It's On Me

At first glance, this is one of too many started and left to rot blogs littering cyberspace.  Each time I thought about a new post, I reasoned that there was something higher priority on the To Do list.  Often, there was, but excuses are all the same. My new plan is to make the goal more manageable. This will be a space for observation about running, and maybe some other musings, in Oklahoma. When I'm inspired to write something more, I will. Most of the time, I won't and I will try to limit the guilt from that, which has kept me away for so long.

I've been back on the ground in Stilly now for a couple of weeks. After spending too much money and getting no results at physical therapy this summer in Michigan for my Sciatica (best guess) I'm, for the moment, running through the pain. That worked well in Michigan, but I'm battling now.  Maybe passing other runners in neighborhoods and especially on the weekend on the bike paths helped me deal with the pain, but I'm struggling now as I shuffle through the empty streets just after sunrise. I'm cheered on or maybe it's jeered at as I pass dogs in their yards, warning me to keep moving or pleading with me to pause and visit with them.

I have moved to the other side of town, across both Main and Perkins. My new basic route, which can be as short as three miles, as long as six, or neither and be a warmup and cool-down with hill repeats in between begins on the streets and loops through two parks in an effort to include some softer terrain. Call me crazy, but Oklahoma streets feel harder on the joints than those up north. Does the heat melt the asphalt and then fuse it back together more solidly? Do the mild winters keep it from breaking down? I have no science to back this up, but my legs tell me it's true. Or maybe it's the unfriendly cant of the roads and the uneven shoulders I'm forced onto where there are no sidewalks and vehicles refuse to give me any berth or yield.

The empty morning parks do offer me solitude, which, as a running group failure many times over, is what I seek afterall and the rare, lush visage of Oklahoma this late summer does fuel me. The grass is always greener and in this case, I can't wait for it to yellow. The abundant rains have swamped the grounds of my route and while I'm not squeamish when it comes to wet feet, the run in sponge-soaked sneaks, sloshing with each footfall is not desirable. The tall grasses hide their swampy roots and my wandering mind fails my steps.

Most days, I run through the parks without encountering anyone else, but a few times a week I see an old man and his two cranky old dogs, one Chihuahua and an arthritic yellow lab mix. The lab shuffles along off-leash and emits a low growl, but never looks up from the ground while the Chihuahua scurries around, hyperactive and always pressing the bounds of its taught leash, yipping and baring its teeth at me. The man never says good morning. Sometimes I look towards him and think I will if I catch his eye, but he's always wrangling the Chihuahua and anyway, I've gotten out of the habit of pleasantries since moving to Stillwater. Small town American friendliness is nowhere to be found on my runs here.

So this morning, I doubt I looked up. I slogged off the dirt and gravel path into the wet grass to avoid the sharp little teeth of the Chihuahua and just before we passed each other, the man spoke up.

"Watch your step around the corner, honey, it's puddles everywhere."

I was so surprised to hear from him that I had to call my thanks back over my shoulder after I found my voice. I did my best to splash lightly around and through the standing water on the next section of path, but there wasn't much relief and as I headed across the next wooden footbridge, my sneaks sucked and spewed the excess water. My footfalls were audibly soggy through the next park, back through the first and along the roads back to my house, but the feeling and the sound didn't bother me quite so much and my legs felt fresh and stronger than they had since I'd arrived back here to the plains. And while my mind was afforded a break from pity over my body, it occurred to me that my practice is a foreign one to most people here. I'm either strange or intimidating or just unknown. What the old man did to reach out to me, was quite something, but from here on out I'm taking responsibility. I'm the alien, the foreigner and it's up to me to change that. Next time I'll extend my hand, or to avoid a sweaty exchange in this case, a morning pleasantry. 

The Right Decision In NYC

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I ran the New York City Marathon in 2006. The race is a big deal. It’s 26.2 miles in the greatest city in the world through five boroughs, with unmatched crowd support the whole way. Plus, it’s my hometown. My parents, who support my running habit, but usually just smile and nod and whose eyes glaze over when I talk about my workouts, but buy my race photos, came out to cheer for me and attend their first marathon. They subway hopped all over the city to see me at multiple points.  The run was far from my best marathon; I froze waiting in Staten Island at the start and went out too fast in an effort to warm up. Around mile 20, my gut revolted and slowed me down further.  But by that point I was on Fifth Avenue and headed toward Central Park.  I enjoyed the day, despite a running performance that was not my best.  I’m aiming to run a marathon in every state before I can’t run anymore, so I’m generally not looking to repeat marathons, but NYC is one I want to do again. 

I wasn’t registered this year so I was able to watch the drama unfold without a personal connection to the 2012 event.  This was an easy one folks and in the end Wittenberg and Bloomberg figured it out.  The economic argument doesn’t work.  Sure, the marathon brings millions, billions? of dollars to the city.  Had the marathon been scheduled for next Sunday, maybe, the following, I’d say yes, bring it on. But tomorrow, would have been too soon.  Even in setup over the past few days, valuable law enforcement, emergency crew and utility worker time was drawn away from places in the tri state area where many are still without power or clean drinking water or enough food or gasoline.  When bodies are being pulled out of the water on a Friday, racing that Sunday is not appropriate.

The decision came late. I watched interviews with participants who had booked and re booked and rerouted to make it to New York from all over the world. All were frustrated not to be able to run.  I get that. They’re marathoners and this is one of the great ones. Most, though, understood and supported the decision. They smiled and laughed and vowed to make the most of their weekends in New York.

A few were quite displeased though, about the late decision and they’re right, it should have been cancelled Wednesday, but it wasn’t.  That's too bad, but not nearly as bad as losing your home or dying. They won't get to run a great marathon that they spent a ton of money to get to from somewhere far away.  It’s not ideal.  I’d be annoyed too, until I and reminded myself what I often do when I’m hurt or too busy to run or somewhere where running is not that easy, even impossible.  I remind myself that running, for pleasure and for fitness is a privilege, not a right. It’s a privilege to have the time and the health to lace up my sneaks and move. I don’t have to work three jobs to support a family and I’ve been fortunate to avoid major illness or injury (IT band, we’ll talk later). And yes, I’ve set my life up this way. I’ve tried to make good decisions. I eat well to maintain my health so I can run. But I might have done those same things and been in New York and still not finished the week with the little that I need to run. 

No one will be running the great New York City Marathon course tomorrow with a number on their singlet, smiling and suffering past spirited New Yorkers lining the course, but I bet most of those who signed up could lace up their sneaks and head out their front doors and run 26.2 miles if they so chose. What an unbelievable privilege in itself. 

If you’re in the city this weekend for the marathon or even if you weren’t planning to run tomorrow, but you’re a runner, consider lacing up your sneaks anyway and heading over to Staten Island, where the race normally starts. Runners are meeting at the Ferry at 8:30am with backpacks full of food and supplies.  They’ll fan out from there, running together to distribute much needed relief to those who are still trying to pick up the pieces of their lives after Sandy.