks later, I’m at the starting line for my thirteenth marathon. Every one of the thousand runners is wearing something in tribute to Boston: blue and gold ribbons, Boston Marathon shirts and hats, homemade signs taped to chests and backs. We have a moment of silence and for once it is a true moment of silence. No one is complaining about the weather. No one is bragging about past personal records. There is only breathing and the occasional sniffle. Then every single one of us, as far as I can see, joins in for the Star Spangled Banner.  We are flanked by police and police dogs, and soldiers in camouflage who wear heavy packs and carry guns with barrels as tall as me.

I wondered what I’d learn that day.

Within the first mile, I met up with three Run for Research marathoners who were at Boston’s mile 25 when they were stopped and told their run was done. At Providence, they were finishing what they’d started. I remember thinking that that was typical. Fast or slow, running, walking, crawling, distance athletes train themselves to finish what they start. I hadn't run a marathon in thirty months. I wondered if I'd remember what to do when my body started wearing out.      

I got my chance to find out sooner than I'd thought because by mile seven, I wanted to quit. My stomach had started bothering me around mile three.  Now, after a relatively slight incline, my legs were horribly sore.

I was running near two older gentlemen. We started talking. Tom was running his 138^th marathon and was chatting up every female within earshot. Jim was running number forty-eight and was expecting to finish in about six hours. He'd run a marathon in DC just the Sunday before in a little more than five hours.

Tom exited the course to visit with nature and as he headed into the brush I cheered him on: “Go Tom Go!” I believe he did, because he looked quite relaxed when he passed by me a few minutes later.

Eventually I got a second wind and lost Tom and Jim but I didn’t forget about them. I marveled at their stamina. “They know how to endure,” I remember thinking. And it hit me that when I am seventy-two, the runner Jim’s age, I want to still be running marathons too. I want to still be going after what I want. I want to be someone who endures.  

Around mile eleven or so I entered a godforsaken trail and ran in place for what seemed like days. I was panicked by the time I hit mile thirteen. I was so worn down, my stomach was gurgling so volcanically, that I was afraid I’d have to drop out. I started walking a bit, then running, then walking then running, and proceeded to move ahead at a syrupy drip. At a turn in the road I came upon a runner about my age, his back stooped, his feet barely shuffling, T-shirt and shorts soaked through with sweat. Compared to him, I was a Kenyan.

“Humidity is awful today,” I said.

“As long as you keep putting one foot in front of the other, you’ll get there,” he said.  My eyes started tearing up. I think I said, “Yup,” but what I should have said was “Thank you.” 

I don’t remember much of the rest of the run except that eventually I entered a wooden pathway, ocean to one side, and ten thousand miles of grassy stuff on the other. “Somebody really fucked up this marathon measurement,” I remember thinking. I re-entered civilization around mile twenty-two and mainly grunted at the few spectators still out on the course.  

At mile twenty-three I met up with a young girl all in pink who was running her first marathon. She was walking at that point and I was close to walking. We were approaching the last hill and I asked her if we could run up it together because I’d really appreciate the company. We ran together for a bit then her boyfriend dressed in jeans and work boots joined her, so I took off on my own.

Eventually I met up with a running group-sponsored water stop. One of the guys had on my optic yellow volunteer jacket. He told me he’d been at the finish line on Patriot’s Day and had seen his son cross safely, then all hell broke loose and he saw and heard awful things. We gave each other hugs.    

At mile 25 I met a runner in a 2013 Project Hope jacket, another of the Boston Marathon charities. He'd been stopped at mile 23 on Marathon Monday. We talked about running friends we had in common. Then we each moved ahead at our own pace.  A few minutes later I met yet another runner who was finishing what he’d started back in April at Boston and yes, he was planning on running Boston again next year. 

I’d like to say that the last mile was the easiest, that my burden, emotional or physical or some combination of the two, lifted and I was carried forth on angel’s wings to the finish, but that would be the opposite of the truth. I was heavy and worn out as I turned left toward the finish line. I saw my friends and family seconds before I crossed it. I detoured to them, got some quick hugs, then scooted the few yards to the end. All around me, runners in foil blankets embraced and congratulated each other. Police and soldiers walked among us. Riflemen watched us from the rooftops nearby. 

I joined my people. We posed for pictures. I told everyone I’d had a crappy run and would need to do another marathon soon so I could blot this one from my memory. I kissed my medal, a silver anchor with the word "Hope," Rhode Island's slogan, engraved on it.

Two weeks later, I ran a half marathon, Boston’s Run to Remember, a race dedicated to Boston’s fallen police and this year honoring Sean Collier, MIT officer and the fourth victim. 

I approached the start line with some trepidation. That 26.2 mile beating in Providence was still fresh in my mind. Plus, I’d never done a run as long as 13.1 miles so soon after a full marathon. I expected to spend most of the run walking. I had no illusions about anything, running or otherwise. 

There was a huge police presence, partly because it was a police run, but also due to the fact that it was the first significant race in Boston since April 15. There were 11,000 of us. We listened to brutal and beautiful dedications. We sang the national anthem, and then we all began moving forward. I crossed myself and said a quick silent prayer. 

My head was filled with many things, including the memories of that starting line two weeks earlier, and all the people I'd met, and the lessons I'd learned, and the medal that still sits on my kitchen counter because I like looking at that word "Hope" very very much. And then, along with everyone else, I ran. I didn't stop running until I crossed that finish line. Turns out, I hadn't forgotten how to endure.

Boston saved me

Boston saved me. 

My first Boston Marathon was an act of pure faith. The circumstances and coincidences that got me to the starting line were nothing short of miraculous. 

And the best part is that I knew that too. I knew it as I crossed that starting line. I knew it at my gasping, sobbing finish. 

I knew I’d been given a gift. I’d been rescued from anger and hate. I’d been yanked back from spiritual death. I’d been reborn. I was the phoenix, rising from decades of ashes. 

Boston, the runners, the spectators and volunteers, the course itself, healed me.   

My love is ferocious; my gratitude fearless and strong. All that I am, all that I have become, all that I will be, is because of Boston.  

    

Because I lived in darkness once I know to celebrate the light. I go to Boston every year to search it out. 

I find it in the glorious struggling runners around me. I find it in the eyes of the spectators and volunteers. I let Boston in, and Boston lifts me.   

Boston is was and always will be my light. 

I pray for those grieving. I pray for those mourning the physical and spiritual deaths. I pray for Boston, my marathon, my miracle, my love.

A different kind of workout

It begins six days before, just after work, with a brief message from him saying you need to call back. It’s urgent.  So you call, and get nothing but ringing.

You run through the possibilities. Maybe it’s about Nick, the best friend, the one recovering from bypass surgery?

Maybe it’s about the trip. They’re leaving the next day for Florida. Are they taking you up on your offer to run last minute errands? Maybe they need to borrow a suitcase.

Urgent though? Urgent isn’t about suitcases.

Is it about her? The one who didn’t call? The one who’s celebrating a tiny reprieve from infusion labs and laser beams, fatigue and dread? 

Instead of heading to your home, you drive to theirs. You pass the road that could take you straight to the emergency room in under five minutes.  You wonder if you should have turned, then remember how everyone always makes fun of you because you are the queen of imaginary worst case scenarios.   

The phone rings a mile from their house and when you answer it’s her and the shaking in her voice stirs up your insides. You smile because you read somewhere that smiling relaxes. You promise to be there in less than 10 minutes. You pull a u-turn on a busy four-lane road as the school at the corner is dismissing. You floor it, and get to the ER right on time. 

Then you wait with her. You get coffees and muffins and check Facebook. Every few minutes you leave your orange plastic seat and wave to him. He’s still in his street clothes, sitting on a hospital bed in the triage area behind the reception desk, which is a terribly open space. He gives you that smile that you’ve known your whole life, the one that means you’ve got to be kidding me. You give him the same smile and raise your arms in a what the heck way and he does too. Then you both grin, a real laughing grin  this time.

When the two of you are finally allowed to join him, you talk about many things including the swearing guy on the gurney in the hall. The police officer is asking swearing guy to stop with the bad words for God’s sake because these are nice people here.

You broach the subject of canceling the airport shuttle, the flight, the rental car.  The doctor arrives and says might as well, since he won’t be leaving the hospital for quite awhile.  Turns out canceling everything is easy. Dealing with the reality for the canceling? Not so much.

The next day is a snow day and you rejoice because you can sleep in though in truth your sleep is thin and you wake up feeling groggy rather than refreshed. You call the hospital and switch to high alert when they mention the ICU. Your heart rate drops to close to normal when you learn it’s because of overflow, not illness.

At the hospital you learn he got the bed at 6 a.m. and slept less than you because the ER was packed with noisy drunks and addicts.  You wait a lot. You get coffees. Finally, the three of you discuss the choices with two specialists: surgery or meds? The docs enthuse over the surgery. They are optimistic. The three of you agree on the surgery, which will be an hour away, in Boston.

The next day, he calls at school to say they will be moving him in ninety minutes, so he should be in Boston by 2 p.m.  You rush from school to pick her up on the other side of the city. You drive to Boston. At the Weston tolls, she jokes that maybe that’s him, in that ambulance. It’s ambulance number 80. It has the hospital name written in pretty purple type.

You arrive at Tufts Hospital which is a small city. You get lost multiple times before you make it up to the sixth floor of the North building, where he has a huge room all to himself. He’s just arrived. It’s way past four. It likely was him at the Weston tolls.

Thursday morning you wake early and hit the gym before dawn because you have a 20-mile race Sunday, plus the old adrenaline rushes are starting up again, which means your blood pressure is rising. You used to not know how to handle things back when your hair wasn’t specked with white, back in worst case scenario days. Now you self medicate by attacking cardio equipment.  

You drive to Tufts and wait.  The night before, you’d dined on Chinese noodles at a former theatre just a block from the hospital. He stayed back and ate salmon and fruit cup. It’s just the two of you at that restaurant. You talk about faded glory and gaudy chandeliers and say that the place reminds you of the nightclub where Rosanne Arquette did her magic act in Desperately Seeking Susan, one of your favorite movies.

The night of the surgery you stay in the hospital. You eat sandwiches you bought at a shop in the lobby. You are in a waiting room with lots of windows looking out over more waiting rooms. You daydream. You read. You have nothing to say that you haven’t already said two dozen times. When you finally see him, none of you can stop talking.

You leave work early the next day to get him home before the commuter traffic. You learn two things. First, his new roommate, a homeless guy with a growth on his heel, kept him awake all night, talking to air. Second, the operation was a failure. So he needs to start on new meds that have some serious side effects. You ask if he should really be going home. After all, they worked on the heart for six hours just a day ago.  The nurse says he’s fine. Plus, he’s sick of hospitals. He wants to be home. At least he can start golfing in two weeks.

You get in the car just as the evening commute is starting. It’s bitterly cold though it’s spring now. You’re making good time despite the stop and go nonsense at the Weston tolls and at Route 30 in Natick.

At the Westboro exit, in a snarl of traffic, everything changes. He says, “I’m having another episode.” He's talking about the symptoms that made the surgery necessary in the first place. 

“It’s okay. We’re almost home,” you say. Actually, you are twenty-five minutes from home.

Seconds later, there’s another episode, then another. You’re bolting down 495 now, in rush hour traffic. He’s panicking. She’s panicking. You use your left hand to drive, your right to scroll through your phone. You find the doctor’s number and you call.

A nurse comes on the speaker phone. You remember to be thankful that your old car died last year and you chose this one with a cool phone system, though last year at this time you were beyond stressed because your budget could have really used that old horse one more year.  

Your left hand is on the wheel. Your right hand is on his.

You explain the situation in between his cries which go like this: “Jesus I’m having another one! Jesus!” You try to check his pulse but it’s hard to do that and drive and talk to the nurse at the same time so you tell the nurse his color is good, which is the truth, and you hold his hand.

You exit onto 290 and traffic picks up. The nurse asks if you want her to stay on the line. At the same time, all three of you say yes. You can’t help but smile just a bit at that. You’re still 15 minutes from the hospital when your head starts to swirl and you recognize the signs that a panic attack is imminent. You rack your brain for any goody to help you cope. You tell the nurse he’s a golfer. You ask the nurse if she golfs. And the attack fades away as you hear him talk to her about his favorite golf courses. His voice is strained. You can tell he’s beyond stressed, but still, the timbre of his voice, the fact that he is talking,  soothes you.

You pull up to the ER where it all began just five days earlier. They bring him to the same triage bed as before, the one behind the glass, out in the open. Once he is safely in a bed, you start shaking. The adrenaline rush is overwhelming you. You grab a chair and sit and practice yoga breaths.  You call upon your lions of gratitude to tear through this sadness. You all made it there in one piece. That’s something.

There are tests and more tests and waiting of course, and you go home when he's admitted then go back and visit again. Also, you’re starting to carbo load because the race is less than twenty-four hours away and you haven’t been interested in eating much.

The night before the race he’s resting and comfortable and almost back to normal, except for the huge IV bag dripping ventricle-calming juices into black and blue arms that were pink just days ago.  You say you’ll try to stop by after the race tomorrow night. It’s out of state so you may be late.

“Nah, don’t bother stopping by. I’ll be fine. You enjoy your run.” He understands about your need for running. When you lean down to kiss him on his cool smooth forehead he says this: “You’re a good daughter.” At that moment, you feel so great you know you could rush out and leap a tall building in a single bound. Maybe even stop a steam engine with one hand. All he has to do is ask. You'd do anything for him.

You go to bed early because you have to be up at dawn to drive north to New Hampshire. The phone call comes at exactly 11:30. 

The doctor says he’s been moved to ICU, not because of overflow but because things haven’t been going as planned, though on the positive side his pacemaker is working beautifully. In fact, it worked beautifully four times in five minutes. 

“Thank God for technology,” you say. Your heart is beating so hard you barely hear your own words.

The next morning, the early alarm you’d set so you’d get to the race start on time goes off. You wake up surprised because you didn’t expect you’d ever be able to fall back asleep after that phone call. 

You dress in your favorite race shirt and some comfortable pants. You grab your bag, and make sure to put in a bottle of water and a banana. 

You drive south instead of north.  

You enter a quiet room with glass doors and one lone occupant. This is where you want to be. Nothing matters but this. This is your oxygen. This is your run. When he opens his eyes and smiles at you, you beam.          

On surviving Stu's and trusting the process

Yesterday I ran the race I trained for.  I’m shaking my head, still in awe today. What a great gift it is, to run the race you trained for. 

I’ve gone into many things with big hopes and plans, only to have everything crash down around me: various jobs, a marriage, some friendships. Granted, sometimes all the hard work pays off. You get to say, Yup. I worked my butt off and I won. I got the accolades. I got the prize. And I should have. After all, I worked hard. I deserved it.

But life is not always fair. You don’t always get out of it what you put into it. That’s how I see it sometimes. There have been far too many times when I did my best and got the rug pulled out from under me. Maybe instead of pocketing a payoff, I’d learned a lesson I wasn’t expecting and most definitely wasn’t prepared for. I’m talking big, life-changing things, like sickness and divorce and financial earthquakes. 

But even in running, you can’t often predict the end result. I’ve trained well for many races, only to get injured at the last minute. I’ve trained just right, and ended up slogging through heat waves and snow storms, my finish time far off from what I'd hoped.

Yesterday, I had two hundred sixteen minutes to think about process and baby steps and meeting goals and claiming victory. I was running an 18.6 mile race. I was less prepared than I wanted to be, and I knew it. I also knew this: That I have certain goals and if I want to reach them I’ve got to put on my big girl pants and get out of my comfort zone.  

Yesterday, I got exactly what I deserved.

I started slowly. I ended even more slowly. I smiled the whole way. I thanked every wonderful volunteer. I sang out loud. I swore, but not that much. I exchanged rasping quips with my fellow athletes: Looking good! Way to go! Sucks doesn’t it?  

At mile one, the sweeps truck drove by me for the first time. The sweeps truck picks up injured runners. The driver’s job is to check in with the back of the packers too, my people, and make sure we’re good. The driver, with a moustache like a hair brush and a voice that boomed like God’s, yelled out that I looked strong. I asked him if I was last. He looked behind me and squinted. He shook his head.  I gave him a thumbs up. He puttered off. 

I must have seen him a million times yesterday, as he drove back and forth along the course making sure we were all okay. Though the temps hovered near freezing, he never failed to roll down his window to tell me I looked awesome. Sweeps truck drivers are notoriously bad liars. But I’m okay with that.  

Near mile nine, the top of a ridiculously long monster, a friend showed up to cheer me on. Liz runs laps on our tiny gym track. One mile is nineteen laps. Friday, she ran an astounding nine miles. That’s 171 laps. And she thinks I'M tenacious?????

On race day, she helped me climb the last part of that blasted hill, holding in front of me a T-shirt from an Ian McCulloch concert. The shirt was the carrot, I was the sluggish wascally wabbit. Ian McCulloch is the lead singer of Echo and the Bunnymen, a group that made it big in the 80s with Lips Like Sugar and Killer Moon. Liz is a big EATB fan and has gotten me hooked too. I believe in stealing inspiration when I can’t muster it. I figure, if Liz's favorite group can pull her through almost two centuries worth of indoor miles, then maybe there’s some magic there that I could use.  So, I gamely went along and chased cotton T-shirt Ian. Plus he’s hot. Why wouldn’t I want to chase him? 

The next three miles were the toughest for me, which is weird because they were relatively easy. They were moundy, not mountainous. Yet, my legs were quaking; my hip pulsing. Doubts attacked.  I considered walking. I narrowed my gait and grimaced.

I’m taking baby steps, I thought.

Then of course the deeper meaning hit me. Duh. Of course they were baby steps. I hadn’t run this distance in nearly thirty months. I wasn’t exactly starting from scratch, but I wasn’t in my comfort zone either. Today was supposed to be hard and it was.

I took inventory. Yes. Everything hurt. But nothing hurt more than it was supposed to. Everything hurt exactly the way it should. 

And then I realized too that I only had six miles left to run. I could do six miles. I’ve done plenty of six mile runs. I picked up my pace. 

I eventually met up with a runner who waddled like a duck. I don't mean anything insulting there. Different runners have different gaits, some quite distinctive. I was shuffling like an old grandma. This guy was waddling. We got a tag team thing going. Sometimes I followed him. Sometimes he followed me. Each time we met up, we checked in with one another. 

Me: How you feeling?

Him: My legs aren’t working right.

Me, nodding: Mine are meatloaf. 

Every now and then, through gaps in the pines, I’d catch a glimpse of the finish line neighborhood, across a whole continent of frozen reservoir.  It was discouragingly far away, so I mainly focused on the pavement directly ahead. 

At the second to last hill I pretty much ran in place. I don’t know how I made it to the top. I passed the waddling guy one last time. We never met up again until after the race, when we traded war stories in the high school’s cafeteria, in between gulps of bottled water. 

Him: I did better than I thought.

Me: I was just glad to be out there. 

As I jogged past the red brick buildings of Clinton, I made sure to smile at the police officers who held back traffic like I was the Queen of England, or maybe the mama mallard in Robert McCloskey’s Make Way for Ducklings.

 

The last mile of this race is a doozy. You’re finally on flat stuff for the first time in seventeen miles. It is glorious. You’re thankful because you are almost done done done and your legs are screaming that they need to stop. Then you turn left and face the last, most intimidating hill of them all. 

“Pray for me!” I shouted that to the police officer directing traffic at that intersection. I hadn’t shouted anything in several hours, but that’s not why my voice was thick. 

“I got you girl!”  He gave me a Pepsodent smile and a point and wink and I swear to God that right then I could have run up Everest. So I did. Very slowly though, of course.

Yesterday, I got to run the race I trained for. What a glorious gift. I wonder what next weekend will bring? More baby steps? Oh, I hope so.