Enjoy the ride, stop and smell the roses, it is better to travel than to arrive, it's the journey not the destination. No matter who said it or how it was said, most of us have tried to embrace some form of this advice. Most of us A-typers have failed. I think of these words when I need to relax before a race. I remind myself of the fact that race day is the easiest day of my entire training schedule; all the hard work has already been completed when you arrive at the starting line on race day. You have already battled your demons during your lonely 120 mile bike rides and your solo 20 mile runs. All I have left to do is enjoy! It is not race day that makes you who you are, nor is it your finish times that prove your worth. In short, it is the journey.
The Boston Marathon calls bull shit on all of this nonsense.
Boston says, if this is not the hardest run you've ever raced then you have not worked hard enough If you don't finish this race on the brink of consciousness, the you did not push hard enough. If you "saved" yourself for any part of the course, then you did not try hard enough.
By the time I got to Boston, Friday before the Monday race, I was at ease. This would be my 7th marathon -- I was a vet. The work was done, my qualifying time verified, the registration complete, the time off work scheduled, the trip planned. The only thing left was just 26 miles. I was ready to run what is arguably the world's most well known and prestigious marathon. It was almost too real. The mystique was gone, the journey was over. It was almost a let down.
That's when Boston slapped me across the face.
After I left the humble starting town of Hoptinkon I cruised for 10 miles averaging 7:45 per mile. Sure, it was faster than I had planned, but it was a steady decline and I knew I would slow a bit in the second half thanks to the hills. So giving myself a little buffer would help get me to my anticipated finish time of 3:30. I mean PUH-lease, it's not like Boston would be THAT much harder than any of my previous marathons. I knew what it was to run 26 miles. And 26 miles is 26 miles wether you're in Arizona, California, or Boston.
That's when Boston punched me sharply in the gut.
At the half way point, although I was still going sub 8:00, the miles seemed noticeably harder. My stomach began to turn. GU, Powergel, Accelgel? Even the thought made me sick. Not even water was sitting well, so I began looking for places to puke. But that is difficult when the entire course is lined with white-haired grandmas, little kids, frat guys, you name it -- all of Boston is out. You are exposed, in all your glory, or all your misery. Just try to keep it together, I thought to myself. As I approached mile 20 where my support team had planned to set up camp, I had slipped to about 8:30's. It felt like a snail's place compared to earlier in the day, but I knew that if I could make it to 20 and get that boost of energy from my family, I could cruise for the last 6. Although I wouldn't be finishing in 3:30, at least I would be finishing.
Jab, jab, right cross . . . Boson had me cornered.
As I crested Heartbreak Hill, my legs turned to glass. Every step felt as if I was being hit it the quad with a baseball bat. Each time my foot hit the ground it felt like my muscles might shatter. Could I run 6 more miles like this -- an hour more -- when each step was reverberating through my body like a mini earthquake -- one after another, after another? I felt like a pile of rubble. I wanted to go faster. I didn't want to finish doing 9:00 miles, but I couldn't make my body move any quicker -- not even if my life depended on it. I felt sick, light headed, thirsty, cold, like I was going to pass out, like I WANTED to pass out, like I wanted to DIE! I wanted it to be over. I wanted to stop moving. I wanted to revel in the last 6 miles of the Boston Marathon. I wanted to enjoy the crowds, the Citgo sign, Commonwealth Ave -- but I couldn't.
Boston landed one final blow and I was down for the count.
It didn't even feel good to finish. The damage was done. Multiple volunteers asked me if I was ok -- I guess ashen skin and blue lips are signs that something is up -- I couldn't even formulate a sentence; my words weren't making sense. I started to shiver uncontrolablly. I took my gloves off and realized that even with the 40 degree weather and intense headwinds everything I was wearing was totally drenched with sweat. I had about a half mile to walk to get to my gear bag which at least had dry gloves in it, but every step was a struggle and I wondered if I would make it. The race had literally taken everything I had. I had nothing left in my muscles, in my head, in my heart.
Long story longer, this is what I was reminded of when I ran the Boston Marathon: that sometimes it's not JUST about getting to the finish; SOMETIMES it's about how fast (or slow) you get there. When we forget about the importance of performance, we lose a large part of what it means to be an athlete. We cannot run ALL our races or live ALL our days thinking ONLY of the journey and never the destination. And when it comes to Boston, you better believe that the starting line is NOT your destination. Honey, that is only the beginning! Sure, it's great to make it there, to look around and see a sea of 25,000 of the world's best marathoners and know that you have earned a spot amongst them. But if that is your final destination, your "journey" is about 26 miles short. Because, I assure you, it's the FINISH that you want to make it to -- proudly, and quickly, having truly earned the privledge of every step you took on that hallowed course, having earned the opportunity not to run the race, but to race the race; because this is the Boston Marathon SUCKAH!
Five weeks later, against my better judgement, I found myself once more at the starting line. This was the San Diego Marathon. I stood next to a long time running friend, the one who had convinced me that two marathons in 40 days was a good idea. I don't usually run with people and with good reason. I was hoping this would not be the beginning of the end of our friendship. Although my 8th marathon, it was full of firsts. It was the first time I would run with company. It was the first marathon where I would not dictate the pace. It was the first marathon where I would opt out of using my I-pod. And it was the first marathon -- gasp -- where time did not matter. This was my promise and my challenge: this race would be about friendship, beautiful San Diego, the crowds, the guy wearing the inflatable monkey and the two girls in the fairy costumes. This was, very simply, about doing something I love. This time, it was ALL journey. We saw our friends at mile 20 and they snapped a picture of us. My smile was so enormous that I look like a cartoon. You can't fake that kind of bliss. We finished together 6 miles later, and my love for this ridiculous sport was renewed.
San Diego kissed me smack on the lips.
Both Boston and San Diego were surprising for different reasons. In Boston -- the weather, the course, the humbling desperation. In San Diego -- the friendship made stronger by 26 miles, the fun, the joy. There are times where it's about the journey and times where it's about the destination. It can be your heaven and your hell. It can build you up and tear you down. And to see it from both sides is to truly know it. And only when you know something can you truly love it. To know what it has the potential to do to you and without reservation to return again -- that is explained only by stupidity, ego, or love. To appreciate the journey, to see the importance of the destination, to have sought the understanding of both and to have been blessed with a love for both is to have become a better person with a deeper knowledge of oneself.
The day after the Boston Marathon the Globe printed a full page add that said this:
Today you may feel like you'll never run a marathon again.
See you next year.
Touché.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The "B-word"
I don't know if you can pinpoint the moment when you move from disbelief to belief, or when the scale tips from impossible to possible, or when wishing is replaced with hoping, is replaced with action.
When I ran my first marathon, I had heard the "B-word." Boston. I knew that it was out there, and I knew that you had to qualify in order to enter. I also knew that it wasn't an idea you just casually threw around in conversation. Like, "Oh, I think I might run Boston some day." I visited the Boston Athletic Association website and checked out said qualifying times; then I did the math and realized that I wasn't ever going to just accidentally and conveniently run a 3:40 and, "oops," qualify. If this was going to happen, I would have to make it happen. I would have to turn my 4:15 into a 3:40. Was 35 minutes (or lack there of) worth the time and effort. Was this even possible; was it something I could believe in?
To be honest, I wasn't sure, and I didn't make the decision right then. But I did continue to run . . . 4:15, 4:14, 4:03, 3:48. I think it was then, the moment I crossed the line at 3:48:35 that I realized 3:40 was in reach, if I wanted it. But every time I got all starry eyed thinking about standing at the starting line of the Boston Marathon, I would remember what that meant: going 3:40, in other words, running 8:20 miles, 26 times. And that was flipping fast. I still wasn't buying it.
Then last summer I reached my tipping point. I was driving a friend around, we were making small talk, and he asked me what I was currently training for. I told him I was trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. He asked me what time I needed to run, I told him, and without pause he responded, "Oh Kelly, you're not built for a 3:40!"
Maybe that was all I needed, someone to tell me I couldn't, because from that point forward I had a greater purpose, to do the "impossible." If you've ever been the underdog, you know there's nothing better than making the impossible, possible. So I trained, hard. I ran through the 110 degree Arizona summer, I woke at 4 am to start my 20 milers. I felt fast; I felt like 3:40 was becoming possible, but not guaranteed.
When the preparation was complete and the training was executed, I stood at the starting line wearing all green, as a reminder of my pursuit of Boston. Hopefully I could put my money where my outfit was. My plan was to run between 8:10 and 8:20 in the first half and buy myself as big of a cushion as possible. I would inevitably slow in the second half. But at 13 I felt fresh, SO fresh. I didn't need to back off at all. And for a moment I panicked. Was I sure that the qualifying time was 3:40? Because this felt too easy. I was 4 minutes ahead of schedule and l felt like I had flown over the first half of the course. Now I would put my feet on the ground and run. But I didn't just want to run. I wanted to race.
And this was when I believed, knew, that I had made it happen. I was going to come in under 3:40, and it wasn't going to be by a few seconds. It wasn't going to come down to a last do or die 7 minute mile. I had put in the work and this was the reward. I didn't just believe, I knew. I ran with confidence, with elation. At 20 I ran without caution, without fear. I ran sub 8 minute miles and it wasn't until 23 that I paid for it. It was then that I finally settled into that 8:20 pace, those 8:20's that had scared me for so long, that had made me a non-believer. I came in that day having run a 3:31, averaging 8:05, and having negative split the whole race. I had undoubtedly qualified. And so began my following 48 hours . . .
That night I sat with a friend, having a celebratory drink and watching the Arizona Cardinals win the NFC conference championships and advance to the Super Bowl for the first time in franchise history: an improbable feat and the epitome of a Cinderella story. A day after this I watched again as the first African American took the oath of office: the son of a Kenyan man and a woman from Kansas, who had grown up between Indonesia and Hawaii. Talk about the ultimate long shot.
It seems like "impossible" continues to prove us wrong. Yet we still resist. So what will it take for us to believe in ourselves, in each other? Can we allow ourselves to be 49% pragmatist, 51% dreamer? Instead of naivete, can we call it faith? Can we replace our self imposed limits with open minds and open roads? What if we set lofty goals without fear of disappointment of unmet expectations? What if we wore green at the start and went out 10 seconds faster than we thought possible? What if we fought for every inch, first down after first down, believing in a team that few others did? What if we found ourselves inspiring a nation BECAUSE of our willingness to hope and believe?
Youth begs us to believe and age pressures us to be realistic. Failures, defeats and broken hearts try to convince us that low expectations mean low risk of disappointment. We grow older and we get harder. We want to believe, but we think believing is unwise, illogical. The thing is, when we look back on our greatest moments, or pivotal events in history, or sports, aren't they many times steeped in improbable circumstances, seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and a minority of believers? Are these reasons NOT to believe, or are these required ingredients in man's greatest accomplishments?
What is so wrong with just believing? What is so unwise about hoping, planning, and acting? Why does having faith in ourselves or each other make us naive? Barack stands with his hand on Lincoln's bible, Cardinals lead in the last minute of the 43rd Super Bowl, with 9 minutes to spare, I qualify for Boston. So you tell me, what IMPOSSIBILITY should I NOT believe in next? Until the unbelievable things stop happening, I think I'll just keep on believing. I will use the "B-word" freely, because I am a proud "B"eliever.
When I ran my first marathon, I had heard the "B-word." Boston. I knew that it was out there, and I knew that you had to qualify in order to enter. I also knew that it wasn't an idea you just casually threw around in conversation. Like, "Oh, I think I might run Boston some day." I visited the Boston Athletic Association website and checked out said qualifying times; then I did the math and realized that I wasn't ever going to just accidentally and conveniently run a 3:40 and, "oops," qualify. If this was going to happen, I would have to make it happen. I would have to turn my 4:15 into a 3:40. Was 35 minutes (or lack there of) worth the time and effort. Was this even possible; was it something I could believe in?
To be honest, I wasn't sure, and I didn't make the decision right then. But I did continue to run . . . 4:15, 4:14, 4:03, 3:48. I think it was then, the moment I crossed the line at 3:48:35 that I realized 3:40 was in reach, if I wanted it. But every time I got all starry eyed thinking about standing at the starting line of the Boston Marathon, I would remember what that meant: going 3:40, in other words, running 8:20 miles, 26 times. And that was flipping fast. I still wasn't buying it.
Then last summer I reached my tipping point. I was driving a friend around, we were making small talk, and he asked me what I was currently training for. I told him I was trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. He asked me what time I needed to run, I told him, and without pause he responded, "Oh Kelly, you're not built for a 3:40!"
Maybe that was all I needed, someone to tell me I couldn't, because from that point forward I had a greater purpose, to do the "impossible." If you've ever been the underdog, you know there's nothing better than making the impossible, possible. So I trained, hard. I ran through the 110 degree Arizona summer, I woke at 4 am to start my 20 milers. I felt fast; I felt like 3:40 was becoming possible, but not guaranteed.
When the preparation was complete and the training was executed, I stood at the starting line wearing all green, as a reminder of my pursuit of Boston. Hopefully I could put my money where my outfit was. My plan was to run between 8:10 and 8:20 in the first half and buy myself as big of a cushion as possible. I would inevitably slow in the second half. But at 13 I felt fresh, SO fresh. I didn't need to back off at all. And for a moment I panicked. Was I sure that the qualifying time was 3:40? Because this felt too easy. I was 4 minutes ahead of schedule and l felt like I had flown over the first half of the course. Now I would put my feet on the ground and run. But I didn't just want to run. I wanted to race. And this was when I believed, knew, that I had made it happen. I was going to come in under 3:40, and it wasn't going to be by a few seconds. It wasn't going to come down to a last do or die 7 minute mile. I had put in the work and this was the reward. I didn't just believe, I knew. I ran with confidence, with elation. At 20 I ran without caution, without fear. I ran sub 8 minute miles and it wasn't until 23 that I paid for it. It was then that I finally settled into that 8:20 pace, those 8:20's that had scared me for so long, that had made me a non-believer. I came in that day having run a 3:31, averaging 8:05, and having negative split the whole race. I had undoubtedly qualified. And so began my following 48 hours . . .
That night I sat with a friend, having a celebratory drink and watching the Arizona Cardinals win the NFC conference championships and advance to the Super Bowl for the first time in franchise history: an improbable feat and the epitome of a Cinderella story. A day after this I watched again as the first African American took the oath of office: the son of a Kenyan man and a woman from Kansas, who had grown up between Indonesia and Hawaii. Talk about the ultimate long shot.
It seems like "impossible" continues to prove us wrong. Yet we still resist. So what will it take for us to believe in ourselves, in each other? Can we allow ourselves to be 49% pragmatist, 51% dreamer? Instead of naivete, can we call it faith? Can we replace our self imposed limits with open minds and open roads? What if we set lofty goals without fear of disappointment of unmet expectations? What if we wore green at the start and went out 10 seconds faster than we thought possible? What if we fought for every inch, first down after first down, believing in a team that few others did? What if we found ourselves inspiring a nation BECAUSE of our willingness to hope and believe?
Youth begs us to believe and age pressures us to be realistic. Failures, defeats and broken hearts try to convince us that low expectations mean low risk of disappointment. We grow older and we get harder. We want to believe, but we think believing is unwise, illogical. The thing is, when we look back on our greatest moments, or pivotal events in history, or sports, aren't they many times steeped in improbable circumstances, seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and a minority of believers? Are these reasons NOT to believe, or are these required ingredients in man's greatest accomplishments?
What is so wrong with just believing? What is so unwise about hoping, planning, and acting? Why does having faith in ourselves or each other make us naive? Barack stands with his hand on Lincoln's bible, Cardinals lead in the last minute of the 43rd Super Bowl, with 9 minutes to spare, I qualify for Boston. So you tell me, what IMPOSSIBILITY should I NOT believe in next? Until the unbelievable things stop happening, I think I'll just keep on believing. I will use the "B-word" freely, because I am a proud "B"eliever.
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