Oh, what will this year bring?

Historic run

Gretchen — Thu, 22 May 2008 01:45:33 +0000

When I ran the Marine 10K last October, I caught marathon fever. I knew I wanted to run the Marine Marathon in 2008 and I knew I could do it if I worked up to it. I decided that a good interim goal to the marathon would be to run a half-marathon mid year and, as luck would have it, the Marines were sponsoring their first half-marathon in May. I decided to run the trifecta of Marine races: 10K, half-marathon, then marathon.

I followed a training plan from Runners World and set about logging miles, building strength and endurance. My long runs got longer, my short runs got faster, as I slowly prepared for the half-marathon. When I started running in 2006, three miles felt like the definition of impossible. As I pushed the definition to six miles, three miles felt like just a warm-up. It was hard to imagine that running more than six would be possible, but as I added mile upon mile, the new standard was 8, then 10, and when 11 didn’t feel any different from 10, I knew I could do 13.1. I was ready for the Marine Corps Historic Half in Fredericksburg, Virginia.

When I’m training, I run alone. And, since I’m not very fast and I’m logging 25-30 miles a week, that’s a lot of time running alone. So it’s a thrill to line up with 5000 other runners, all who are excited to run a 13-mile loop. It was a chilly morning and we huddled together. An older man and young woman behind me struck up a conversation. His son was in training for deployment, she was in Air Force Reserves. I turned to tell them that my son had just returned home from Iraq a week ago on Mother’s Day. I could see the worry on the man’s face over his son and I could only hope that running would see him through the months ahead as it has for me during my son’s two deployments.

When the starting gun fired, the crowd around me didn’t move although we knew that the elite runners who lined up at the starting line had taken off. In every race there are a handful who want to win, but most of us are there to follow our own definitions of winning: to finish. A small cheer went up when we started to shuffle forward, then a sigh of disappointment as we slowed to walk, then excitement as we picked up speed and crossed the timing mat. We were on our way.

It’s fun to run in a surge like that. Most of the runners are faster than I am and I feel carried along in their wake. I run faster than I would when alone. I know not to start too fast, that I’ll tire myself and “bonk” at the end — – I read that in Runners World — I’ve never actually had the experience because I’m too naturally cautious. But I like dashing ahead with the crowd so I settle into a pace that’s a little faster than what I normally run.

By mile 3, we’ve settled into pockets of runners. We’ve found a pace we like, although some fall off on the rise of a hill, others zoom ahead on the downhill, so the make-up of the group changes as the terrain. I’m running behind two tall 60-something men. They’ve having a good time. They call out “Good morning!” to the spectators and thank them for coming out. Where the Marines guard the intersections, they holler “Ooh rah!” and the Marines answer the same back. In the residential section of the route, an old man in a bathrobe stands in the front door of his stately home, picks up the newspaper from the step and sips coffee from a teacup. He’s not the least bit embarrassed to watch us run past, his pasty legs a bit bowed, his feet flat in his worn slippers. “Got enough coffee for us?” the pair of old guy runners call out to him. The old man lifts his cup and smiles. The crowd around me laughs as we run on.

A drum circle plays along the route. A church choir sings. A harpist plays. Around mile 9, a guy with a guitar plays rock tunes.

“Hurts so good,” he sings. “Come on, baby, make it hurt so good.”

It’s a funny choice to play for runners slogging through the streets of Fredericksburg. Running is not without its pain, but for me, the pain fades the farther I run. I have to run through the painful miles to get to the painless ones.

“Sometimes love don’t feel like it should, hurts so good,” I sing along with the rocker as I run.

The course was very pretty, both old village streets, residential roads where children sat bundled in blankets to watch us run. We passed churches and a confederate cemetery, then a long stretch by the river. There were some gentle rolling hills but I knew that the real hill was ahead — a long, steep climb between miles 10 and 11.

The beauty of running on a treadmill or to Podrunner tunes is that it forces you to run a very steady pace. Keep to the turning of the treadmill mat, or keep to the rhythm of the beats per minute of the music. My stride may shorten but the timing of my feet on the pavement never does. I knew I could take that hill.

At a third of the way up, a few runners dropped to walking. I kept plowing ahead but as we climbed, more walked. My stride was now not much more than a heel to toe length, but it was steady, left, right, don’t stop. More slowed to walk, I passed a man breathing heavily, another held her side. I ran on but I admit it was hard. I knew I wouldn’t walk up the hill but I wasn’t so sure what I would do when I reached the top. I hoped I wouldn’t fall to a recovery walk then, but I wasn’t so sure.

At the three-quarter mark, a big Marine stood by the side of the road. He had that big call of a drill instructor, a voice that really carried. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying until I was almost to him.

“That hill doesn’t know you!” he shouted. “It doesn’t know your strength! It doesn’t know your tenacity! It doesn’t know what you can do!”

He thrust out his hand and I gave him a slap as I picked up speed to complete the hill. It may sound silly now out of context but it was incredibly inspiring, exactly what I needed to hear. He was right. That hill didn’t know me, it didn’t see my running miles and miles on the canal path, getting sunburned on the hills of my neighborhood, or, when I’m working in Florida, running laps in a parking lot in the hours before dawn, 6, 8, 10 miles, then go to work. That hill didn’t know that I had not just survived but thrived through my older son’s service in the Marine Corps and his two deployments to Iraq. It didn’t know that I had stood by my younger son no matter what, even when I wanted to give up, and now, against the odds, he was about to graduate from high school. It didn’t know that I had endured 20 years of a difficult marriage, and now had a life of my own design that had been worth the wait and the work. That hill didn’t know me, it wouldn’t own me, not after all the months and miles I had trained, the life I have lived. I’ve taken on bigger challenges that that hill. I could take it, I could conquer it. And so I did.

I grabbed a cup of water at the top of the hill. It helped to cool me just a bit so I could start the flat ridge I had reached. After a hundred yards, I felt good, just two miles from the finish and I knew I would make it. I trotted along, happy to be heading to the finish without having had to walk any of the 13 miles.

I saw a young woman walking, about my size, cap pulled down. She was walking but she shouldn’t have been. The hill had taken it out of her and she couldn’t get going again. I jogged up beside her. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go get our medals.” She picked up her pace and ran with me.

I thought of my cousin Joni who ran the Marine 10K with me. She runs with a group and marveled over how I could train alone while I, so accustomed to setting my own distance and pace, puzzled over how she could run with someone else. I knew there must be something to Joni’s experience and so I ran with a complete stranger just as Joni runs with her friends.

We passed the 12-mile mark, coming into the crowded retail district where a radio station blasted music. Shoppers stood by their cars in the parking lots and cheered us on. The woman and I ran on together at exactly the same speed. I pointed to the traffic light that wasn’t far from the finish line.

“When we get to the light, we’re going to pick it up,” I said. “We’re going to finish big.”

“I’m not very fast,” she said.

“Neither am I, but we’re strong to the end.” She told me she’d do what she could, but that I shouldn’t wait for her.

At the traffic light, I took off. To anyone else, it might not look so fast but for me, it was flying. I was running hard for the finish. But the finish was a little further off than I thought and I started to lose steam. I could feel the ache start entering my legs and I wanted to stay fast but I was growing sluggish. I pushed myself, pushed, and pushed, and then, from behind I hear another runner thundering up behind me. I saw it was another woman I had passed a mile or so back. She was running full out and, in a rare competitive moment, I knew I could not let her beat me. I picked up the pace and ran in fast. I think she caught me in the last second but it didn’t matter. She had given me the push I needed.

As we cooled down in the walk, a Marine handed me my finisher’s medal.

“My son is a Marine,” I told him as I put the medal around my neck. I held onto the heavy metal with the Historic Half logo. “And I can out run him.” The Marine laughed and I did too.

I stood in line to have my commemorative picture taken. I recognized the woman ahead of me as the one I had run the last couple of miles with. She thanked me and said I had inspired her to finish. “I knew you could do it. You just needed someone to run with. You had it all along!” I gave her a quick hug.

I felt good. It was a good run. I needed to stretch and drink some water but I felt good.

Good enough to run a marathon come October.

Always Extraordinary

Gretchen — Wed, 07 May 2008 01:43:05 +0000

Have you seen me running?

I’m the one trudging along the path, eyes straight ahead, moving slowly but steadily.

Have you seen me running?

I’m running on the shoulder of the road, watching you driving towards me, then feeling the rush of wind as you pass me.

Have you seen me running?

I’m jogging on the sidewalk, left and right on the streets of town, up and down the hills.

Have you seen me running?

I bet you have. But you don’t remember me. I’m too ordinary to recall.

But last October when I ran the Marine 10K in Washington, I saw a runner I’ll never forget.

We were about a mile into the race and the runners had spread out as we settled into our paces. I plodded along, as I always do, when I found myself running behind and to the left of a tall runner. He had a lopsided gait as he worked his arms to keep his balance. I don’t think he’d had his curved running leg for long. He ran as if he was worried that he might take a misstep, but he didn’t slow down, didn’t stop, he kept going. A Marine always, now running 6.2 miles on one leg of muscle and bone and one leg of metal.

I don’t know how that young Marine lost his leg, or when or what his life was like before his injury. Chances are, he was just an ordinary guy living an ordinary life. When he lost his leg, he ceased to look like the other Marines, or like the boys he graduated from high school with, or like most of us. He would never be the same.

When we take an unchosen path, we have two choices: hide from the new life we’re presented with, or embrace it and make the best of the situation. When that young Marine left his leg behind, he left the ordinary behind too. He laced up his running shoe, strapped on a metal blade where his leg had been, and became extraordinary.

That runner wore a singlet for the Semper Fi Fund and when I got home, I looked them up on the web. They have a program, Team Semper Fi, that provides coaches, specialized sporting equipment, entry fees, and travel expenses for the wounded team members. I decided that I would run the Marine Half-Marathon (on May 18) and the Marine Marathon (on October 26) to raise funds to support this (and other) programs.

So I’ve been trudging the paths of my town, running the road’s shoulder, and sidewalk jogging in training for the half-marathon. Don’t worry that you don’t notice me. I’m ordinary. But I’m running mile after mile so others can be extraordinary. If you’re ordinary like I am and want to help, please make a donation.

I promise I’ll run extraordinarily hard for you. And for Team Semper Fi.

UPDATE: Thanks so much to everyone who has so kindly donated to the Semper Fi Fund. I am truly impressed and touched by your generosity.

I had my last long run on Sunday (11 miles) and it went well. I’m not fast but I get where I’m going! I just have short maintenance runs this week that are really feeling like fun. I’m leaving soon for Virginia and can’t wait to run on Sunday. You can check my time at http://www.marinecorpshistorichalf.com/site7.aspx. My bib is #3342.

UPDATE: May 16, 2008. I arrived in Virginia yesterday to spend a few days with Tom before we head to Fredricksburg on Saturday/Sunday. I had my last run today (about 6 miles) and Tom said I really look like a runner. It felt fantastic and left me wanting to do it again so I’ll save up that eagerness for Sunday. I’m ready to run!

When the Corps Calls

Gretchen — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 14:37:18 +0000

It was mid afternoon when my cell phone rang. Because I’m out of town, I have our home phone forwarded to my cell. It was a local number so I picked it up.

“This is Staff Sergeant So-and-So from the United States Marine Corps.”

My stomach lurched into my throat.

“Is everything OK?”

He hesitated. “Yes, ma’am, I’m trying to reach Paul.”

My heart started to beat again.

“Oh,” I exhaled, “you’re a recruiter.” I explained that my older son is a Marine in Iraq and it’s scary when a Marine calls. Nick has told me that it’s very quiet over there, no gunfire at all, their biggest worry are the dogs that used to be domesticated but now run feral. Besides, when he first deployed, he promised me he would be fine, and a promise is a promise. Still, all young men feel invincible. What if he was wrong? What if the Iraqis were unaware of the promise he made me?

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s OK,” I said, “I’m just glad you’re from the recruiter’s office.”

I gave him Paul’s cell phone number and told him he could call him there. Paul isn’t interested in enlisting, isn’t interested in making promises he might not be able to keep, but he is capable of making his own decision, of saying No Thank You to opportunities that aren’t right for him. At least for now.