PPP vs PR...

The couch can be a thoughtful place at 4:30am.  I’ve been nursing an old shin injury for a couple weeks now, and I’m losing perspective.  My internal alarm clock still chimes dark and early, but weeks 8, 9, and 10 have been on snooze.  Instead of running through the pain, I decided some impact-free time off would be the wisest move. This not moving has been reflective and tedious. 

The funny thing about running a 26.2 mile race is that there are plenty of moments where you lose perspective.  It’s hard to visualize the race when you happen to feel winded at mile 5.  And if at mile 13 you cross the half-way point 5 minutes earlier then your pace predicted, its morale building.  Then fresh from heaven…a burst of energy at mile 18 could hint that the last 8.2 will be a cake walk. But wait, you spoke too soon, you’re doomed…the treacherous, hard wall at mile 21 just slowed you down to a side-cramping limp and blocked visions of the finish line.  Pace can be an elusive thing for me.  There were mornings on the sofa when I felt the caged energy of a gazelle, and if I could have only been out on the road, I’m sure I would have held a 7 minute mile.  There were also mornings when a sore shin made running feel like an awkward and heavy 10 minute mile.  Maybe pace was never meant to be predictable?  Maybe it’s not really about pace at all, but rather perspective?  

When I said that a sabbatical from marathon training has made me uneasy, my friends have quickly countered.  My friends are relentlessly encouraging.  This couch time, pondering if I’m digressing on the cushions or doing my body good, has probably been just what I needed.  It’s been the equivalent of counter time, when you stare at a half-empty / half-full glass and decide which line to identify with.  If we really were talking wine here, I’d go the half-empty route and ask for a refill, but since we’re talking running and life in general, I’ll go with half-full.  A positive perspective has not always come quickly for me, but eventually I give in to it…in almost every area of my life.

Over beers and nachos the other night, my dear friend Kelly told me I need to start writing a book…now.  I gave her a beer brave nod, and then we changed subjects.  But before I could sleep away her tipsy suggestion, she sends me a sober, after midnight email with a plan for writing this book as well as suggested topics.  Kelly is not the kind of woman you say no to.  She’s the kind of energetic, accomplished woman who moves the world.  When something isn’t working for her, she moves on.  Like the lawyer she is, she investigates and confronts the threat of a challenge and remains positive till the end.  I wish I had more of this optimism and openness when it comes to running and writing.  Honestly though…talk about a long course, I can’t imagine writing a book.  I’m just now a little bit proud of myself for journaling, allowing random sentences and thoughts to pop up in my notebook like weeds in an unkept garden.  And I’m  just now a little bit proud of myself for resisting the neurotic urge to pluck the bad sentences out .  My perspective on writing is likely skewed by a lack of energy, time, and confidence, but it’s where I am right now.  Surely, if J.K. Rowling were sitting on my couch at 4:30am, awaiting requests for pancakes and Tom and Jerry, she wouldn’t be such a prolific writer.

There’s a common one-upper argument among parents that has nothing to do with correctness and everything to do with perspective.  I call it the “Who’s Had the Worst Day” argument.  Who’s Had the Worst Day scene begins when Husband comes home from work to find his spot in the driveway cluttered with tricycles, the children’s sticky fingerprints all over his big screen TV, and Wife standing in the kitchen with a glass of white wine and macaroni and cheese stains on tee shirt (his tee shirt…the same one she woke up in this morning).  Wife bets Husband her right arm that her day was worse than his.  Husband ups the ante and bets his right and left arm that his day was worse than her bad day at home.  Before the battle is won, both Husband and Wife are limbless, unable to hold onto the truth, much less each other.  It’s a comical scenario, but the truth behind the chaos is that Husband and Wife aren’t enemies, but co laborers in a tirelessly demanding world.  The truth could be obvious, but without changing vantage points, Husband and Wife relentlessly wager away the very things they need to be good partners and parents.

I’m not ready to forfeit optimism.  Maybe a good perspective at the moment is: perspective can be relative.  A 10 minute mile is fast when your shin is hurting;  writing a book is only monumental when you keep putting it off, waiting for the right moment;  finally, a hard day is any day you remain locked in your own little world (or chained to your couch, for that matter).  In fact, if pace, productivity and good days are elusive, I need a permanent positive perspective (PPP).  In the end a PPP is better than a PR.

Mental case

Monday – endurance run, 1 hour.  Tuesday –speed work, 40 minutes.  Wednesday – strength run, 1 hour hill repeats. Thursday - endurance run, 1 hour. Friday – off day.  Saturday – long run, 2 hours.  REPEAT AD NAUSEUM…..

There’s no reason for my hiatus from writing other than running doldrums.  So much of what I write, whether thoughts in my journal, papers for school, or this blog, is discovered on runs.  Ideas are not usually uncovered on leafy sidewalks, but rather mentally sieved until something meaningful remains.  By the time I return to my driveway, I have a nugget of a story.  The problem is that lately, I have been leaving my driveway with a severe case of the “blahs”…with little exuberance and curiosity.  This isn’t my normal self.  I’m the girl who’s over- the- top excited when I have a five dollar Publix coupon, when my boys lift the toilet seat,  when I have time to cut my fingernails, or when my neighbor rolls my empty garbage cans up to the door.  I’m happy with the little things, but lately, I’m in a funk.    

A few weeks back, I admitted to my friend Skye (actually, I huffed the admission on a 7:30 pace home stretch) that I don’t have what it takes to qualify for Boston, or what it takes to run a 3:30 marathon.  I complained that it seems to come easier for everyone else…speed, that is.  In her sweet, matter of fact way, she replied, “Of course you can…it’s all mental!”  And that was it…nothing more to dwell on, no discussion about my 400m splits or my breathing on long runs.  Skye is a beautiful runner.  In the words of Kristin Armstrong, she can fly out the gates like a whipped horse just because it’s Wednesday.  I wish I could borrow some of her raw athleticism.  Fortunate for me, Skye is also kind and wise, and wouldn’t hold a negative confession against me.   The truth is that the mental part of marathon training is also the most critical and rigorous part, and ….NONE of us are exempt.  My bland mental state has been encroaching on my training and my writing.  There’s really nothing more to dwell on though… it’s time to displace boredom and negativity with wickedly physical runs…it’s time to start writing.

On a warm afternoon this week, stirring lentil soup, spoon in right hand, book in left, I read the words:

“It’s the life in between, the days of walking lifeless, the years calloused and simply going though the hollow motions, the self protecting by self distracting, the body never waking, that’s lost all capacity to fully feel – this is the life in between that makes us the wild walking dead.”

I had to sit down to let the words settle.  It was too hot for soup, and I’ve been in a lukewarm state of mind for too long. The minute I became a mother, I started fighting the “in between”, the empty nothingness of folding laundry that would be in the dirty clothes basket the next day and of cleaning bathrooms that would lose their mountain breeze scent one pee pee accident later. I can’t think of anything worse than a Sisyphean task (remember Sisyphus, the mythological Greek king punished to roll a boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll back down again, and repeat this for eternity?).  I’d take Alcatraz over endless and unavailing work. 

Spring has drifted off and June’s heat has wilted my favorite blooms.  Even the early morning is overtaken by motionless, dense heat.  The lazy pace of the summer day is only broken by peals of my children’s laughter, by the vibrant green plate of cucumber slices, and the vase of foxglove blooms by the sink.  I love flowers by the sink…these one’s cream and scarlet flecked…are beauty every time I come to the tap for water.  Medicinal blooms for a “blah” heart and mind. 

It’s these little things that will push me past a stale state of mind, get me back to the spirited person I really am.  I decided to not filter the little things out, and for the rest of the day make a mental list of all the little things I already have, all the little things I’m thankful for.  After all, it’s thankfulness that changes the heart, soul, and expression of a person.  Here’s my list so far:

1.        Freshly baked sweet bread loaded with butter.

2.       Creek in my mother’s knees when she lowers herself onto the floor to play with my boys.

3.       Snakeskin wedges I haven’t worn since I’ve had children.

4.       Riding four-wheelers on dad’s farm with the boys tucked in against my chest. 

5.       Text message from Laura Leigh.

6.       Friend calling his wife princess as he joined her in the pool.

7.       Nose to nose in the dark.

8.       Faint aroma of newly cut wood.

This is it…I smile.  I surprise myself how I smile.  These are all common, small things in my “in between” moments.  But when I write them, they look like little gifts.  Little black and white scripted packages that hold a world of color, smells, sounds, and feelings.  And the act of writing them down is sort of like unwrapping gifts…lovely gifts that banish the monotony of an ordinary summer day.

Running dictionary

If you’ve ever been in the tricky predicament of explaining words of a love song to a 4 year old, then you understand the limits of language.  There are some things you just feel in your heart.  Translating lines, like “when your heart is breaking, I’ll be right here waiting” just comes out all clinical sounding.  In a 4 year old mind, something “breaking” is bound for the garbage and “waiting” is physically impossible. I’ve carefully avoided the line “you drive me crazy”…right now, that is just a slappable offense in my house. 

It’s a time like this when I become acutely aware of the inadequacy of the sum and arrangement of all the words I keep stored in my head.  Like with love, there are moments in life when our heart gives in to what our head mistrusted years earlier.  Somewhere between the carseat and the driver seat, we understand why lovers like the backseat.

When it comes to all things literary, I’ve always felt an authority (this is assumed and not awarded) on the validity and volatility of words.  When it comes to running, however, I’ve been like the 4 year old in the backseat, innocently humming the melody of a love song and mashing words together for my own, unique rendition.  I’ve been completely content running alongside experienced runners, following their lead, and moving my feet to their rhythm.   I’ve never known how to make up a track workout or define terms like tempo run, fartlek, 5k pace, 10k pace or race pace (there are probably enough running terms to launch a new kind of dictionary).  It dawned on me last week that in no other circumstance would I be content to “not know” the definition and application of words. 

It was a Monday morning and I was scheduled to run Yasso 800’s, and vaguely knew what the term meant…gibberish for 800 meters at the fastest pace I could hold with a minute recovery, named after, Bart Yasso, a beast of a marathon runner. Well, I was wrong and so was my workout…here’s how it went: 

Speaking of love, the morning was made for it.  The world was vibrant, the way it looks when you’ve found new love.  The moon was full and a warm yellow; the air was cool and kinetic; and although it was garbage day in the neighborhood, the breeze smelled of fresh laundry.  I started out running like I was in love too, with an excess of thoughtfulness.  Despite fumes of wine in my head from the night before and a poor night’s sleep (4 people in a queen-size bed… 2 little boys curled at my sides like kitties and a husband who thinks his side of the bed is the middle), I left especially early so Ed could leave by 6am and I ran my neighbor’s newspaper up to her door on my warm up. 

I started the 800 intervals on the 2 mile loop in my neighborhood.  I picked up the pace, but the usual dark bends in the road slowed me down.  My neighborhood run is always my “fun” run, my “just get a few miles in” run, my “day off, relaxation” run.  The street signs, the yard where my favorite tree is planted, the house where the crazy lady lives…all these markers reminded me of a different kind of run other than Yasso 800’s.  Although the body has an uncanny ability to meet physiological demands, mine would not meet the demands of a specific workout without the right technique and the right conditions.

I scrapped the plan and headed out the neighborhood gate for the Atlantic Boulevard Bridge. It was too far a trek for a Monday morning, but I’m accustomed to asking forgiveness over permission.  The Atlantic bridge is my favorite Jacksonville hill.  It’s where my sole sisters and I rallied after long runs, it’s where we watched dolphins play as the sun came up, and it’s where fast driving cars and a slow incline make you feel small yet mighty for trying.  And the descent is heavenly!  After an 800 meter climb, it’s a sloping, curving, 700 meter finale that recharges the heart for whatever comes next.  It’s like the dip in your lover’s arm, the place where his chest meets his shoulder, the place where you can nestle your weary head and hunker down after a hard day.  It happened to be the hill where I first “felt” the words “Yasso 800” in my heart and legs.  Glad to be approaching the climb, I closed in on my target, the summit of the bridge, and pushed my legs hard to the top, for a time of 3 min 28 seconds.  The 3 minute downhill recovery was just the remedy for 4 more of the same.  The concept of Yasso 800’s is simple – run your 800 meter intervals in your goal marathon time.  For me that means 800 meters in 3:30 with the same recovery time, ideally under the same marathon conditions, i.e. hilly marathon, hilly Yasso’s.  It seemed serendipitous that my favorite bridge had all the right components for a perfect Yasso 800, and unlikely that after hundreds of crossings, I understood and felt the term and the technique for the first time.  A bridge, a girl and Yasso…now that’s a love story!

One more thing about love…it’s contagious.  Like germs clinging to airplane seats, my feelings about running have travelled hundreds of miles and inspired my long-time friend in Alaska to train for her own 10K race.  Milla, you inspire me to keep running and writing…let’s never limit where running can take us…maybe we’ll race together one day.

Praying to the "Saint of Calcutta"

On Sunday, Ed left a little Mother’s Day gift on my night table…it was from the boys of course.  It was a Mother Teresa prayer book.  Like so many “husband gifts” I wasn’t sure how to take this one.  Was this a hint that I need some guidance (divine intervention) in the selfless, mothering department?  Monday morning, I half-heartedly opened the prayer book over my morning coffee, and read the title of the first chapter aloud, “Jesus is my Everything”.  I didn’t even make it to the actual prayer yet and our differences were clear!  Backtracking a little to the introduction, I saw our mantras diverged long before she published her prayers and long before I became an over achieving, overwhelmed woman.  If I had a prayer book (it would be a very short one), the introduction would probably say something like, “deeply entrenched in personal pursuits, she began many prayers with…God, I’m busy right now, but could you please…”.  Sandwiched between the plans others have for me and my own plans, my daily to-do list is a stark contrast to Mother Teresa’s:

M.T’s to do: 1. Feed the hungry 2. Take in the homeless 3. Love the lonely 4. Want the unwanted 5. Listen to the drunkard 6.  Smile at the beggar

J’s to do: 1.Run 2. Clean house 3. Go to Wholefoods 4. Finish chair project 5. Finish yard project 6. Finish writing project

Embarrassed by the silly, narrow-minded intentions for the day, I decided to leave any bitterness in my coffee cup, and change my plans without thinking too much.  Before I could summon excuses or personal agendas, I let go, and decided to adopt at least one thing from M.T’s list, or in the least just repeat the selfless words of her prayers.  Mimicry, after all, is the sincerest form of flattery (not that M.T. would be amused by flattery). 

While I’m in the religious mood, I have a confession to make. I’ve been reading more than writing.  I’ve been reading a lot.  I vaguely remember committing to “write” and not “read” while on this running/writing journey to Boston, but I’ve fallen in a bad way.  Feeling a little dry with words, I’ve started drinking in other’s beautiful language.  It started with The Paris Wife, which then led to pretty much everything written by Ernest Hemingway, Mile Markers by Kristin Armstrong ( an amazing book to which I plan on dedicating an entire blog), One Thousand Gifts by A. Voskamp, and finally every New Yorker that has arrived in the mail the last few weeks.   On my first sip, or first book rather, I felt a little defeated, like I was cheating.  But mostly it’s comforting to know that in my lack of inspiration and absence of experience, there are others I can borrow from.  Kind of like nabbing Mother Teresa’s to do list. 

At a reading with David Sedaris (my favorite), a couple of years ago, I heard his own confession of how he began his writing career.  He privately plagiarized his beloved, acclaimed authors.  He would rewrite passages from their books, memorizing sequences of their words so well, that he could recall their stories as if they had originated in his own mind.  Essentially, he mimicked until the demarcation separating his talent from their talent faded completely.

After borrowing from Mother Teresa and Ernest Hemmingway, you’d think I’d be more comfortable borrowing a 3:30 marathon training plan from the experts, but I can’t seem to commit.  A few weeks into making up my own running routines, it’s time to let go and just mimic the tried and true method of someone gone before me.  I’ve had ongoing negotiations in my head about whether 40 miles per week is too little or too much, whether a 12 or 18 week schedule is preferable,  and what constitutes the best speed work while avoiding injury.  Who’s gotten it right, Higdon, Fitzgerald, Galloway…?  Not committing to a training schedule has been the equivalent of whispering, “I’m training for a BQ (Boston Qualify)”.  The softness of the claim lightens my accountability. It’s time put aside my own negotiations, everyone else’s opinions and borrow the expertise of a training plan for the summer.  I’ll work on this commitment this week and post my decision.  Until then, I’ll spend a little time with Mother Teresa. 

The unexpected

I just realized this is a fitting entry for Mother’s Day…today’s writing wasn’t a forethought for the occasion.  I actually planned on dedicating this blog to my mom weeks ago because I thought she was my only reader!  This blog is for her because she’s my fan - she can out cheer the grandest cheering section in Boston and she’s always been my reader.  She’s been reading me for years, and there’s nothing more comforting than having that intimacy with someone who loves unconditionally.  Here’s to you mom…and the thought that maybe one day we’ll run a marathon together.

... 

Surprisingly, I love the unexpected.  Me, Mrs. Know-in -Advance, Mrs. Skip-Ahead-a-Few-Pages-to-Uncover-the-Ending, likes an impromptu visit, a rain shower on the perfect beach day, or learning that my macho-man, Ford F-250 with-a-lift driving neighbor bakes bread at home.  The unexpected, combined with improper timing, has the ability to sabotage the most well thought out plans and to bring on heavy doses of discomfort.  But there’s also something about the unexpected that makes my brain more alert, makes me feel more alive…and this appeals to me.  If I can give myself over to the sweet haphazard of the moment, the surprise downpour, the unanticipated confession of a friend,  then just maybe I can accept the humbling lesson that I don’t control the rain and I don’t always know everything.  There…I said it…I don’t understand the intricacies of heaven and earth!

There are a few unexpected things about me that one might not guess…I used to cry when my sandwhich would fall apart (I think I was 5), I could happily be a gardener for a living, I love using a chainsaw, I can still scare myself frozen in bed just thinking about a monster lurking in the closet, and the idea of a harem sounds fantastic to me (sharing maternal and wifely duties with other women, laying around in silk, eating dates….sign me up!). 

The most unexpected thing about running for me, besides the fact that this bookish non-athlete loves it heart, soul and body, is that I learned how to run from my mother.  Everything enduring, challenging, enjoyable, and pivotal about running I learned from my mother…who does not run.  Although she’s been inspired at several of my marathons to tie her own laces and start the age defying feat of high-impact motion, she has never run.  She is, however, the most adventurous member in a group of women who believe that running can make your uterus fall out.  I’m still working on convincing her otherwise; so here are a few things she already knows about running that might come in handy if she decides to take it up:

My mother is hope incarnate.  She believes in the power of hope.  Although she’s never physically run beside me at a difficult mile 18, she saw beyond the pain, beyond the overwhelming 8.2 miles left to go, and confirmed that “I had it in me”.  Hope is the part of running that always knows we have it in us.  We can carry on through “gut issues” (as my friend Susan calls it) or carry our partner’s burdens on long runs because there’s no question that we have it in us. 

My mother believes a great heart is the greatest possession.  While efficient running requires a heart great in oxygen uptake, the spiritual heart and its great ability to love is what matters to my mom.  I have a vivid recollection of a moment on my childhood bed, laying next to my mom, knees bent and feet carelessly waving.  She read me the poem “Greatheart” by J. Oxenham.  She read it to me slowly, annunciating “greatheart” as if it were a new pronunciation of my name.  I had not accomplished many great-hearted things up to that point, but that seemed rectifiable.  That afternoon was history making in the story of our lives…the two of us on my bed, reading and declaring to “wage a fight for good and right”. Now approaching mid 30's and settling into the dull drums of wrinkles, toddler meltdowns, mortgages, shorter showers, shorter prayers and shorter dinner short-cuts, I'm afraid I don't have time for anything “greathearted”.  Running brings me back to that moment, closer to the carefree and innocent acceptance that I am called to do great things.

My mother finds strength and joy in unexpected places.  There are days when I have nothing but wine (always have wine) and cilantro in my fridge, and even if my mom were famished she would exclaim that she wanted nothing more than wine to fortify her soul and a few green cilantro leaves (just because she was in a tex-mex kind of mood).  I don’t know if she truly finds what she needs in what she’s given or if she just adapts what she needs to what she’s given.  Lately, a few sleepless nights and inclimate conditions have not been what I needed for a satisfactory run, but maybe my running needed them.  Adapt to the unexpected, and you find strength and joy.  Look for running advice and running tips in the unexpected person.  Turn a spouse’s harsh words into fuel for a kick ass pace run, or toddler’s screams in a stroller into a blast your ipod and dance run, or a tender moment with a needy friend as a prompt to take a rest day and make meaningful moments outside of running.

See you dark and early...

    Mushrooms thrive in the dark. They don't need filtered light or special attention, and they flourish on decomposing matter. It's an unlikely phenomenon that takes place in the damp, black space where fungi become spongy, earthy, delectable treats (well, maybe not all mushrooms are good eats). At 4:30am last Tuesday, I opened my front door to a balmy, humid air, and groggily tiptoed through the damp grass, avoiding the white mushroom heads that dotted the lawn. Just 7 hours earlier, as I collected baseballs, tricycles, stray tennis shoes, and cheese stick wrappers littering the front yard, there was not a hint of fruiting fungus. I thought to myself...like my marathon training, the mushroom's real growth happens in the dark. Stretching my legs on the bumper of my husband's Suburban, skin on my thighs still pocked from the knit blanket that wrapped me in sleep, I hoped that like a mushroom, my running and writing will progress with out any limelight or fan support, and will find fertility in a decomposing mind (its uncanny how a few years with a couple toddlers will decompose quick-firing gray matter into can't-remember-my-name-slow matter).

    I learned to run in the dark. It was the safe hour before anyone was watching, where I could try out my awkward stride and hold my chest upright just like Runner's World said to do. I met my first running friend, Betsy, in the dark, and we used to joke that even after months of running together we wouldn't recognize each other at the grocery store. I've developed relationships in the dark, relationships that have nothing to do with appearances and relationships that free me and others from judgmental scrutiny. There's something about the dark sky that neutralizes the acidy discomfort of revealing secrets. I've fallen in love with running in the dark, not because I can get away with awkward improvisations of tempo runs or with looking like a reject from the thrift store, but because running has become a more palpable experience. Without a crystal clear view of the road, I become intensely tuned to the sound of my breathing and the rhythm of exhales to steps. The fragrance of jasmine becomes sweeter in the dark, so rich and haunting that ten years after reading One Thousand and One Arabian Nights, I've finally come to understand the intoxication of the perfume. The most exciting thing about running in the black of the early morning though, is that my imagination also runs...it runs colorful like watercolors in rain, where words and thoughts bleed into each other forming stories that pump life into my heart and soul.

    The old adage about being “kept in the dark” makes me wonder if I'm not putting myself out there enough. When my dad didn't want to be accountable for something in our house, he would joke that, “Mom runs the show; I'm like a mushroom...kept in the dark and fed manure!” From experience I've learned complacency breeds wildly (mushrooms) in a state of comfort, and there's no room for complacency or comfort in my running and writing if it means a hault in progress. It's been good for me to participate in later morning runs with talented, new friends... runs where the pace picks up with a burgeoning sun, and runs where I can see what fresh legs really look like in daylight. Afterall, the Boston marathon doesn't even start until midmorning.

Clean eating

This is a long post, but I'm affording myself the luxury of a wordy entry...because I can't give up everything in one season.

Clean eating...it sounds like something an addict does in rehab. Typing the very words has me shaking for a Cinotti's apple fritter. Clean eating has been a fitting focus during this time of Lent because it's about giving up. It's a diet that gives up foods void of nutritional value for foods dense in vitamins and minerals. My particular clean eating plan is tailored to my running goals and omits most sugars, alcohol, and processed carbs (all micro obstacles to running fast...yes, even the little things matter). I haven't decided whether to view this regimen as performance based or penance based, but either way there's a lesson learned about sacrifice. There's also nothing like a day with out sugar, fat, and wine to bring you closer to God! On my not-so-springy runs this week ( I think I'm still in the detox phase and not yet benefiting from all the good, clean energy that is sure to come) I've had two thoughts about sacrifice:

One. Sacrifice should be done quietly.

It occurred to me that everyone knows running, dieting, or any sacrifice for that matter, can be hard...so why complain out loud? We risk pulling someone down onto the slippery rock of negativity where its easy to lose footing and fall off course. I'm not knocking the occasional bitch session to a friend...we all need to let it out sometimes, that thick, sludgy build-up of self pity, but overall, I couldn't find one valuable thing about complaining in the midst of sacrifice. As I was running through some of my own muck this week, complaining became my third leg, another dragging appendage that just slowed things down. In my seven short years of running, I've had the good fortune of running with some very positive women – women who can tell a “slap-your-momma” funny story at mile 20 and render painful knees powerless (that one's for you LL!). One run in particular stands out in my mind. On a cold December morning, I was meeting “my girls,” as I affectionately call them, for a 22 mile run, the last of three long runs before our eminent race. Months of training had beaten up our feet, toes and shins and we hobbled out of the Publix parking lot like bloody fighters pushed into the ring for one last whooping. There was about three minutes of “ahhhh,” “ouch,” “sh*t, that hurts,” and then there was silence. Even before the stiffness and soreness dissipated, we hit the highway and it was down to business...the business of keeping pace up the bridge, the business of making it through the miles, the business of having some fun. There was no option of turning back, so all of us just kept quiet (about the complaining that is) and left the expletives behind us, way behind before there was momentum. Momentum is a beautiful thing in running, and it's silent pull is ever so sensitive to whining.

Two. The self-denial of sacrifice is good and is all around us.

There's nothing harder than loving someone when you have the right to be mad at them, keeping quiet when you want to share your opinion, eating a brown rice cake when you really want a neon orange Dorito (I don't even normally like junk like this, but I think the fake cheese would quiet the processed-food-deprived voice in my head), or writing when you have nothing to say (this week, I remembered a college professor telling my to stare at a white page until drops of blood appeared). Denying ourselves builds muscle though...enlarging the heart muscle for a greater capacity to love, stretching the mind muscles to learn someone else's story instead of telling our own, and strengthening the leg muscles for enduring the pace. Practicing clean eating has precipitated a new appreciation of self-denial. Even more than physical and mental well being, clean eating has given me an awareness of something other than my desires and cravings. To be successful in clean eating, you have to learn to turn off the “self”, and that is exactly the moment when you become open to “otherness”. I don't think it coincidence, but in the last few weeks of turning myself off, I've noticed the sacrifices of others, so many times on my behalf. Self-denial is closer to home than the remote Buddhist monastery, and it didn't die out after St. Augustine. In the way you notice everyone driving your new car once you purchase the “limited edition”, I'm seeing self-denial all around me. My mom babysitting the boys when she probably needed a quiet moment to herself, my sister taking her kids to get new shoes when she could have used a night off, my friends waking up in the 4 o'clock hour to run so as not to disturb the household's morning routine...this is the stuff good people are made of. In fact, this is why I love my family, my friends and the girls I run with...because they know just as much about self denial, thoughtfulness, and doing something for the greater good as the monk who spends days on his knees. Not all of them know it, but this week I've been drawing from their steam. I can't honestly say I'm good at self-denial (my closet is full of Prada and Louboutin to prove it) and I'm too self-aware as a runner, but I'm gaining momentum from not giving into the donuts, from not whining out loud, and from mimicking the beautiful sacrifice I see in others.