The moral of the story is to stay out of your garden. At least when in training for a marathon. Or any race for that matter. So for many runners, that means never, ever step foot in your garden.
Unless you are one of those people who can stroll happily through your garden, notice the weeds and imperfections with an indifferent shrug, and just focus in on the beautiful and verdant. After which you head back inside and sip some iced tea, and mention to your partner that maybe somebody oughta' weed the garden.
I started to realize at about 5pm yesterday that I might not be able to do my planned 20 mile run today. I mentioned this to my oldest child, who said "that's OK, you can just do 19."
This morning, I can barely move. Literally, every inch of my body is screaming at me. I feel as if I have been beaten by an angry mob with those old fashioned cast iron frying pans.
This leaves me with some questions:
Will I be able to do my upcoming trail marathon as planned?
Is it normal to work in your garden for a few hours and be subsequently devastated?
Am I old? Or just soft from not enough manual labor?
Other questions I have had in recent weeks, months, years:
Is it possible to be married, raise kids, do laundry, keep the neighbors from gagging at the sight of your garden, cook an occasional meal, be a physician, maintain some elementary skills as a pianist and run (very) long distances, or is running (very) long distances the equivalent of what the Zen Master would counsel as something to be done only when your duties of life are complete?
Or is running (very) long distances a form of rebellion in an otherwise highly responsible and structured life?
The first rebellion, according to the bible, occurred in a garden. Specifically, asking questions in a garden that was supposed to be a place of pure bliss: no questions asked.
As a parent of teenagers, I am surrounded by rebellion. As a gardener, I am surrounded by imperfection and beauty. As a musician I am plagued by my decision to leave that profession for one that I also love but which eats me alive. Being eaten alive by my professions was an actual, true prediction from one of my residency attendings, who sensed from my personality and perhaps my Lutheran, midwestern work ethic that I was in for it. "You will be eaten alive," said he. This really pissed my off at the time.
Some days, I wish I could still play piano like a pro. Some days, I wish I could wear a straw bonnet and garden for hours without a care in the world. Most days, I just get up with the hope of a new day. I greet my kids, in all their grumpy morning glory. I drink coffee and I head to work. I treat the meth abusers and the kind elders and the chain-smoking, hard drinkers. I get advice, like: you should not be running those long distances. Or, you should work less. Or: you should work more. Or: you should spend more time with your kids. Or: Your kids are fine, go on a vacation.
I like to do what I am told, but there are so many conflicting opinions!
Running hard and long, with abandon. This is my rebellion. Probably not today though. I should not have stepped into that garden.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Behind the Golden Gate
Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.
-Wendell Berry
August 2013 Run, San Francisco
I've been thinking about mean people. Usually meanness stems from a lack of something. Lack of self esteem is a big one (if you've encountered a teenager lately, you will know what I mean). To live in a mean situation suggests impoverishment. And to be wealthy can make you meanest of all. Because money cannot buy you love.
Which leads me to the fact that I saw Sir Paul McCartney in concert this weekend. That guy must be about 70 years old, and he was on stage for 3 hours. He seemed so happy to be there. I heard quite a few inebriated or stoned (or both) 20-somethings watching him play and saying things like "dude, he is as old as f#*." Sir Paul never once uttered the F word, and he could outlast any of those idiots who have probably never worked a day in their lives.
Which brings me to the luxurious moments I spent, early in the morning before heading to the concerts. I do work, and more than I oughta, (my own golden handcuffs of choice) but when I am running in Northern California, on a trail, breathing clean air and eucalyptus fumes, and gazing in from the ocean side of the Golden Gate, I feel truly rich. Like nothing is missing, like nothing can impoverish me, like nothing mean ever existed.
I can be mean too. Not when under the influence of eucalyptus and fog though. Unless, of course, some dude tries to pass me.
August 2013 Run, San Francisco
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Running the Whining, Winding Trail
"Just keep swimming."-Dory
I generally keep busy. My choice, my pathology, my path. I cannot blame anyone else really. Usually it does not bother me, but being an introvert, I tend to need moments of solitude and quiet. Coding people, listening to the highly obnoxious beeping pager all day, and being chased around by people asking me to reword my documentation (which, as far as I know, never saved a life or made anyone feel any less sick) makes me feel like someone has their hands clamped around my thoracic aorta.
I chose this. I sometimes love it (not the documentation, pagers or codes--but the doctoring). But nothing makes me whine like one too many days in the hospital trenches. Which is kinda sad, given it is much worse to be in a hospital bed than running around the hospital with stethoscope and pager.
As I take a 2 day breather after a long haul of work days, it occurs to me why I am drawn to running, and why I am particularly drawn to long distances. It is probably the same reason people with more discipline than I sit and meditate for long periods. It is a turning off of the toxic. A turning off of the shouting voices of doom, the ones in the brain that are a special side affect of a life of luxury. When we do not have to worry about where our next meal comes from or how to find some clean water for the family, our brain is free to perseverate freely upon such things as:
*I will surely go to hell for eating that donut in the doctor's lounge.
*My teenagers might end up in my ER for making some stupid, impulsive choice, and maybe I should lock them in their rooms for the next 7 years.
*If I could just sleep in, life would be great.
*How many shifts will pay the bills without making me drop dead in the process?
*If my hair were longer would my elderly female patients stop calling me a handsome young man?
When carrying water is not filling our day, we get to think about what comes next. After pondering this important question for many moons, I have found myself settling upon an answer:
Ultras.
Originally, the ultra idea belonged to my friend Ellen. I mean, obviously people have been running ultra distances for eons, but E called me one day and suggested we do a 50 miler. So, I blame her for planting the seed in my susceptible brain.
I think ultras might be like working, and like childbirth, and like weeding, and like other hard stuff. If you think of the whole project ahead of you at once, you will be in the corner weeping and moaning. Best to take it in small pieces, in moments of time, and then practice mindfulness. You cannot really shut off the brain, but you can humor its doom-speak with a brief nod, then let it go. DO NOT ENGAGE THE VOICE OF DOOM.
Just keep on the path. Rest and eat a PB and J when you have to. Don't sweat the donut weakness. Wear your hair short. Hug the teenagers and "let us see what Squirt dose, flying solo."
Whine if you must. Then:
Run the winding trail.
I generally keep busy. My choice, my pathology, my path. I cannot blame anyone else really. Usually it does not bother me, but being an introvert, I tend to need moments of solitude and quiet. Coding people, listening to the highly obnoxious beeping pager all day, and being chased around by people asking me to reword my documentation (which, as far as I know, never saved a life or made anyone feel any less sick) makes me feel like someone has their hands clamped around my thoracic aorta.
I chose this. I sometimes love it (not the documentation, pagers or codes--but the doctoring). But nothing makes me whine like one too many days in the hospital trenches. Which is kinda sad, given it is much worse to be in a hospital bed than running around the hospital with stethoscope and pager.
As I take a 2 day breather after a long haul of work days, it occurs to me why I am drawn to running, and why I am particularly drawn to long distances. It is probably the same reason people with more discipline than I sit and meditate for long periods. It is a turning off of the toxic. A turning off of the shouting voices of doom, the ones in the brain that are a special side affect of a life of luxury. When we do not have to worry about where our next meal comes from or how to find some clean water for the family, our brain is free to perseverate freely upon such things as:
*I will surely go to hell for eating that donut in the doctor's lounge.
*My teenagers might end up in my ER for making some stupid, impulsive choice, and maybe I should lock them in their rooms for the next 7 years.
*If I could just sleep in, life would be great.
*How many shifts will pay the bills without making me drop dead in the process?
*If my hair were longer would my elderly female patients stop calling me a handsome young man?
When carrying water is not filling our day, we get to think about what comes next. After pondering this important question for many moons, I have found myself settling upon an answer:
Ultras.
Originally, the ultra idea belonged to my friend Ellen. I mean, obviously people have been running ultra distances for eons, but E called me one day and suggested we do a 50 miler. So, I blame her for planting the seed in my susceptible brain.
I think ultras might be like working, and like childbirth, and like weeding, and like other hard stuff. If you think of the whole project ahead of you at once, you will be in the corner weeping and moaning. Best to take it in small pieces, in moments of time, and then practice mindfulness. You cannot really shut off the brain, but you can humor its doom-speak with a brief nod, then let it go. DO NOT ENGAGE THE VOICE OF DOOM.
Just keep on the path. Rest and eat a PB and J when you have to. Don't sweat the donut weakness. Wear your hair short. Hug the teenagers and "let us see what Squirt dose, flying solo."
Whine if you must. Then:
Run the winding trail.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Sick Compositions
Today I played a composer named Jennifer. Not me, of course. I never composed anything I would admit to, and only what was required of me by my music theory professors, who understandably thought I was mentally deficient when it came to making up my own music. I so envy composers. And jazz musicians. I am so straight laced that I sometimes get mistaken for a girdle, which can be very uncomfortable for everyone involved.
Yesterday, it was Schumann. The coach, an intense but very kind piano professor, kept saying in her lovely eastern European accent, "Just relax, Jennifer!" Anyone who knows me at all is laughing their heads off. I'll wait a second while they compose themselves.
Jennifer Higdon was born in 1962. This makes her way older than me. So if we were, say, running a marathon, we'd be in totally different age groups. She certainly can compose music that requires pacing, rhythm, and endurance. I would like to think I could still beat her at a marathon, but if her musical qualities are any indication, I am not so sure.
After playing her, which sounds worse than I meant it to, I craved Beethoven. But the weirdest thing happened. I sat in front of Herr B, playing a trio I had once polished, back in the day, and I simply could not make my fingers and brain talk. It was like they were middle school girls who were total frenemies, and no matter what I said to cajole them, they just rolled their eyes at me and one went stomping off and the other was crying in the bathroom. So, I muddled through then came home and took a nap.
I am at music camp. Music camp for grown ups. It is, as they say (they being my children), sick. It strikes me though, speaking of children, that most of the participants are retirees. I am thinking this just indicates that they have the time for such things, and hoping it does not indicate that classical music is dying with the ozone layer. The camp, which I guess is really supposed to be called a workshop, is the longest running one in California. Some people have been attending for decades. How sick is that?!
What has this to do with running? Well, I did run yesterday, after Schumann. It felt nice. Today I desperately needed that nap, and though I pondered running, nap brain won.
After napping, I returned to the bench. I sight read more music. I love sight reading. It is like having an entire universe at your fingertips. I am not sure exactly how much music there is out there for a pianist to tackle, but I suppose it is more than I can ever even imagine in my lifetime.
More compositions than I can play in a lifetime.
Sick.
Yesterday, it was Schumann. The coach, an intense but very kind piano professor, kept saying in her lovely eastern European accent, "Just relax, Jennifer!" Anyone who knows me at all is laughing their heads off. I'll wait a second while they compose themselves.
Jennifer Higdon was born in 1962. This makes her way older than me. So if we were, say, running a marathon, we'd be in totally different age groups. She certainly can compose music that requires pacing, rhythm, and endurance. I would like to think I could still beat her at a marathon, but if her musical qualities are any indication, I am not so sure.
After playing her, which sounds worse than I meant it to, I craved Beethoven. But the weirdest thing happened. I sat in front of Herr B, playing a trio I had once polished, back in the day, and I simply could not make my fingers and brain talk. It was like they were middle school girls who were total frenemies, and no matter what I said to cajole them, they just rolled their eyes at me and one went stomping off and the other was crying in the bathroom. So, I muddled through then came home and took a nap.
I am at music camp. Music camp for grown ups. It is, as they say (they being my children), sick. It strikes me though, speaking of children, that most of the participants are retirees. I am thinking this just indicates that they have the time for such things, and hoping it does not indicate that classical music is dying with the ozone layer. The camp, which I guess is really supposed to be called a workshop, is the longest running one in California. Some people have been attending for decades. How sick is that?!
What has this to do with running? Well, I did run yesterday, after Schumann. It felt nice. Today I desperately needed that nap, and though I pondered running, nap brain won.
After napping, I returned to the bench. I sight read more music. I love sight reading. It is like having an entire universe at your fingertips. I am not sure exactly how much music there is out there for a pianist to tackle, but I suppose it is more than I can ever even imagine in my lifetime.
More compositions than I can play in a lifetime.
Sick.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Unfolding the Shadowy Time
When you see other people's children driving, the same children you remember toddling around the playground or climbing the tree at the farmer's market, it can be disconcerting. Is it that you are now that old(er) person you once associated with fat middles and embarrassing clothing combinations? Has time condensed and folded so that the part between then and now is in the shadow of years spent frantically getting things done, working, buying stuff for your home, attending school functions, and feeling inadequate next to all of the stay at home Moms and their high achieving youngsters? If you unfolded that shadowy time, would sunlight reveal it as worse than you imagine or not nearly as bad as what makes you stay up at night wishing you could redo it, only better?
When you see your own child driving, uncertainty and pride alternately make your head pop off and your heart burst. So, when not visiting the neurosurgeon or cardiologist to tend to these ailments, you sit back in the passenger seat and realize those people you wanted to punch out when they gazed longingly at your little muddy crazed toddler twerps saying "oh, savor this, it goes so fast"were not such the assholes you thought they were at the time.
Speaking of assholes, who really thinks it is OK to charge $30 for a single,
Sue me.
Once someone asked me, existentially, in regards to my running habit:
"What are you running away from?"
This made me laugh and fume. First of all, being able to run away from things is an underrated skill. I rarely walk down a creepy street with some creepy lurking guy without being able to say to myself, I could outrun that creepy guy. Also, in terms of threatening wildlife, being fit is useful. Once my cross country team leaped over a rattlesnake on a single track trail, with high pitched screams, but not a single bite. This was in the days before you had to sign a waiver for any activity even remotely involving potential bodily, emotional or self-esteem harm. I am fairly certain my parents never even knew about the snake leaping run. Nor the fact that 20 girls were unceremoniously hauled in the back of Coach's pickup truck to the woods for the run in the first place. Ah, the good old days. Outrunning a mountain lion or snarling dog is unlikely, but as a friend once said to me regarding such situations: you just have to be able to outrun the guy with you.
Second of all, just because I am plagued with uncertainty and anxiety regarding the lives of my children and my patients and my 15 year old border collie and my dusty piano keys and our unbelievably broken healthcare system and the 70 year old meth addicts in my community, why should I feel bad about coping by going for a run? As they say, it could be worse. I mean, I could be a triathlete.
When I ran today with my teenager, we saw seals. The ocean smelled nice. It rained a little. I was not sore. Three days after a marathon. Every other marathon I have done gifted me with at least a week of hobbling. Weird.
And the marathon itself was begun with such uncertainty that I went into it a little bemused and a lot discouraged by my lack of running for the few weeks prior. It started at 5:32 AM. The bomb squad was waiting by the start, looking bored. For which I was grateful. After the flashlight search of my Gu-filled fanny pack, I sat under the dawn, in the shadows, unfolding my sleepy body. The boys choir sang the anthem. The elites were off. Then my wave. I was, as I always seem to be in city marathons, surrounded by people speaking German. The sun came up. We ran over the Golden Gate and back again. And I just waited, certain that soon I would be seized by cramps or the complete inability to go on. We glided up and down the Richmond hills. Into the park. I got drunk on eucalyptus fumes, and I passed a guy dressed like Peter Pan who looked like he might cry. Still feeling good, but knowing that those last 6 miles are not merciful, I cautiously started pulling some negative splits. A cafe full of Haight-Ashburians screamed for us on the sidewalk. I passed 21 miles. I knew that this time I was not going to crash and burn. So then I smiled like a complete fool the rest of the way. People laughed at me for smiling.
It seems like German would be a tiring language to speak while running 26.2 miles.
I have absolutely no clue what happens next.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Countdown
How long do I have, doc?
Not an infrequent question. And one people of science strongly dislike to answer, because really, we cannot predict such things. We can give an educated guess, of course. And we do, as gently as we can. Hours to days. Days to weeks. Weeks to months. Months to Years.
Human beings do not like surprises. We like to have some idea what is coming. So things like earthquakes, tornadoes, cancer, and terrorist attacks can leave us untethered, floating in an expanse of internet news and Facebook posts which make us feel like we have something tangible to grab onto. I sometimes wonder if this world of readily available information and feedback makes us feel better or worse. No feedback makes it unbearable, I suppose. But shit just happens and somehow we go on. There isn't always a way to explain the why. Or the what happens next.
I am accustomed to disastrous things happening to people. It is the milieu in which I work. Tell someone they have a life threatening disease, eat lunch, respond to a code blue, figure out how to send the homeless, brittle diabetic out of the hospital safely, then take off the white coat and go home and hear about middle school and high school drama, toss the ball for the dogs, go for a run, eat dinner. Sleep. Repeat.
What I know for sure, is life is horrid and beautiful and unpredictable and that my garden always needs weeding. I also know that my marathon is coming up in 24 days. I have been trying to decide how many long ones to do before I taper. My last long run was not great. It turns out that weeding for 6 hours the day before a long run is not the best idea. At least not at my age. I wear my Garmin faithfully, and upload my workouts to Strava, without which it seems like I did not run at all. Strava is brilliant, but it is also a symptom of our general need to tether ourselves to something tangible. Like the tree falling without witness, if someone runs and doesn't record their route and miles, did they run at all?
I am not giving up Strava.
I do wish sometimes, in a vague and unreal sort of way, that I was independently wealthy. I could then just run and play piano and cook gourmet, healthy meals for my kids, not to mention keeping my garden well coiffed.
Truth be told, I would probably miss wearing my monkey suit and getting to meet all sorts of amazing folks, who have the singular misfortune of stepping foot (or rolling gurney, more likely) into one of America's fine hospitals.
Being a doctor really makes marathon training tricky. Trickier I should say, because the marathon thing is unpredictable no matter what. You can train perfectly and find yourself unable to run well on race day. You might not even finish. Or you might limp in to the end with your dreams of a personal best so out of touch with reality that you wonder if you've been possessed by some kind of alien who sucks the life soul out of human beings like yourself.
It is a funny thing to get upset about, not doing well in a marathon. I mean you are, after all, alive, able to run and likely to have scored some good booty in the expo bag you picked up prerace. It is not a tragedy.
24 days. That's a fact and it is indisputable. I may have a few bumps in the road along the way, but I suppose I will show up at the starting line just the same, shivering in the predawn air of San Francisco with a bunch of other loony tunes.
Till then, I will just keep following the path in front of me. Grateful. And be-Garmined, like a jeweled princess with a rapidly developing runner's tan.
The path in front of me, May 2013
Monday, May 6, 2013
Good Books and Frying Pans
A friend asked me if my legs were sore after yesterday's race.
Well, yes. And in addition to that, my entire body feels like it was beaten with a cast iron frying pan, said I.
Do you remember cast iron frying pans? This is something I remember because I am aging. Not yet aged, but definitely aging. My other proof of this is I am a few years into the "Masters" category at races. Once you get over the indignation of being a "master", it is pretty great. Because you get a special reward if you run well even if a bunch of under 40's kicked your ass. I mentioned to another friend that I had a good race as a master yesterday. She said, are we really masters? I am embracing it, I said.
Another award I recently received came when I tuned into the 3rd chapter of my 3rd book in 3 weeks on audible.com. My iPhone screen had a little message, actually literally in quotes, "you have just received the officially obsessed with audible award" or something along those lines. First, I was disconcerted by my phone making judgements about what I am and am not obsessed with, and second I felt that I probably earned that. Third, I do feel a might bit guilty as I have often preached the importance of the independent book seller. But fourth, I am also officially obsessed with paper books and am probably one of the reasons we have such a successful independent bookstore in my town. And every town I visit.
I listen to my books on my iPhone while driving (you put your phone in your cup holder and it augments the speaker sound. I learned this from Jesse. Thanks Jesse). I listen to books on my iPhone when walking my dogs. And I listen to books on my iPhone when running. A recent 20 mile run just flew by while listening to Water for Elephants. Prior to that it was Life of Pi.
What struck me about Life of Pi was how much I hated the ending. I really really did not like the fact that the author threw into question the veracity of the whole story. I choose to ignore that and just go with Pi's version. The other thing about that book is it very much reminds me of my home life. My husband and I are Pi. Our teenagers are Richard Parker. Our home is the life boat.
Which is another thing that proves I am aging. I used to watch movies and read books and totally identify with the misunderstood youngster. Now I see Rebel Without a Cause and I wonder what is wrong with James Dean's character? Just get a job and stop whining, kid! Sheesh.
I still have a crush on James Dean though. Because although I am aging, I am not yet so aged as to wish it was still appropriate to plaster my walls with posters of cute movie stars. To be fair, husband of mine, I would let you put up an equal number of posters in that alternate universe.
Yesterday's half marathon did leave me sore. It will take me a few days longer than it used to to recover from the frying pan effect. I have a few days off from work, so I think I shall lie around, swaddled in ice packs and heating pads, and listen to books on my iPhone. I will occasionally throw some meat to the Tiger on my life boat. Then, in a few days, pick myself up and get ready for the next event. Which, being twice 13.1, will likely leave me feeling beaten with two cast iron frying pans.
Well, yes. And in addition to that, my entire body feels like it was beaten with a cast iron frying pan, said I.
Do you remember cast iron frying pans? This is something I remember because I am aging. Not yet aged, but definitely aging. My other proof of this is I am a few years into the "Masters" category at races. Once you get over the indignation of being a "master", it is pretty great. Because you get a special reward if you run well even if a bunch of under 40's kicked your ass. I mentioned to another friend that I had a good race as a master yesterday. She said, are we really masters? I am embracing it, I said.
Another award I recently received came when I tuned into the 3rd chapter of my 3rd book in 3 weeks on audible.com. My iPhone screen had a little message, actually literally in quotes, "you have just received the officially obsessed with audible award" or something along those lines. First, I was disconcerted by my phone making judgements about what I am and am not obsessed with, and second I felt that I probably earned that. Third, I do feel a might bit guilty as I have often preached the importance of the independent book seller. But fourth, I am also officially obsessed with paper books and am probably one of the reasons we have such a successful independent bookstore in my town. And every town I visit.
I listen to my books on my iPhone while driving (you put your phone in your cup holder and it augments the speaker sound. I learned this from Jesse. Thanks Jesse). I listen to books on my iPhone when walking my dogs. And I listen to books on my iPhone when running. A recent 20 mile run just flew by while listening to Water for Elephants. Prior to that it was Life of Pi.
What struck me about Life of Pi was how much I hated the ending. I really really did not like the fact that the author threw into question the veracity of the whole story. I choose to ignore that and just go with Pi's version. The other thing about that book is it very much reminds me of my home life. My husband and I are Pi. Our teenagers are Richard Parker. Our home is the life boat.
Which is another thing that proves I am aging. I used to watch movies and read books and totally identify with the misunderstood youngster. Now I see Rebel Without a Cause and I wonder what is wrong with James Dean's character? Just get a job and stop whining, kid! Sheesh.
I still have a crush on James Dean though. Because although I am aging, I am not yet so aged as to wish it was still appropriate to plaster my walls with posters of cute movie stars. To be fair, husband of mine, I would let you put up an equal number of posters in that alternate universe.
Yesterday's half marathon did leave me sore. It will take me a few days longer than it used to to recover from the frying pan effect. I have a few days off from work, so I think I shall lie around, swaddled in ice packs and heating pads, and listen to books on my iPhone. I will occasionally throw some meat to the Tiger on my life boat. Then, in a few days, pick myself up and get ready for the next event. Which, being twice 13.1, will likely leave me feeling beaten with two cast iron frying pans.
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