Turkey Trot

Perhaps it's the nature of the beast, but when you get my family together we become quite the competitive bunch. I have active parents and three married sisters, and over the years, we have mastered the art of the one-ups-man-ship in a family friendly manner. Several years ago we started the tradition of the turkey trot on Thanksgiving morning, which generally consisted of anyone willing to rise to the challenge du jour running several miles before indulging in the inevitable calorie-fest later that day. This year we took it to a whole new level and selected the Atlanta Half-Marathon as our event of choice. We definitely separated the men from the boys this year, and only four of us were crazy enough to sign up for the event, yours truly, my two older sisters and one brother-in-law.

There's nothing like rising at 5:30 am, dragging yourself out of a toasty warm bed, to go stand in the 30-something degree weather before running 13.1 miles. Might I add that 5:30 am Atlanta time is 4:30 am my time. Well before the crack of dawn. In fact it was still dark at the start of the race. Got to love that. Definitely my idea of a vacation.

I had my hesitations about running this event. I wasn't sure how my body would tolerate the stress of traveling in addition to the nerves of running such a race. Not to mention the fact that despite weeks of light (aka no) running, I still haven't overcome my injuries. I was preparing for the worst.

Well, the event went much smoother than expected. I made it to the start of the race without significant incident, then proceeded to start the trek down Peachtree St. Seriously, I think 12 of our 13.1 miles were run down this one road, as it winds it's way through the greater Atlanta area. Having never really gotten out and about in the city, my sister lives in the northern burbs, the race was a great way to see the city. Back to the race.

I went on a 9-mile training run last weekend, not the most pleasant , so I wasn't surprised when the old familiar aches and pains started kicking in around mile 2.5. This was a little earlier than I had expected, which made the thought of finishing the 13.1 miles a bit daunting, but I trudged on. I had to start walking a bit here and there if I was going to get to the finish line, and was immediately left in the dust by the last of my family members. I was on my own to mentally tough it out.

Early on, I developed the strategy of walking the first minute or two of each mile, then running to the next mile marker as fast as possible, then repeat. When I made it to mile 6, I started to get optimistic. At mile 7, the sports beans we being handed out. Instant energizer, plus it was quite comical to see these things scattered everywhere about the street. At mile 9, I saw my family cheerleaders. At mile 10, I knew I would make it. Just a 5K to go.

Now it is quite common to have spectators along these courses cheering you on, especially for such a large event. This one also had a full marathon running along side us. There are significantly more of them along the last mile or so, urging you towards the finish line. Having not studied the course too closely, I was ecstatic when I heard one of these course liners yell "1 mile to go!" I was going to make it, but how odd... I never saw the 12 mile marker. I tried to run it out, but when I finally did see the 12 mile marker, at the top of a hill, I knew a little more walking would be necessary. Despite all the walking, when I crossed the finish line, I had finished my fastest half-marathon to date... 2:21:48. And to think this was under such adverse conditions.

I'm addicted to that moment of triumph. In fact, as I was flying back to Texas last night, reading my November copy of Runner's World, an issue highlighting the New York City Marathon, I couldn't help but think I want to do it. I want to run the marathon. It's two weeks from today. The one I've been preparing for. I haven't signed up yet. There's one more hurdle standing in my way. A doctor's appointment tomorrow morning, which will determine if my marathon dreams will come true... well, this year at least. There's no doubt in my mind that it'll happen next year. As I said, I'm addicted.

Momentary Lapses

Yesterday, I bravely navigated the red tape of the passport office, quite successfully I might add, but not without a couple of hiccups. The paperwork has been sitting on my kitchen counter for weeks now, and I finally took the plunge. A friend of mine is on temporary assignment in London and has been none to subtly suggesting that I should visit before his return to the States. I nearly booked that flight to London a couple of times over the last few hectic weeks. Plus you never know when my latest assignment at the office might take me north of the border.

All of this was truly a mute point, seeing as my passport expired in January. I got it as I was graduating from college, and a friend of mine and I were planning a European tour to celebrate. The picture says it all. Young, bright eyed, naive. Amazingly enough, ten years have passed, and it was time to renew.

I went down to my local post office to do the dirty deed and proceeded to wait for the requisite 30 minutes and fill out the required paperwork. I had filled some forms out that I found online, but was informed those were not accepted here because they had the catch phrase "by mail" on it. Hello, anyone heard of a Sharpie?

As I'm called into the office, I ask the passport officer if it's truly necessary that I fill in an emergency contact. He says yes, and I proceed to scribble in my standard response. My mother. They require phone numbers and address of said contact too, so I continue to scribble away. Until it hit me. What was my parents' street address????? They have lived in that house for 18 years. Hell, I, myself, lived in that house. I could not remember the street number to save my life. 7745, or was it 7735? Nope, definitely 7745. I'm rattled. I'm definitely going to the big house for falsifying information on a federal form. I can remember both of my parents date and city of birth, also required information, but not where they live. Clearly I need to visit more often.

All the blanks are filled, to the best of my ability, and I hand the application over to the officer. What does he say to me? You've never been married??? Me meekly, No. Yes, apparently whether or not you've walked down the aisle is relevant when our government is assessing if you should be allowed to leave the country. In his defense, the officer probably took one look at me and thought she's hot. How could she have never been married. I was wearing a dress yesterday, uber cute. Either that or he saw my birth date and thought she's how old and never been married??? I'm counting on the former.

I filled out my forms, signed my checks and took the oath. Could he see my hand shaking as I solemnly vowed that all information contained in these documents was true? Let's hope not. I'm going to need that passport to escape to a deserted tropical island where I will not be judged by my marital status and where I can get some much needed rest and relaxation.

BTW, for those wondering, my parents street number is 2426. I was close.

Is my glass half full?

Pessimism versus realism? Po-tay-toe, po-ta-toe. It's all semantics. I've always thought I leaned towards the glass is half empty side of the fence. Optimism is a word that was rarely in my vocabulary. I'm not quite sure why. I've had quite a bit of good fortune in my life. Family, friends, career. OK, so the love life has had plenty of lackluster moments, but can I really complain? In general, I have a positive outlook. I just don't dare call it optimism. I used to say expect the worst, hope for the best. My thought was I'd never be disappointed... realism.

Well, lately I've been toeing the optimism line, and last weekend, I was caught. I ran in a half marathon event and had an interesting time of it. Now, I know I talk about running a lot, but training for a marathon has become all consuming. I'm either running, recovering from running, or thinking about running these days. It's exhausting, both literally and figuratively. I've got just under six weeks to go until marathon day and was beginning to think I could do it. I've run 18 miles and felt I had enough fuel in the tank at the end to run several more. I've also run 18 miles and thought there's no way I can run another inch. Sunday's half-marathon was more extreme than that second 18-mile run.

This whole mess has been building up over the last month. It started with a new pair of shoes. What was supposed to be the cure-all, turned into the problem. They were clown shoes, too big, which led to plenty of foot and knee pain. I did manage to parlay that into a weekend of sleeping in, aka 'resting my injured limbs,' but in the end it reared it's ugly head. Right in the middle of the half-marathon as a matter of fact. It's a very overwhelming feeling to think you can't continue running knowing that you're still 7 miles from the finish line.

That was me. In enough pain that by the final mile, I could barely run one consecutive minute. How was I supposed to run a full marathon, when I can barely finish a half? I saw the months of training and my marathon dreams going down the drain. I was aggravated, infuriated, and defiant. I can not be defeated by this. I truly thought I was going to, am going to, may still have to give up. I laid on the couch after the run with ice packs. I scheduled one of those oh-so-pleasant sports massages. I've taken plenty of ibuprofen. And now, I can almost walk without a hint of pain. I am thinking about lacing up my running shoes again. And I'm thinking once again I can do it.