When it Rains...Go Dancing

I used to be that girl who sat on the sidelines. At bars, weddings, parties, concerts—it didn’t matter—you were never going to catch me making a fool of myself dancing, no matter how many gin & tonics I had sipped.

Genetically speaking, there’s really no reason why I should feel comfortable cutting a rug. I don’t come from a long line of outrageously outgoing people. Nor can I find a whole lot of rhythm floating around the gene pool—musically gifted, yes, but there’s an important difference there. I enrolled in years of tap-dancing lessons as a small child. But even at age 6, the significance that I was the smallest girl in the class and I still ended up in the second row at recital time didn’t escape me. No matter, though. I loved the sound of my tiny little black shoes hitting the hard-wood floor, the pretty costumes, and the one night of the year we were allowed to wear makeup. The time we got to dance—and sing!—to Annie, dressed up as orphans on stage may have been the highlight of elementary school (I can see all women of my generation nodding their heads in unison and appreciation right now).

See, if I surrendered to DNA, I’d probably be clinically depressed and dead by age 40. And so, some time ago, I stopped paying attention to self-imposed inhibitions. Also, I seem to have acquired friends who simply don’t accept insecurity as a reason to say “no” to, um, anything. I learned the hard way that being dragged to the dance floor caused far more embarrassment than my lack of dancing skills ever could.

And thank god for that. Now, I dance. And I have long-since stopped caring what I look like when I do it. Lately, I’ve danced a lot. Because, as anybody east of the Mississippi can attest, it’s been raining for like two months. And I’ve officially been living in Saylorsburg, PA for a year now, which is approximately 365 days longer than I ever planned. And I still can’t run more than 20 minutes at a time. And I don’t know where I want to move or what to be when I grow up.

These are all valid reasons to board a flight to Vegas and meet 40 (yes, 4-0) friends for a completely ridiculous 48 hours of, well, ridiculousness. We all know the rule about Vegas, but I can divulge that for the first time in maybe forever, I left my running shoes at home. I, of course, packed my party clothes and dancing shoes. And they got quite a workout—still going strong even after being awake for more than 24 hours. It’s amazing what can happen to a gal fueled by a killer buffet. And, yes, a couple of gin & tonics, too.

A few days later, I went to Queens to celebrate Avi and Courtney’s newly minted marriage. Oh, yes, there was dancing there, too. And it was good.

Here’s the thing I’ve realized over the past couple of weeks: No matter what’s going on, it’s impossible to be mad, frustrated, or grumpy when you’ve gathered up a bunch of friends and are moving to the music, even if you have as few moves as I do. Dancing and smiling are inextricably linked. Try it without cracking a grin—I dare you. Music + movement =instant therapy…or at least temporary amnesia from whatever ails you. Also, have you ever seen what happens to a roomful of 30somethings when a DJ plays “Livin’ on a Prayer?” Mayhem.

So, at least until the sun finally shines again (literally…figuratively…), don’t be surprised if you see me cuing some music and flailing about my living room...or swaying while washing the dishes. I don’t need a trip to Vegas or a wedding anymore to get me going.

Gin & tonics, although always appreciated, are also not required.

When it Rains...Go Dancing

Happy Summer

Here we go again...the unofficial start of summer. In honor of the season upon us, I thought I'd share an adorable little video somebody sent my way. Who knows where all those miles in the next four months will lead you?!

Enjoy and let the fun begin!

Happy Summer

To-Do List

1. Take on an assignment for a running magazine that involves interviewing a sports psychologist about how he helps injured athletes cope.

2. After an hour-long “interview,” realize that the psychologist was basically saying that I really need to get a life.

3. Feel relief that I didn’t pay for therapy.

4. Contemplate what getting a life really means, when I live in Saylorsburg, PA.

5. Book a trip to Vegas with college friends.

6. Consider writing a training plan to prepare for the debauchery in Vegas. Start with a half a beer and vow to gradually increase volume over the next six weeks.

7. Slip into delayed-onset depression, answer the door in my pajamas for the FedEx man at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday.

8. Convince myself that cross training on a Nordic Track, circa 1987, is a fabulous idea.

9. Nearly fall off the Nordic Track, realize that I should probably work on some balancing skills, and hope that cross training doesn’t result in additional injuries.

10. Does my Achilles hurt?

11. Suddenly realize it’s been raining for about eight days straight and the wildlife outside seems to be walking two-by-two , heading directly toward the row boat on the lake.

12. Come to the conclusion that it’s time to see a doctor. Shouldn’t a strained hamstring be healed by now?

13. Fight with health insurance company.

14. Reminisce about childhood that included being the daughter of a doctor and a nurse, as well as a granddaughter of a dentist, then become enveloped by bitterness that adulthood and self-employment often result in crappy health insurance.

15. Become a new fan of universal health care.

16. Head to Philly for a night out with friends.

17. Eat my weight in guacamole and gulp down three margaritas while waiting for cheese-laden enchiladas to arrive.

18. Proceed to a bar to wash down Mexican night with a glass of wine.

19. Laugh. A lot.

20. Wake up the next morning without regret. It was part of the training plan (see #6).

21. Travel to Hershey to visit mom on Mother’s Day and go to the doctor.

22. Realize that no visit with mom should last more than 48 hours, but stay for three days anyway.

23. Eat Sorrento’s pizza, drink wine, and watch American Idol. It’s a party.

24. Buy expensive new cell phone as a personal Boston Marathon consolation prize and play with it. All. Day. Long.

25. Finally see the doctor, who says I’m well on my way to recovery. Four more weeks and it’ll be time to ease back into training (of the running variety).

26. Resist urge to kiss the doctor.

27. Wait patiently for medical bill to arrive, while contemplating if the new cell phone is more or less valuable than my left hamstring.

28. In a wave of optimism, book trip to Flagstaff for a summer Running Retreat.

29. Hope that I don’t die in Flagstaff in a desperate search for more oxygen.

30. Realize that I kind of like the life I had six weeks ago.

31. Give up trying to find a new one. It’s exhausting.

To-Do List

Boston Marathon 2009 (Part II)

“Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.”

I took a giant step back. The way I saw it, I had woken up that morning with the same choice I wake up with every morning: be happy and grateful for what I have, or be miserable and focus on what I don’t. If a running injury was the biggest obstacle I had to face right now, I had a lot to be thankful for in the grand scheme of things.

I could spend the rest of the weekend moping about my lost opportunity, or be there to support my friends who had worked just as hard to make it to the starting line, and join the others who had nothing but fun on tap for the next 24 hours.

Was I sad? Unbelievably. Angry? Absolutely. Was it productive to dwell on it? No. Anger and sadness would do nothing to change the situation, so I found no point in hanging on too long to either.

With the option to turn back home or continue to Boston, my friends continued heading north. I don’t know why or how, but the one thing I seem to have done right in my life is to find the most amazing friends to share it with. After I finally qualified for Boston, when they told me they’d be there to watch me run, I found it overwhelming. To know that they were just as willing to make the trip to help lift my spirits was extraordinary.

Saturday night's pasta dinner at Josh's parents' house.

I started to see the bright side. Instead of a dinner of force-fed pasta, I could do a few things I hadn’t done for far too long: head to a bar, drink a beer, and eat some nachos. I could devour a delicious, ginormous black-and-white cookie for dessert. I could stay up late, hysterically laughing during an impromptu and ridiculous game of “Truth or Dare” in my hotel room (in case you’re wondering, you’re never too old for that…or a good slumber party). Instead of waking up at 4 a.m. to quiet my nerves and catch a bus to Hopkinton, I could sleep in, take a walk along Boylston Street before it was enveloped by a mass of humanity, and have a leisurely cup of coffee.

Don’t get me wrong: I would’ve traded all of that and maybe more for one injury-free left leg. But those weren’t the cards I was dealt.

We staked claim to some prime Boylston Street real estate and settled in for a day of watching, cheering, and absorbing all that is the Boston Marathon. While I felt small flashes of disappointment when I heard the thunderous boom of the start and glanced down toward the fabled finish line, I also felt acceptance that these weren’t mine to have right now. Not yet. But they will be. After all, a dream doesn’t die until you’re ready to let it go. I’m still holding on to this one—tight.

I relished the rare opportunity to watch the elite athletes finish their races—always an inspiring scene to witness. To my surprise, however, the best part of the day came as the stream of runners just like me started flowing through. We had unknowingly picked a magical place to stand. It was right at that point when the finish line was all but assured, when everything that each runner had worked toward was right there within view. The smiles came by the thousands—and they were infectious. There’s no way to adequately explain that unique mix of joy, euphoria, relief, pride, and sense of accomplishment all in one—if there were, I’m pretty sure everybody would train for marathons.

Ryan Hall airborn, cruising to his third-place finish.

But, it’s also a gamble. No finish line is ever promised. Every time we embark on a journey toward one, pouring everything we have for months or years at a time into arriving there, we take a risk that it may not work out, that we’ll get hurt, that we’ll be disappointed.

Those are chances I’m still happily willing to take. When it comes down to it, that’s just life, isn’t it?

I came home with resolve to heal, get stronger, and get back to it. I miss my weekly training schedule more than I care to admit publicly and a part of me wakes up sad each day I don't have the option to run. I realize there are big lessons I’m learning in all of this, but meanwhile there’s a bag that sits in the corner of my bedroom that I haven’t yet unpacked, filled with the shorts, singlet, and shoes I was supposed to wear in Boston.

If I wait long enough, I won’t have to pack for 2010. The journey continues…

Boston Marathon 2009 (Part II)

Boston Marathon 2009 (Part I)

I woke up in Boston a heap of nervous energy. I reached for the running clothes I picked out the night before, carefully choosing just the right socks, and gingerly tying the laces of my Zoom Elites.

I headed downstairs to stretch, breathe, and gather my thoughts, quieting all the “what ifs” and fears zipping around my mind. My stomach was in knots, too uneasy to choke down breakfast. I had never worked myself up into such a state for a run—not even at the starting line of my first marathon.

This was it. After all the many months of working toward my Boston Marathon goal, it all came down to this: a 20 minute jog the day before the race.

The next few minutes would tell me everything I needed to know and I was terrified of taking the first step. Either I would make it to the legendary starting line on Boston’s 113th Marathon Monday, or I’d join the mass of spectators lining the course. The outcome of the test jog would give me the answer.

I had spent the ten days after pulling my hamstring doing just about everything I could possibly do to make it better. I rested, I slept, I elevated, I iced, I walked, I stretched, I strengthened, I ate, I hydrated, I swallowed Advil, I massaged, and I repeated. Religiously. Like it was my job. I visited some of the kindest and most knowledgeable people on the planet at Wharton Performance. I thought all good thoughts. I believed that I would heal. I was confident that I would race.

So I stepped out the door on Sunday morning, into a beautiful sun-drenched day and had faith that my journey still had 26.2 miles left in it. After all of this, how could it not?

A cautious shuffle turned into a light jog. A dull ache twinged, but it was not a deal-breaking pain. Ten minutes passed and a light jog turned into a familiar, easy pace. Five minutes passed, and just like that, I had my answer.

That sudden, sharp stabbing sensation ripped through my leg. I stopped running for a few steps, denying that this was really how this was all going to end. I picked up my right leg to quicken my pace again, and as my other leg swung to do its work, the pain shot and radiated up and down the lower left side of my body.

It was over. Apparently there is more than one way to experience heartbreak at the Boston Marathon—and it needn’t involve any hills.

As I limped back to my friend Jo’s house, where I was staying, I let the tears streak down my face. I allowed myself to finally cave to all the wretched thoughts I had been suppressing for a week. I climbed the stairs and picked up my phone, encapsulating the entire experience into a text message of no more than 200 characters. I sent it to Mike, who was on a plane heading to Boston, and did the only thing I knew would sooth me: I poured myself a cup of coffee.

“I know this is not what you want to hear right now, but it’s true: Everything happens for a reason,” Jo said. “And if I were you, I’d punch me in the face right now.”

I chuckled, because she spoke the truth, and delivered it in a manner that only a closest friend could. And she would know. A world-class lacrosse player, once captain of Penn State’s soccer team, former collegiate lacrosse coach, and a marathoner to boot, I will never experience anything in athletics that she hasn’t already been through, including a game-ending hamstring injury.

“I know and I believe that too,” I said. “I just wish that shitty situations came with a label explaining what that reason is.”

As Jo headed to work, I packed up my car to check into the hotel I had reserved for myself, and all my friends and family that were en route to cheer me on at a race I was no longer running. I went to the expo to defer my race entry, dodging the scores of excited runners picking up their bib numbers and Boston Marathon memorabilia. I tried not to hate all of them. It was hard.

I retreated back to my hotel room for fear that the sight of one more royal blue and yellow, unicorn-bearing jacket might finally make me vomit. I sat alone for a while, aimlessly staring out the window at the planes coming in and out of Logan. I started thinking a lot, about everything. And I came to a few important realizations.

To be continued…

Boston Marathon 2009 (Part I)

Highs and Lows

Last Sunday I had the race of my life. Today, I spent Easter downing Advil and taking an ice bath.

A lot happened in between.

Let me back up. Last Sunday I had a goofy grin on my face for most of the day, feeling quite pleased with myself. After five months, I had conquered that nasty winter without the use of a treadmill, a left Achilles injury, a right hamstring injury, a nutrition makeover, and more mileage than I had ever run in my life.

Earlier that morning when I stepped to the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler starting line on a stunning spring day in Washington, DC, I had absolutely no idea what I could do. I just didn’t know where I stood.


Relaxed, calm, and totally controlled, I found out 1:12:57 later: a personal best time of almost 5 minutes. No worse for the ware, no “I’m going to die” moments, no twinges of pain, no post-race soreness—I had clearly made it to spring in the shape of my life.

No matter what you’ve put your time and effort toward, those are the days you dream of—when it all pays off and everything finally comes together better than you could’ve predicted. It’s like you’ve been working on one of those 10,000-piece puzzles for five months and then finally figure out how to finish it in five-minute’s time. And that was just how I wanted to feel heading into Boston just eight days from now.

With a plan to do some last sharpening workouts and head into a 10-day taper before the marathon, I was eager to take my rush of confidence and get back to business.
And then it snowed again. Seriously. After a couple of minutes filled with words I can’t type (my mom reads this blog, you know)…in a déjà-vu moment, my track workout was rescheduled for later in the week and I settled for doing a couple of easy runs in the winter gear I thought I was finished wearing for a while.

But not more than 24-hours after the last snowflake hit the ground, spring was back, it was 60 lovely degrees, and I was headed to the local high school track for one last chance to remind my legs that they can go fast. On deck, after a 20 minute warm-up: Just 5x1000 with 200 meter recovery between each, with permission to kill the last two faster than the previous three, if I had it in me.

I hit the first two right on target. I was feeling sluggish and my legs were kind of tight, but no acute pain, so I went for the third. As I rounded the curve a neared the 800-meter mark, I was abruptly stopped by that familiar searing, shooting pain in the hamstring. Sadly, it was not the previously troublesome right hamstring. No, apparently my left one also wanted to have its very own pity party.

First I denied it and tried to jog it out. That didn’t work. I stretched lightly. That didn’t work. Reluctantly, I headed home, trying to make the responsible decision in the final days before the marathon. Plus, I was convinced that it was nothing more than a little twinge that would go away in a day after some rest.

It’s been four days now and there’s still significant pain. A test run yesterday resulted in a 2-mile shuffle that hurt from start to finish. So I’m pulling out all the stops. Bring on the Advil. Bring on the ice baths. Bring on the miracle cure. I’ve got eight days to kick this thing and get myself to Hopkinton in one piece. Thankfully, though my tendons may have other plans, I am still confident that it’ll all come together just as it should. I refuse to believe the ending to this story is anything but happy.

But after I cross the finish line in Boston, I’m totally shopping for new hamstrings.

Highs and Lows

Heal Thyself, Part II

I love coffee. I love it so much that I can’t remember the last time I went for 24 hours without it. The best part about my love of coffee is that although I need it every day, I don’t desire that much of it. Just a cup or two in the morning and my fix is done.

Coffee isn’t so bad for you, as it turns out. And some studies have shown that it may have some health benefits as well. However, when you drink it at the same time you’re eating nutritious breakfast and taking your multivitamin, it manages to suck the life out of all the good nutrients you’re trying to intake to jumpstart the day. It messes with iron absorption—something that female distance runners already have enough problems with—and is a diuretic. In short, it flushes all the good stuff out of your system.

As I mentioned, my friend Christine—holistic health counselor extraordinaire, triathlete, and all-around amazing woman—has come to my nutritional rescue many times in the past couple of years. The best part about Chris is that she delivers advice and suggestions without any sense of judgment about bad habits—and almost always makes me laugh in the process. She’s managed to remove 95 percent of any refined sugar, white flour, and a lot of gluten from my diet, without me missing any of it.

Naturally, as I thought about my eating habits and what they meant in terms of aiding my body’s recovery from the marathon-training beating I was giving it, I knew Christine would have some wise words.

“I would never tell you to stop drinking coffee—I drink it too,” she said. “But here’s the trick—drink it separate from your meals. Timing is key here—try to space it an hour or so before or after eating.”

Sounded easy enough, and it has been for the most part. But speaking of all those nutrients, I really wanted to know what kinds I should be focusing on. Obviously my tendonitis was a signal of a lot of inflammation. I thought that eating the right food was a better answer in the long-term than popping Advil every four-to-six hours for six weeks. For starters, I needed to be more diligent about taking in the necessary carbs and protein within 30 minutes of completing runs of more than 6 miles. That alone would start to improve my recovery time.

Aside from that, I do most of my own cooking at home, so changing things up with different ingredients and recipes wouldn’t be difficult.

Christine suggested that I add some healthy fats to lubricate joints and muscles, including fish, avocados, olive oil, and nuts. To reduce inflammation and promote healing, antioxidants are key. I can officially proclaim to be a new fan of pomegranate and acai juice, on top of the blueberry obsession I’ve always had.

“These are the colors in your fruits and veggies—make sure you’re eating a rainbow of these foods every day,” she said. “Mostly try to add citrus, leafy greens, and orange and yellow veggies.”

Do you know what else has antioxidants? Dark chocolate. So the day that I decided to make whole wheat banana bread (with flax seeds, for good measure), I also tossed in some dark chocolate chips to the recipe. Mmmm…I was going to freeze half of it, but I confess I ate almost the entire loaf myself. Yikes.

So, six weeks later, I’ve stuck to all the advice that the Holistic Guru has offered. I have followed the training schedule that Mike has diligently and patiently written, altered, and written again (and again) depending on how I’m feeling on any given day. I’ve taken his words of encouragement to heart and kept that ever-important positive attitude. I have spent a lot of time icing my leg and getting to bed early, even when I wanted to do neither of those things.

I’ve done all that I can do. And I am happy to say that it has all worked. The shooting pains in my right leg are gone, my energy level is increasing. The normal marathon-training soreness persists and some days are better than others, but in two weeks when I’m at the starting line in Boston, I’ll find peace in knowing that, without a doubt, I did everything in my power to prepare.

And no matter what the outcome, I’m eternally grateful for the unyielding support along the way.

Heal Thyself, Part II