Wanna Race?

I was almost done working and came across a very sweet patient of mine who was going home soon, and doing laps with his walker in the hallway as I had asked him to do. I came alongside him and said, "Wanna race?" He proceeds to bolt down the hallway and let me tell you I almost had a heart attack. But I also had the first good laugh for a long while.

I like to write about running. Running in the redwoods, on the beach, through the marsh and even on the track, as I am a fool for a good interval workout. But if you are not running, you cannot really write about running. The brief, panic-stricken jog down the hallway of the hospital with my walker-driving opponent is as about as close to a real run I have had for awhile.

It is not that I cannot run. I am not (knock on wood) injured. I am packing extra pounds for sure, from lack of activity, lack of sleep, and too much snack-scrounging from the despicably unhealthy doctor lounge. It is just that a 150 hour work week sort of takes the wind out of my sails. Plus, my community has become so laden with crime (methamphetamines, heroin, methamphetamines, pot, methamphetamines, poverty) that running in the dark seems a lot scarier than it used to. In my town, a gentle priest is not even safe from the violence. And when I now realize it is necessary to ask even the septuagenarians about their meth use, because apparently there is no age limit to this shit, my illusion of a sort of peacefulness in rural living is shot quite dead.

I will run this weekend. 13.1 miles with my eldest kid. Her first half and my first half where I am not trying to break any records and just hope to God I can finish the thing. The course is described as "one of the fastest in the San Diego area and the US", which makes me picture one of those moving walkways like in airports, but instead a moving half marathon course and man does it move fast.
I mean, doesn't the runner do the fast part? What exactly does the COURSE have to do with being fast? Yeah, sure, it is flat or lacks wind or whatever. But really, fast runners run fast wherever. This weekend, I will not be among them. I shall be very happy and content though for two reasons:
1) not at work
2) with my daughter

Running is not just about not being the blob I have become in recent weeks, thanks to work.
Running is not just about winning races or being a fasty.

Running, like Beethoven and sleep, is about survival. And I have not had any Beethoven, decent sleep or running since

since

I cannot actually really remember when.

Also, Buster died. Just a dog. But the grief is heavy.

It makes me wonder: what am I doing, exactly?

And what really matters?

Thanks

This time of year, the coast beats the inland mountains for warmth. In summer, it is 60-70 degrees here, while inland, by the rivers and mountains, it will be 90-100. This time of year, it is 55-65 degrees here, while inland, by the rivers and mountains, it will be less than 60 degrees.

The rivers and mountains, they are changeable and extreme. Here, we are steady in temperature, though unpredictable in fog and sun. If you don't like the weather here, it is said, wait ten minutes.

The last several days have been generous in sun and warmth, allowing runs in shorts and a t-shirt, necessitating sunglasses, and almost (but not quite) too warm for comfort. Yesterday I ran along the coast north of here, and swooned with the scent of eucalyptus, freshly trimmed along the road side, and tried to avoid falling off a cliff while under the hypnotic spell of Mother Nature and her spectacular ocean views.

It makes me thankful. Because life is hard.

I have many things for which to be thankful. Like, last week's mammogram was normal, and given my family history, that rocks. No pun intended. Also, I learned to purl, so now I can both knit and purl, and as a meditative practice, this activity is unparalleled. Buster is still alive. And seems content. I am off for a long stretch from work, and next week I head to Orlando to see my beloved Godmother. ORLANDO, people! Godmother and I shall see Harry Potter World, where I will buy her a butter beer and shop in Hogsmeade village.

I will run in Orlando too, which leads me to my gratitude for my ability to run, and the chance to explore cities on foot for miles and miles.

My children? They are the core of my contentment, my biggest worry, the loves of my life (along with their father). Thankful for watching my eldest daughter head to state in cross country next week. Thankful for my son's bright mind and tender heart. Thankful for my baby girl's strength and determination. Teenagers, all of them. Who came up with the idea of adolescence? They have some 'splainin' to do.

I am thankful for my Dad's siblings. No really, they are amazing. They have just been on my mind, and thus I mention them.

Family. Extended family. Biological and adopted families. Friends. Neighbors. All crucial.

The buck that greeted me at the base of my driveway on the way to work the other day: his antlers looked fake. Probably they were real though. I like that he was there, fakey antlers and all.

Thursday is Thanksgiving. A weird holiday but one of my favorites, not least because on Thanksgiving it becomes socially acceptable to play Christmas music. Also, I get to make my Mom's stuffing recipe which is nutritionally scandalous but gastronomically fabulous. I will run the Turkey Trot, though I loathe 5K's with a fiery passion. I will bake pie, and bury myself in the sweetness of it to make up for the pain and humiliation of running 3.1 miles.

So much sweetness to make up for the pain of life. For this I am thankful.

Neurotic Poodles

Buster

Before I discuss poodles, I must pay tribute to Buster.

Buster is almost 16 years old. He is a Border Collie, though a large one, so maybe there is something else in there too. Once I met a Scottish woman at the beach and she said she has seen working dogs his size in her homeland. It doesn't matter. He has the stance. The smarts. The obsession.

His obsession is/was rolling boulders (backwards, with his front paws, for as long and as far as he could, with a happy yelping bark of delight the entire time) and running. Also very large sticks, sometimes actually they were small trees that had fallen, and as he seemed to believe I have the strength of Atlas, he would drag said tree to me, expecting me to throw it for him to fetch. And he could outrun every dog on the beach to get balls, much to the chagrin of their owners who thought, like parents do these days (at least in Northern California), that all dogs should have an equal chance to shine.

Buster could tell when I was upstairs putting on my running clothes. Somehow he discerned putting on of running clothes from all other outfits. Did he smell the woods and beach on my shoes as I lifted them from the closet? Could he sense my own excitement at preparing for the run?

Buster is now in hospice. This is how I think of it, because he cannot hear. He can barely see. He can hobble to the door and maybe make it outside to do his business. A walk around the house leaves him exhausted. And he gets a special diet that leaves the other dogs quite jealous: rice, ground beef, chicken broth...really, whatever tickles his doggy fancy.

Buster is the only truly cool dog in our house.

Which brings me to the poodles.

 Zoe

Miles

Now technically, one is a standard poodle and the other a Goldendoodle. Disclaimer: I take full responsibility for the choice to bring a designer dog into my home ('doodle). Designer dogs are especially designed to be neurotic. In terms of the standard poodle, I can blame those I love that own/owned poodles. They know whom they are.

Today, I ran a workout I have named "easy run with neurotic poodles".

Miles was first. He is terrified of surprises. In his world, that encompasses the following:
-butterflies
-a puddle
-a sneeze
-an unexpected breeze
-the wind blowing a leaf in our path
-a neighbor walking by
-and don't even get me started on the unexpected charge of the chihuahuas

Zoe came next. Normally, the only thing that motivates her to go outside and exercise is the off chance of getting to eat some horse shit. To her credit, she is not easily surprised. But she loves horse shit so much that she will do what one friend has dubbed "the breastroke" to get to it. I have learned that having a supply of hotdogs or cheese in my pocket will decrease her desire for the golden horse deposits. She is the spazziest being I have ever met.

Both of them look at me like I am insane for running. Yes, they will do it, but Miles soon starts lagging behind and acting like he might mess up his curls if we go any faster, clearly a very distresing prospect for someone with his fine looks. Zoe will run if there is some good horse shit ahead, but otherwise she really does not see the point.

Ah, Buster. If only. Despite his age, his senility, his weakened limbs and impinged spinal cord, he still perks his ears when I get ready to run. He looks at me with those eyes, as if to say "There is something I remember about you and me and it is good."

Then he leans up against me. And my heart melts.

In my defense:

Those poodles are dang cute.

Also, they make me laugh every day. Not in a Hallmark sort of way. A true belly laugh. They are hilarious, raunchy and weird. I love them.

Just wish we could have a run once in awhile with Buster-style athleticism, grace and bliss. 

And without the neuroses.

Like Sows Pissing

When she was about 8 or 9 years old, my eldest daughter approached me with a simple question. "Mom, next time you go running can I go with you?" So we did. And 8 years later, she has not stopped. Well, she stops to go to school, eat and do homework, watch "Glee" and sleep. But she is a Runner, with a capital R. My other two children shun running. It is "not my thing, Mom." Not to mention the fact that it is "booorrrriinngg" and also involves way too much, well, running.

My husband recently dubbed me "the bible-banger of the book of running", a true proselyte of the sport. Though in defense of myself, I run by example and only rarely recommend it to others. Certainly, I have had no success with 2/3 of my teenaged ducklings, and if we were like that duckling family in that children's book about finding a safe place to live in Boston, I would probably be arrested for duckling neglect when I was off running the Boston marathon.

Since my last marathon, I have been profoundly fatigued. I feel like a morbidly obese T. Rex when I run. Which is to say heavy, with pounding thighs, a thick middle, little wimpy arms and a strange and powerful craving for meat. I likely need to get my hemoglobin checked. Ah, doctors.

But I cannot resist the run. I am not the fastest nor the best dressed nor the one with the most mileage. I often head out without a clear plan beyond "a good, long run, maybe with some fast stuff thrown in". I run at all hours of the day and I sometimes skip running when I put in 16 hours at the hospital and have succumbed to the evil (and, may I add, stale) doctor's lounge donuts. But I cannot resist the run. It is not optional,  like water, food, sleep, sex, music and the absolute desire for the safety and health of my children.

I have a favorite Mozart quote, which goes something like this: "I compose music like sows pissing."

Now, listening to Mozart one hardly imagines a urinating pig. But his point, I believe, was that he does it with the ease of a bodily function (not one to be taken for granted--ask any patient on dialysis!) and with the necessity of a bodily function. The ease? Well, he was a genius after all. Certainly his Dad gets a lot of criticism for his overbearing and likely exploitative parenting style. But truly, even without Herr Johann Georg Leopold Mozart lording it over him, I think Wolfgang would've been a sparkly, perfect prophet of classical music.

I wish I was Mozart, except for the living in the 1700's, being a man and dying in my 30's thing. I can relate to his need to do music. And this need for me extends to running. If only someone wanted to pay me well to be a proselytizing musician/runner with the build of a Tyrannosaurus Rex!

I am reading a book right now that was a bestseller 35 years ago or so. Running and Being by Dr. George Sheehan. He says a lot of things about the deeper meaning of running. Some of which touches me, some perhaps a little too over the top for me (being a midwestern, common sense girl at heart). But he does talk about loneliness and how running serves to heal, and takes one off the treadmill of life (no pun intended, but ha ha ha!). Life really is something we try to fill with success and the gathering of stuff and accomplishments, only to realize in the end or somewhere along the way that what is important is not found in our perfection, but rather in our failures and how we still wake up in the morning after those failures, and take our coffee and toast and ablutions and go out to meet the world once again.

And, of course, go for a run.

Slow and Steady

"Oh, I am just running the marathon." This was said by me several times during the trail marathon race I did yesterday. Each time, I smacked my forehead and thought to myself  "who says that?" But seriously, when surrounded by a bunch of people running 50 or 100 miles while you are merely doing 26, you cannot help but feel a little chagrined. I was able to counter that in my brain with a vaguely Russian accented voice (thanks, Monica), telling me "a marathon is good enough."

I was struck (besides by my hand to my forehead) during this race by the politeness of the ultra crowd. Pretty much everyone that passes you or whom you pass says something encouraging. On single track trail, instead of being elbowed off the cliff as would happen if it was, say, a 1500m race populated by track stars, people pull off to the side and smile kindly. When you pull up along side someone on a wider trail, it is just natural to stay and talk for awhile. Of course, there aren't cheering crowds on the sidelines, so supporting each other makes sense. But there were occasional people along the way who tucked themselves on the side of the trail and would shout out something funny or inspiring when you least expected it. And the volunteers--well, bless their hearts.

I saw some animals (and not just the leaders in the 100 mile--whoa, man, sheesh), but non humans too. My favorite was this guy. He was hopping on the trail ahead of me, and kept pulling off to the side then hopping some more, as if he was my pacer. It did not take long for him to get bored of my pace though. I suppose I was the tortoise in the story.

I had heard about people walking in trail races. I made a vow to myself to do that if necessary. And yes, it was necessary. When every single other person walked, I took it as a sign to do the same, particularly on steep, single track, rock laden hills. I also, for the first time, truly understand why people buy trail shoes. I always thought that was just another money making ploy of the shoe industry, but when careening down those single track, sandy, slippery, rock-laden hills, a little extra grip on the soles would be nice (and potentially life and limb saving).

Mainly though, I was blissed out by the scenery.

Which took the sting out of the big climbs, at least a little.

Which also took my breath away, but not unpleasantly so.

Which made me feel like I was practically on top of the world.

I have never been in a race where I stopped to take photos before. I just could not help myself. And I was not the only one.

Ultimately, I am trying to picture adding another marathon or so onto the race I did. How would that feel? I am thinking: ouch. But it was inspiring to see people out doing it, eating their PB and J and just being in the zone. I saw several older people with decidedly gray hair, running 100 miles. They were wiry and strong and confident looking. And the women near the lead of the ultra? Well, let's just say that such distance is a great equalizer. This was no 1500 meter race, which men dominate with their testosterone. The guys leading the 100 miler were going to need to watch their back.

What I learned:
The uphills: slow and steady.
The downhills and flats: you feel like you can fly!
Doing a marathon in the midst of superhero ultrarunnners: let me just say, when I awoke this morning, I was in bed, and some of them were still running. I have no regrets. But they are pretty cool. I admit that.

Finally, the post race shower was not only necessary, but truly the best shower I have ever had in my life. It is the little things that make life worthwhile: breathtaking vistas on a foggy morning run, kind strangers running at your side, long eared jack rabbits looking at you over their rabbit shoulder, and a nice, warm shower. Not that I was that dirty. Ha.

Rebellion

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.

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.

-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