Epic Silence

In the world of runners there are those who like to talk. Mileage braggarts, distance loggers, PRs set and reset, hardware won, toenails lost. In the world of bloggers there are those who are always talking…about anything and everything. Between the two groups you would think I, being in both worlds, would never shut up.
Not so.
This is for Bea, because she asked (and because she won’t run the Jingle Jam with me if I don’t).
After the unusual knee pain and the three weeks off from the run everything went downhill. I was burnt out from the training. Burnt out from the stress/anticipation of seeing family in such a heartbreak place. Burnt out from trying to recapture the rest of my life. The run wasn’t fun because I was too preoccupied with 26.2 miles to come. By the time the marathon was (finally, finally) a reality and I was listening to Kid Rock and readjusting my bib and retying my shoes I was more than done with it. That’s a bad place for me to be. Even watching Meb run fly past me wasn’t inspiring. Then the worst. The wind kicked up and I turned cold. Literally and metaphorically.
Standing in the corral, waiting for the countdown was a study in ignorance in that I tried to ignore the girls in tutus and eyeliner and blinking things take selfie after selfie after selfie. Blink. Blink. I tried to ignore the distorted techno music blaring over the loud speakers. I tried to ignore the ginormous Chewbacca belching  and hiccuping his way through a Coors. Yes, he even crushed it on his forehead. Most of all I tried to ignore the reports of gusts of driving rain further up the course. Then this: reports of mara mile markers being blown away – to the point of concern. Over the loudspeaker someone announced a suggestion: if you are running the full and you are new to Las Vegas you should switch to the half in order to avoid getting lost. Errr…umm…what? Lost? A guy next to me shrugged and said they announced the same thing right before Kid Rock got on the stage. Huh. Guess I wasn’t paying attention.
From the very beginning I knew this was not my run. Way too congested. Never mind the women chat chat chatting away while walking five across at the first mile. Wind in my face the entire way. Rain for the first six miles. Of course it was raining. It always rains during events that mean something to me. I couldn’t stop blowing my nose the entire way. My nose was running way more than my legs. Then came The Pain at mile 20. I was reduced to a walk/ run routine by mile 23.

This will sound like a giant whine, but I’ll say it again. This wasn’t my run. True, I accomplished what I set out to do. I remembered Duane with every step (especially his voice calling me a dumb azz for doing this in the first place). In the end my hips betrayed me but it’s my heart who let me down first.

For days after I saw people wearing their tech shirts, their finisher medals and even their timing chips still attached to their shoes. All announcing their accomplishment. To look at me, you would never know I was one of them. Dressed all in black, my silence was epic.

Do I Make You Nervous?

Does this make you nervous? I am a lone runner. I don’t have a pack or a posse or even a partner. I prefer the solitude & enjoy the silence. It’s just me, myself & moi. That’s not to say I’m not connected. I carry a phone & my kisa always knows where I run de-stress (meltdown, freak out, spontaneously burst into flames). And then there are my angels, always watching.

And, does this nerve you up? I train by my brain alone. I don’t follow Mr. KnowItAll’s 16 week plan. I haven’t consulted Ms. Nineteen Marathons & Counting’s foolproof schedule. My “plan” came from moi and it is pretty simple – one mid-range run, one long run & one recovery run. No more, no less. It’s what I did for the half mara in Toronto and it’s what I’m doing for Bright Light Vegas. Snapshot: right now I am eleven weeks into my training. Right now I’m 52 days out from the mara. Right now, middie runs are eight miles, long runs are 16+, and recovery runs are around four. As time goes on, the numbers will increase: nine, eighteen, five. Then ten, twenty-ish, six. Every other day of the week is taken up with yoga (six days a week with intensity on non-run rage days), PT (six days a week, again with intensity on “off” days) and strength training (four days a week – again, non-run days). That. Is. It. That’s my plan. Nutshell format.

But. But! But, here’s what makes me nervous. This run was supposed to be for me, myself and moi to mourn the loss of my favorite cousin. He died on the streets of Vegas and it’s there I want to leave my buckets of sweat and oceans of tears. I don’t care for Vegas but so be it. I was expecting to purge my rage, my sorrow, my never-ending guilt and grief on those said-same streets. I allowed only one person to be on my right wing for the 26.2. Someone who would understand the code of silence and just let me be. I was thinking without added distraction I could run the race the way my heart and hurt wanted. I could think about how pain creates strength and how homeless doesn’t always mean helpless. I would work my way out of the maze of Why. It was the perfect plan until I heard four little words. I.Will.Be.There. What? What do you mean? You’ll be where exactly? Before I knew it “I’m coming with you to Vegas” became “WE will be there” with an added “Oh, did I mention? I’m coming and I’ve invited so and so, too” Too many until I lost count. Now it’s a fukcing family reunion. How did this happen? This isn’t a party. This isn’t a vacation or even an Elvis induced Cadillac joy ride. This is my mecca. This is something I have to do. I’m flying in for the run and leaving just as fast as my recovery will let me wheels up. Now there are expectations. I am visible and therefore vulnerable. I am so scared. I don’t want people to see my purge – the puke of pent up pain. I don’t need any other witnesses to the massive meltdown I just know I’m gonna have at the finish line. I don’t want to have to explain myself.

I’m scared of the circus Vegas has become.

Don’t Let Me Go

I was supposed to run for 35 minutes last night. Couldn’t do it. There is a small part of moi that felt panicky about this decision. When I stop, I really stop. Here’s how it went down. We got home, starved and restless. Steamed edamame with lime juice and salt. A book of short stories for that even shorter attention span. And there we stayed. Me, myself and moi – on the couch. Didn’t question it. Didn’t do anything about it either. Me tells myself that it’s the knees. They have been a little tattletale since Sunday. Moi is convinced I’m tired in other ways. We all turn our head, indifferent to the whisperings of You Should Run. I know it would make me feel better and yet, on the couch I stayed. At least for last night.

Tonight I am taking that menu from the night before and turning it out. Tonight we run. It’s a full plate: arms and back, followed by the run (dare I do outside and up that hill?), and finishing with yoga and PT. Kisa is in charge of the grill tonight. My cooks apron will stay on its hook, waiting for another day.

I tell myself I wasn’t in the mindset last night. I have to consider tonight the official start to training for Las Vegas. And so it begins. I know I made the promise of when I hit 18 I will register. I say fukc that. As soon as the flight is cheap enough I will sign us up. To hell with I think I can. I want to know I can. If I fail it’s only because someone didn’t try hard enough. I say to myself and moi – don’t let me go. And more importantly, don’t let me go it alone.