Catt Scratches

So last night, I had a marathon dream. It was kind of kooky, but hey, it was a dream right? It was a night time marathon, and I was about halfway done and the route got a little crazy and arcane. You had to really pay attention, because the route kept going in and out of houses and through parking lots. You had to keep searching for race monitors, who would not tell you where to go, but if you asked them if you were going the right way, they would give you a confirming nod. I got to a place in a building which was like a loading dock in a warehouse. Runners who had gotten there before me were sitting on stairs, heading down the dock to the doors where a truck would empty its load if there had been a truck; the doors were closed. I got to the spot, I saw a few race monitors with clipboards and red shirts. I realized the runners who had gotten there before me were just sitting there staring at the door, chatting among themselves. I said to a monitor, “Why is the door locked?” He said, “Is it?” I looked at him and then trotted down the stairs, pushed the door open and found the rest of  the course. 
Outside, there was a bleacher full of people, runners, I think, who were just sitting there, resting. One of them, was my old college roommate, who I haven’t seen in 41 years. He had transferred to Maharishi International University in Fairfield, Iowa because he wanted to learn how to levitate. I confronted him, he recognized me, and we hugged with a fierce intensity. “i’ve changed,” I said, ” but you look exactly the same.” He nodded, smiling a beautiful, enlightened smile. I said, “I’ve got to finish this race. Can we meet later?” He smiled, and I took off, getting directions for the rest of the marathon from a monitor and then realizing that ther was still a lot more to run.
And then  I woke up. I just had to open the door, I thought. And I started to think of the Serenity Prayer, not knowing why I made that association. When I quit drinking fifteen years, seven months and seven days ago, (but who’s counting?), I kept the Serenity Prayer uppermost in my mind. Everyone who has done or knows someone who has done or thought about doing a twelve step program in the last century has heard it: God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Recently, I have come to think about God in lest of a personified way and to look at the bible as a book of dreams edited by the ruling class. So I haven’t been asking God for serenity or courage or wisdom. And I realized after the dream, that serenity and courage and wisdom were qualities that I already possessed in ample quantities: I just had to tap into them. If I want to accept, I can accept. If I want to be brave, I can be brave. And wisdom arrrives in direct proportion to my exercise of serenity and courage. I am my own means of production.

Last night I ran for the first time since my last marathon, October. Even then, I was mostly walking. I’ve been nursing a torn meniscus since June.

My trainer told me I needed to get off my ass. Just like that. I love her honesty. So last night I ran a mile in eleven minutes. Not pretty, but functional. My plan is to train on a treadmill this time, through March, to keep my speed up. I’m running the Shamrock Shuffle this year. I will run it in less than an hour. And I will run the MDI in October in four. I’m just saying.

I tore the meniscus  of my left knee some time around Memorial Day weekend this year. On the Monday of Memorial Day weekend, I started a run before heading up to Milwaukee. I planned to run around the triangle (I don’t live on a block, with four streets; I live on a triangle, made up of three streets) four times then over to the park and five miles around the park. Seven times is five miles, one time around the park is .7 miles. So It’s a nice run.

I got around 100 feet then, and I felt sharp pain in my left knee generating out from the inside. I thought, is there any chance that this will improve? And I kept going and the pain amped up with every step. I thought, I’m not going to run today.

I stopped running, stopped my training dead even though I planned two marathons: the North Country Run in Michigan in August and the Mount Desert Marathon in Maine in October. My knee got no better over the next few weeks. I kept thinking, one more week of rest, more emu oil, more krill oil, ibuprofen. I could play softball, I kept up with strength training but I didn’t do any running. Two people who’s opinions I respect told me in no uncertain terms that I should see a doctor.

My doctor told me I should try some therapy; I went to sports doctor/chiropractor. He sent me for an MRI and diagnosed the tear. It’s not a bad tear, just a little sliver of a rip. He gave me a program and I’ve been following it and I’m getting better. Before starting treatment, he gave me a choice. He said, “What do you want to do? Run a marathon or finish the softball season?”

I said, “You say that, like the answer, ‘Both’ is inappropriate.”

He smiled. At least he gets me. I said, “I gotta finish the season.”

I had to finish the softball season. I had to be loyal to my teammates. It’s not like I was indispensable to the team. I was in a batting slump and I was just learning how to play the balls that came into right field. But the women on my team had accepted me; they were giving me a shot at joining them. Fighting spirit is the thing I do best so I wasn’t going to let them down.

And I worked hard to get out of the slump. I took a softball lesson at “Frozen Ropes”; I practiced at the batting cages three times a week. I went to every game. I watched baseball games to see how the hitters positioned their feet. And on the last game, the only playoff game we were in, I got the hit and scored the run that sparked the rally that brought us within one run of winning. It was as good as winning for me because I contributed, and I was the clutch hitter.

That was August, this is October. I’ve been working out and was just cleared to run short bursts of 30 seconds with a minute of walking. I had resigned myself to not running the marathon but II came to Mount Desert Island because that’s what I do in October. I planned this vacation with my daughter; the hotel and flights were booked and I love it here.

We went to the marathon expo to pick up my racing packet. Even though I wasn’t racing.I told myself, I was only coming for the MDI 2013 Jacket, which I already paid for. I looked on the wall for my number. It’s a really cool number, 787. I mean, it sounds Secret Agent-ish and whispers style and grace. It contains the notion of gliding into the finish line in a glorious fiery sprint. I said to the guy who gave me my packet,”I was supposed to run, but I tore my meniscus.” He said, that’s a shame, maybe you could do a half or maybe walk it.”

I felt it instantly, the uplift, the fulfilling feeling rising up from my stomach. “I can still do that? I can still switch?” He said, sure.

We walked around a few minutes looking for stuff. I talked about it with someone else who said I have time to make up my mind if I want to switch. I told myself that I would think about it. A few minutes later we were out the door and I knew I was going to walk it. Gina and I talked about it and decided that I should call some other people to see what they thought. I called my sister and left a message. I called my sports doctor, he called back a couple hours later and I asked him if I could walk the marathon. He said go for it, “Forward, not Backward.” Gina texted my trainer who said “let her walk,” with winking emoticon.

I went back and set it up. Then my sister called back, somewhat worried about the prospect. I reassured her that I would dress appropriately, including a hat. I felt great. Then I suddenly realized that I was unprepared. I was assuming that I could walk 26.2 miles because I’m in good shape and had historically run two marathons and trained for three months before my knee gave out. But I really have not trained to walk for 26.2 miles. I’m pretty sure I can. But it wasn’t planned.

So it’s good. I have some apprehension. It’s not a slam dunk so I won’t be overconfident. I’m not exactly sure how to pace a 26.2 walk. I am half convinced that I am going to out walk my previous run records. It’s a different kind of challenge.

Yesterday, Gina and I did a five mile walk to Witch’s Hole, (get your minds out of the gutter) and back. Today, we did the “Fun Run/Walk” to breakfast and back (four miles) and then went up and back down Champlain Mountain. I bought ibuprofen and chocolate covered cashews. We had the traditional pre-run pizza. I pinned my bib onto my racing top. I’m still nervous but I’m going to do it. It’s my third marathon and I tried not to do it. But I just can’t stop dancing. I’ll probably do a bit of running, a lot of walking, some John Cleese Silly Walks, some skipping and a whole bunch of dancing. Can’t stop it. You got to ride life, fill it full of joy and smiles and challenges. Otherwise, like the man said, you might just as well be a vegetable.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Race Day.

For those of you who skip to the end of stories, or read the box scores without looking at the article about the game, I finished; I was #774th overall, 369th of the female runners. 28th in my age classification. There were 906 finishers but some of them were relay runners. The weather conditions were miserable. The temperatures were in the mid-forties and for the first four and a half hours it rained a nasty, driving, blowing, hard rain.

But I nailed it. With a Personal Best. Six hours and forty five minutes and fifty three seconds.

But that’s not the way I usually tell a story. I tell a story in perspective. Like my dad. When my dad told us a story about what it was like to grow up in an Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn, he started with a brief history of the Roman Empire.

When I arrived in Bar Harbor on Thursday, the forecast for Race Day called for rain. Gradually, they got more specific: rain was to start overnight, and continue all day with temperatures in the forties, rising to the mid-fifties.

I’d gotten steadily more and more nervous about it. I thought I had it conquered in my head when I had gone to the race expo on Friday and talked to some veterans but as the starting time approached, the angst mounted, coupled with the fear of wetness. My daughter handled me well. She was mildly solicitous, then exasperated, then she would remind me that my behavior was moving beyond eccentric and into psychotic. Then I would shut up.

On Saturday morning, I did the pre-breakfast run, and then ate three meals at breakfast. Gina showed up for the end of breakfast, then we had coffee at the International Opera House Cafe in Bar Harbor, cleaned up and then we took off for Bangor. We got cash at the Bank of America in Brewer, I stopped off at Tim Horton’s to use the bathroom and buy coffee. We drove into Bangor proper.

We ate at Giacomo’s, and went to Top Shelf Comics. We learned from our mistakes. Last year when we ate at Giacomo’s, we ordered too much food: sandwich, soup, bread. This year even though we were just as starved, we satisfied ourselves with just sandwiches. I remembered last year, that the place we ate at had a mural dedicated to the death of some gangster, named Brady at the very intersection where we were eating. He may have been in the process of robbing a bank when he was killed.

We visited a comic book store which we went to last year called Top Shelf Comics. It’s not like Atlas, my regular comics store in Chicago. At Top Shelf, there are no people making fun of other people. They actually seem to be working on comic book file maintenance there. I believe that the owner or manager actually reads comics at Too Shelf unlike at Atlas. I don’t think they have named themselves after Super-Villains, like we do at Atlas. In fact, they seem the type to have named themselves after Super-Heroes, and maybe only Golden Age Super-Heroes. The Whizzer, Human Torch, Miss Liberty, and the like. They remembered me and Gina from last year. I guess they get even fewer female comic book fans than Atlas.

I was jumpy the whole time. Saying goofy out of context things like Rain Man. Gina was very patient with me. But sometimes, I felt like she was at the end of her rope. I felt handled but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, it was comforting. Driving around Bangor, I got confused a few times but Gina knew right where we were and how to get to our destination. We went for a little walk after lunch but it was getting late and I was anxious to get home. We discussed the pros and cons of hanging around Bangor for a while or driving home. We walked up a block we knew and felt the feeling of small town Northeast.

We drove home and stopped off at Hannafords to get beer for her and blue berry soda for me. I also got some local trail mix with blue berries and cranberries, walnuts and almonds. I kept picking things up, carrying them with me and putting them back. I went to the natural food section, where they have bins of different kinds of trail mix and I sampled them like a stand-up cow in a market, but I couldn’t decide. It was all birdseed to me. I found stuff that you could add to water to enrich it with vitamins. Its most attractive selling point was that it cost 22 cents. I don’t know what I was thinking because I didn’t intend to carry water since the water because you could get water and Gatorade 2 miles. At the cash register, I told the cashier I didn’t want it. Just because something is 22 cents, doesn’t justify buying it.

We went back to our rooms. I napped for half an hour and called G to go for pizza. We were going to bring it back to the room and watch TV. It was a cold walk to Rosalie’s; my erratic behavior continued. We were about to order Pizza and I asked Gina what she wanted. She wanted Garlic and Basil and I vetoed the garlic because I didn’t want to burp up garlic during the race. She said, “I’ve never seen you turn down garlic, before.” We ordered plain; they told us twenty minutes. I found a table in the back where we waited. I kept standing up and walking around. I thought twenty minutes had passed; Gina assured me it was five. I went and got a red pepper shaker to bring back to the room. Gina said, ‘We’re not going to do that. We’ll ask for little packets of red pepper flakes.” She took over for the rational part of my brain while visions of sneakers ran on wet leaves through my head.

We got the pizza back to the room, arranged the chairs. Thank god, or whomever is in charge of the universe or is watching disinterestedly, that the good people of Maine, slice their pizza into eight triangles instead of stupid little squares. I don’t know how they came up with that practice in Chicago.

We watched an NCIS marathon. I’m glad the episodes were repeats because I could not have grasped the complexities if the plots were new to me. We maxed on the ‘za- didn’t leave a slice or even an errant glob of cheese.

I started getting my gear together for the race: neon green dri-fit sox, my Ghost 5 Brooks sneakers, my new hat, black sports bra, black singlet, black and teal long sleeve dri-fit shirt and black pants with the zip up calves; head band for my ears, hat and dark blue micro-mesh hooded jacket. I opened my race packet to get my bib so I could pin it to the shirt.

There were no safety pins in the packet.

I looked again. I looked all over my room to see if maybe I had packed safety pins, knowing that I did not. It was just a kind of Hail Mary pass. I texted Edith. I don’t know why. Just to commiserate.

I tried to figure out if there was anywhere on the Island where I could get safety pins. The restaurants start to shut down around nine and the bars keep going on a Saturday night, especially on Race eve, until Whenever. Bars don’t sell safety pins. Everything else, including gas stations, drug stores, souvenir shops, shuts down around 8 which was about an hour and 15 minutes ago. I think about Wal-Mart in Ellsworth. Aaaarrrgh. I did not want to do that but I couldn’t race without a bib pinned to my chest.

Finally, I remembered the Ugly Duck Bodega, which is the convenience store for the Island. No 7-11 or White Hen allowed here. The Duck was just an independent store where you can buy the things you need late at night: beer, cigarettes, rolling paper, munchies, condoms, adult magazines. The six basic food groups.

We walked in and looked around. Gina liked the look of the place. I told her they get mad if you suggest the smoking aids are for anything other than tobacco. There’s even a sign there that says if you imply you will use rolling papers, pipes or bongs purchased there for illegal purposes, they will throw you out.

The woman at the register asked me if she could help me. My tongue froze. It was as if I did not know how to talk to anyone other than Gina. I could literally feel in my brain, little letters forming themselves into words and getting ready to come down out of my mouth. I said, “I’m running tomorrow and they forgot to put safety pins in my race packet.” I don’t know if I explained to her why I would need safety pins or if she just accepted my word. She said, “okay, let’s see if there are any over here.” There were none among the band-aids and playing cards. “Okay, let’s look over here.” She went behind the register and looked inside a cup used for holding pens, pencils, paper clips, small office supplies in general, I suppose. She asked how many do I need. I brightened up. “Four, if you have them.” She did. I had my phone with me and I said, “You are my new hero. Do you mind if I post your picture on Facebook?” She said, “Not at all. Tell the world about the Ugly Duck.”
I promptly posted her with a short explanation of how she saved my actual life. I would have melted into a puddle of goo, not Gu, if I had had to drive twenty miles to and twenty miles back from Wal-Mart to get safety pins. I have to remember to ask the MDI people if I was the only person who had a Safety Pin Crisis.

I think Gina was ready to put me to bed. We finished the current episode in the NCIS marathon: as the next one was about to start, I said, I’m done. I’m not sure if it was 11 or ten o’clock, but I flossed, brushed, washed, creamed, emu oiled, read a Thor comic and went to sleep. I woke up twice during the night at 1:30 and 4:30 and went back to sleep both times without trauma. That’s a lucky talent I have. I don’t toss and turn.

I got right up at the proper time. I took vitamins with my nano-green moringa powder concoction; I ate two chiobani yogurts. I forgot to eat the pumpkin toffee muffin, but it’s just as well. For some reason, I decided to wash my hair. I think because, Saturday was the day I should have washed my hair and I hadn’t and I didn’t want to go another day or half day with dirty hair. In my mind, I just decided, do what you think you have to do and stop thinking about what you’re going to decide to do. I can be forceful with myself at times, but I can’t always stop myself from doing something futile.

I suited up. I thought about how members of religious orders pray over each article of clothing. I have a great deal of respect for inanimate objects. I knew that each item I wore would work hard and that at the end of the day each would be soaked in sweat. As added protection, I had a hat, a head band for my ears, a jacket. I carried a red bandanna I bought at Dave Alvin show. I had a new waist band, which was expandable. I filled it with my cell phone and ACCEL, a Gu-like substance. It would be a different run without water or gatorade bottles. I looked forward to running without the weight and bounce on my hips.

Down the stairs and out the door. I got Gina and we walked around the corner to the start line. As anticipated, it was raining. I didn’t hear the rain or perceive it through my window so I almost believed that the rain hadn’t come. But, it was steadily drizzling: not big drops but many of them.

But I was part of something huge. I was undaunted by the rain. There were more than two thousand runners and supporters on one of the Bar Harbor streets of souvenir shops and restaurants: laughing, stretching, talking, smiling, eagerly anticipating the challenge of a run which consists of a big hill which bumps up into a bigger hill and then unfolds into fourteen smaller hills and then one more big one which slopes down into the beautiful town of Southwest Harbor. There was indefinable rock music playing, something heavy metallic, a driving instrumental. I couldn’t identify the artist but it felt right for the moment. Walking through the crowd that morning was like entering a big furry, buzzing cloud.

Last year I followed instructions more diligently and arrived at the start line by 7:30. This year, I got there at closer to 7:45. I didn’t stretch this year either: I had started the practice of not stretching before a run. I didn’t talk to anyone except Gina. We watched, always amazed at the bodies of my fellow runners. Nowhere will you see a better assortment of calves and thighs. We checked out the running clothes. Some people were really underdressed considering the temperatures and the rain. Shorts and tanks seemed like no clothes at all to us.

Gina said to me, “You seem relaxed, today. You were a wreck yesterday.”

I kissed her on the cheek and said, “It’s the best day of my life.”

That’s an exaggeration. The day she was born was a better day. It wasn’t raining on the day she was born.

The warning horn went off, I tuned into the start of the race, waved to Gina and started moving towards the starting line. Last year, I wasn’t really hip to race etiquette and I got to the front of the line. This year, I knew I wasn’t going to be in the top 300 finishers so I stayed back a bit and let the big dogs go first.

Boom. The race cannon went off. I started off with a mild jog. Edith told me to run my race in the first ten miles, so I started at my usual, deliberate, “more than a trot” pace. Somebody, a guy, solid, muscular, short brown hair, no-hat, long sleeves, didn’t like my pace and shoved me out of his way on the right. I lost my balance and the outside of my left foot curled under as I tried to compensate from the shock of the hit. I thought I was going down but I recovered. My foot hurt for a second as bad thoughts raced through my brain, but I was okay. Nothing could stop me. Unfortunately, I could not think of a smart rejoinder. I just said, “Nice manners, Clyde!”

I crossed the start line. I had announced on Facebook that I was running certain miles with certain friends in mind. Gina had given the first mile to her other parent, a person from my darker, less sober, past, not my present. I was upset when she did that, but I acknowledged that it was a gracious, positive thing. I gave Gina Mile two.

People passed me. But unlike the last marathon, I held my own against some and even at my trot-plus pace, I passed a few people. The first mile is always a struggle. Usually, my mind goes into reflexive rebellion and starts questioning the wisdom of running, let alone running in the rain. Maybe because it was Race Day, my mind was less resistant than usual and I moved through the first mile into the second, without questioning what the heck I was doing running in the rain. Or maybe my mind was shocked into silence by the absurdity of what I was doing.

The first two miles slope upwards. I ran through the first two; usually, I don’t stop when I’m going up. I like the resistance; I like the thought that if I can go up, it will be that much easier once I am at the top. This could be the result of my early experiences with Catholicism.

Right at the top of the hill, just before mile two, you hit the first drink stand. The volunteers cheer madly and offer gatorade or water. I always take Gatorade for the calories.

Here, I started pacing number 1038. We talked idly. He was about my age. I looked him up later; he was a fellow midwesterner. He was good natured but grim. I passed him, he passed me, I caught up and we ran together a little. He was experienced but not for this marathon. He said, it seemed colder where we were. WE were by the Tarn, mountains on both sides but a lake on the right side of the road. I told him the temperature dropped 5 degrees here but it would get warmer. That made him less grim. I broke away from him. I was skirting the double yellow line and he yelled at me that I could be disqualified if I crossed the line. I looked back. He was laughing. Those wacky midwesterners!

Cleared the Tarn, a few hundred feet more, I’d hit the top of the second crest. That would be mile three. Mile three was Danny’s mile and I thought about the length of time I’d known him, 40 years, and what a fiercely loyal friend he’d been to me.
I had spent part of my training this year running the boardwalk by his house in Long Beach, Long Island, NY. That boardwalk was destroyed later in the year by Hurricane Sandy.

The fourth mile was my dear friend Mary’s mile and I celebrated it with a couple of bites of the snack I brought. It was weird that I was so hungry so soon, but I knew I should eat feed when I needed. During the fourth mile, a guy with a synthesizer and a drum were playing a rock riff out of the back of an SUV. I caught the spirit and started to dance while I ran. It was so silly and so exhilarating. The musician got excited too and started pounding out the beat. I’m running and jumping from side to side, kicking my legs up and just acting crazy. It reminded me that I was there for the fun, not just the run.

The fifth mile brought me through Otter Creek. In May when I was training, I ran this stretch. I had gotten to Otter Creek hoping the small general store was open there. It wasn’t but there were a few older men, true Mainers, hanging about in front. One of them looked at me. I was soaked in sweat and panting. I said, I’d been hoping to get a water at the closed store. He said, nah, it’s closed. I’ll get you one. I said, you don’t have to. He said, I’m not doing it because I have to. I’m doing it because I want to.

Otter Creek is a town that was founded in 1789. It baffles me that it was settled thent. I cannot perceive of a reason for its existence. Lobsters, I suppose.

In mile six I started pacing a man who was 79 years old. He had run his first marathon when he was 56, just like I did. He said he wasn’t supposed to be running, his doctor told him not to run this race, but he was just stubborn he supposed. He also said, he’d been sick for the last month. Then he passed me and kept going as mile seven approached. He was the same old guy who passed me last year!

I love this race and I love these people.

Around seven to eight, the course leaves Route 3 and goes down to the water. The rain got heavier and the wind picked up. I was running down a wooded country road, which didn’t even have a painted dividing line and then it was open on the left side and nature splashed in my face wetly. I kept my eye on the next sheltered portion of the road and just fought to get there. Once I had trees on both sides, I was a little more comfortable.

The eighth mile was OJ’s mile and I ran it with confidence, grateful for the pep talk he gave me day before. Grateful for my memory of him from Sophomore year of high school with huge Afro, like a Puerto Rican Jimi Hendrix, walking around in his basement.

I was running without an iPod again. Well, I had an iPod strapped to my right arm, but with the headband around my head and the hat and the jacket, I couldn’t work the headphones into my ears. It was too much bother. It wasn’t boring without music. I heard the wind, the water, the voices in my head. Occasionally, a driver would honk its horn. Someone would yell “Good Job!” or “You’re doing great!” The run kept me alert.

I partnered up with a young blonde girl from Maine; she was in her twenties, jogging slowly. It was her first race. We kept the same pace for a while, then I passed her. She was favoring her right knee. I’m sorry that I never got her name. We passed the spot where last year a kid riding in the backseat of his parents’ van called me poky. I told the girl running with me that I was hoping to see the kid again so I could tell him, I’m not Pokey, I’m Gumby! She said she doubted he’d get the reference. At least she got the reference.

I carried all my friends with me through the miles. When I ran Farber’s mile, I thought about the time he came to visit me in Chicago and when we had our snapshot taken, sticking our faces in animal heads at the zoo. When I got to Billy’s mile, I thought of his smiling face the first time I handed him a joint and how a few years later he turned down a hit and a shot of Jack Daniels because he was in law school then. When I did Rosey’s mile, I thought of the nights we laughed together at Nathan’s. When I got to Ed Hayes’s mile, I thought about our link through music and how he always came through for me at work. When I got to Ed Walsh’s mile, I thought about our seventeenth year together and all the trouble we got into and all the real trouble we avoided and how lucky I was to survive my childhood and how lucky I was to be alive.

That’s the theme of this run, I thought. I am so fucking lucky to be alive. I mean, who gets to do this stuff? Run through the mountains in the rain at the age of 57? It’s insane!

I ran on and off for the last 13 miles. Usually, I would run the first and last part of each mile, and take off a little bit in the middle. I made it a point to always be running when I approached a mile marker. If I needed a rest, I would keep it as brief as I could. And when I resumed running after a rest, I would count to 300, which was an approximation of five minutes, five times a count of sixty.

Mile 15 has the poster child of the race, the Somes Sound Tree. It’s just a tree but for me and other runners, it is Ygdrasil, the Norse Tree of Life. It has a long trunk. Its top looks like the head of a woman with her long wavy tresses blowing to the left. It stands alone by the sound, which is studded with many colored lobster traps. When you pass the tree and run next to the sound up a hill lined with a sturdy brick wall on one side and the solid stone complexity of Norumbega Mountain on the other, you feel that you are as starkly beautiful as the Maine Coast. If I had a religion, this would be its temple.

The free Gu table is here and as I passed it, the Gu rep was getting ready to leave. There were a couple of other runners near me at the time and we all scarfed up our favorite flavors and filled our pouches and pockets. For the uninitiated, Gu is a packet of sugary energy and electrolytes with a consistency like chocolate syrup enriched by gelatin. It’s delicious because when you eat it, you crave it.

The next miles were through woods, isolated houses, occasional restaurants, boat repair shops and a school bus yard. It’s all green and up and down. Part of it is gravel, part dirt. The road is dotted with those little cylindrical newspaper delivery boxes. It’s not uninspiring but it seems relentless like the serial pounding of my feet on the ground.

The end of the race went faster than the beginning. Edith had told me to run the race like this: first 10 miles, take it easy, the next eight were just another 10 K and the last eight mile section was the real race. The eighteenth mile was Edith’s and ironically, it was a mile in which I walked a lot. Mile 19 had a lot of downslope and I ran most of it. And the rain eased up.

I approached, talked to and passed Denise, the woman I almost hit on Friday. She was walking with a guy, older than both of us. I marveled over the way our lives had touched this weekend because my car had almost touched her.

Just before the 20th mile is a killer hill. It’s more of an upslope than a hill. It reminds me of a dump truck when the cart part of the truck has been dumped fully and is almost perpendicular to the ground. The slope is about 100 feet but from fifty feet away, it looks like it goes straight up. I always run this slope. I grunt right through it and I tell myself that I am a hard ass when I do it. As I was running this slope, I passed two older men. I don’t even know if they were in the marathon, because they weren’t wearing racing clothes. One of them said to me, “How’s it going?” I said my new catchphrase, “Best day of my life!” I heard them repeat it and laugh behind me. When I got to the top of the slope, I saw a race spotter sitting in his SUV. I thought he was calling me over to check my bib; it was covered by my jacket. I said this to him as I approached; he said, “Naah, if ya crazy enough to be runnin’ in this mess, who cares if ya have a bib or not?”

I don’t remember when it stopped raining. All day, I noticed when it stopped and started up again but at some point, I think around 19 or 18, it stopped and didn’t resume. It was a relief that I wasn’t even aware of as hyped up as my senses were. I must have just become numb to the drip, drip, drip of the rain. And I was fully soaked, from hat to socks. Once the sponge is full, you can’t make it any wetter. Maybe I had become one with the rain. Ha, ha, ha.

I turned on to route 102 and then I was in the last six miles, Somesville stretched out before me, home to a beautiful library near a covered bridge and a great lunch spot with killer chowder. I had trained on this last leg of the route most often. As you leave Somesville, it gets deserted quickly. Houses and businesses are scarce; it’s Acadia National Park land.

I passed Echo Lake. On the right is Acadia Mountain. There’s a park station with a bathroom on the opposite side of the road. Then you pass St. Sauveur Mountain. I approached three women; two of them younger than me, one of them about twenty years older. The older woman was walking with poles. They were chatting and laughing and just enjoying this unusually long walk. I walked with them about a half a mile then got back to running. I passed the Top of the Hill restaurant and then an arts and craft center where I had bought Maine Beach Glass earrings for everybody in May.

Gina passed me in the car. I told her that my phone had died en route. She said okay, I’ll meet you at the finish line! Then I passed a gatorade table staffed with people partying like it was 1999. In the miles since about 10 or 11, most of the volunteers were gone leaving behind tables with hundreds of cups with gulps of gatorade and water. The 23 or 24 mile table was staffed with families, kids in costumes, young moms and dads cheering and speakers blasting “Y-M-C-A!” Of course, I danced out the letters as I passed, to great cheers and satisfaction of the volunteers.

I slowed down to rest for a quarter mile. I wanted to run the last two miles. I can’t believe I’ve been by myself for these many hours of running. I wish I could tape everything in my brain. This journal is but a poor attempt at that. What a marvel the human being is. I can’t believe that at one time in my life I was mired in cynicism and resignation. I no longer believe in Impossibility.

There’s a shopping center at or near mile 25 on the approach to Southwest Harbor and at that point I resumed my run. I picked up speed and kept looking around me amazed to see that I was doing it again. I was filled with joy, not like anything else I had ever felt, not even on the last race. The last one could have been a fluke, “oh, look she managed to do a marathon! How nice!” This time, I proved to myself that I was a complete beast.

Gina showed up a little before the 26 mile marker. I stopped and gave her my jacket and iPod and I sprinted the last two tenths of a mile. People were cheering as I crossed, and one of the race administrators hugged me and asked me if I was alright. I gave her my mantra, “Best day of my life!” and she helped me wrap myself in one of those silver blankets. I got an apple, a cookie, a water and a banana.

Gina got me some cool presents: a pumpkin muffin, a love charm to attract a new love for my life, a motley stuffed moose and a cup of coffee. She congratulated me and told me how proud she was of me. I don’t think that a parent can ever get a greater gift from a child than her admiration.

I felt no pain. I was barely tired. I was the luckiest woman on the planet. And up until that day, it was the best day of my life.

They have the best sausage links I have ever had at the Kick Off Breakfast which starts at 8:20 and goes to ten AM. It is preceded by a mile point eight run from the start line to the hotel that sponsors the marathon. I feel like if I go eat sausage, and pancakes and eggs and coffee cake and fruit and coffee with half and half, I better go run first. Then it occurs to me that my life is too full of shoulds and oughts and perhaps I need to concentrate on wants and needs more.
That in and of itself is another should. I could easily drive myself crazy with analysis if I haven’t already.

I got up quickly, showered, nano-greened, (note to self: contact Nano-Green people and get them to pay for product placement), dressed and went to rouse Gina so she got to breakfast. I was late for the starting line so I just ran to the hotel at a quick pace. I had my new hat on and I put my new head band around my throat. I wore a micro fiber jacket over a long sleeve shirt, tank, sports bra, and calf length leggings. In the first few minutes, I didn’t feel the cold; it’s about 40 degrees outside, I think, maybe 45. I have to guess because there aren’t any trail markings but I think I was warm inside of the first mile.
I slowed to a walk for a few feet mid run. I passed some folks, who then passed me who I then passed. My head was warm enough but my ears were cold, but they were okay after a little while longer. There was a little kid, 8 or so, walking with his mom, and when I passed him, he perked up and I heard his mom say,” You ready to run, Ryan?” and he took off with her behind him.

I got to breakfast and rested a second. I got a cup of coffee and looked for a table of friendly strangers. I found one quickly; five women who were all related. They were from Minnesota and they had come to support the son of one, grandson of one and nephew to the other two. They were from a big family: the grandfather had 13 brothers and sisters. Sam, the runner, came up soon. He was tall and good looking and skinny like an accomplished runner. I told them my story; how after back surgery, my surgeon said I would never run a marathon. They had not been to Bar Harbor before so I felt like a native telling them places to go and see in Acadia. Sam and I talked running. I found out he’d run 18 marathons, I said you don’t look older than 18; he laughed and took off his wool cap to show no hair, and he said now I look about 33! Then his mom piped up with, he’s 25. Who wants to be known to have a 33 year old child! I’m thinking, Gina should hurry up, this guy is gorgeous. Sam also told the story of bicycling from St. Cloud, Minnesota to Eugene Oregon in 23 days, sleeping outside most of the time, much to his mom’s chagrin. I was half envious and half empathetic. I’d love to do a 23 day bike ride, through the Dakotas and Montana, but I’d hate to be worrying about Gina doing the same thing.

The woman who I almost hit yesterday, Denise, sat across the room and we renewed our conversation. She and her mom had not done this run before and they both asked me how I trained for the mountains of this run. They were from Florida and were curious because that state, like my home state of Illinois is flat as a pancake. They ran a bridge up and down. I told them I did kind of the same. It’s not the mountains of this course that get you. It’s the concept of the mountains wearing you down. Just change the concept: the mountains give you life:it’s a beautiful run and when you finish, you feel like you’ve conquered the world.

Gina arrived after Sam left so the opportunity to combine those genes slipped by. We visited the expo and came back to town.

More later.

I think I’m beginning to understand why people say running is boring. I’m not bored by running but in keeping this commentary about training, I have to find new ways to talk about doing five miles and feeling great about it.

Today, I almost didn’t run because I love to watch Mark Harmon’s crooked smile on NCIS. Imagine that: preventing oneself from experiencing life because of a desire to watch flickering images on a screen. Then, I just did it, like the Nike ad told me to do.

When I first got to the gym, I sat in my car and allowed myself a catnap. In training, I learned that eating five or six smaller meals its better for you than eating three big ones. I wonder if it’s the same with sleep. I really like naps.

I changed, got on the track, without music again, and started running. I picked out a good pace and stuck with it. As usual in Mile One, i had to get rid of the thought that running is stupid and people who run are stupid and why don’t I go sit down. Mile two, that voice was silenced. In my head I started plotting the two fantasy trilogies I would begin to write. I had a quick water break at the end of Two. Mile three and four went by painlessly. By Mile Five, I was a little tired but I knew that I had done 24 laps and six would be a can of corn. I finished the five miles in under an hour which for me, is a record. If I can do that five times on Sunday, I ‘ll have a race at under five and a half hours. It’s just math. And guts, but really, just math.

I’m ready.

I’m still in civilization, or at least, the City, but in 48 hours I’ll be in Maine, picking up my rental car and getting ready for the drive north to Bar Harbor. Pre-departure, I’m always sensitive to how ridiculously crowded it is here and I’m not even in NYC, I am in the much saner metropolis of Chicago. It took me 40 minutes to travel 11 miles to downtown. I parked on level five of a parking structure with ninety cars on each level; I waited for an elevator with fifty people, got on an elevator with twenty five people, walked into a courtroom with a 100 lawyers representing 200 clients, some of whom were also in the courtroom. I got a future court date five weeks in advance.

There are lots of people in the street; it doesn’t approach the number of people in Times Square at 11:00 pm, but it’s a lot. I always note when I return home from Maine that in the stretch from the gate to the baggage counter, I see more people than I have the entire week I’ve spent in Maine. This weekend’s different because I will be running with 1200 other people and since they will all probably pass me, I will see about the same amount of people in both places.

The good part of being here is that I had the choice of two Starbucks within a block of each other. And they are starting the civic decoration for Halloween: they poured orange dye in the water fountain in front of the courthouse and it now spews sprays of orange water. Unnerving but fun. I ran into a few friends and exchanged pleasantries with them and my wi-fi right now is free. There are conveniences within walking distance: food, books, clothes, music, almost anything you want really is within reach.

Except, open spaces, clean air, mountains, woods, ocean, solitude, supper from the sea, stars at night, the sound of the loon. I often wonder if I love Maine so much because I’m on vacation when I’m there or just because it’s there. Although, I have done work there: filing, client calls, drafting. And I still liked being there even though I was working. So I’m gonna go with loving Maine.

I thought my next long run would be on October 14th, but on Saturday after pilates, my trainer asked me what my running plans were for the weekend. I said, I’m done running until the marathon. She looked at me as if she thought I didn’t understand the question. She asked when my last run was, I told her this past Tuesday, she shook her head, I could feel her disappointment at my lack of commitment. “No, I think you need to run ten miles tomorrow and maybe a five on Tuesday and another short run before Sunday.”

“(Four letter word referring to a common sexual practice!)” I thought to myself. I thought that I was just resting my quads for a week. I resigned myself to another run, thinking at the same time, it’s cooled off now, it’s cooler in Maine and maybe I need to get used to it a little bit.

On Sunday, I had a coffee date scheduled for 11:00 am which meant that my run had to be before or after that. The process of interviewing potential partners in life seems endless. Someday either I or the interviewee will make an offer that the other one will accept. We met at a Starbuck’s in Park Ridge, a neighboring suburb, and sat outside for an hour. It was freezing, but the church crowd monopolized the inside tables. I wished for a moment that Catholics believed caffeine use to be a sin, instead of, well, practically everything else. Then I realized, they’d be there anyway and confess later.

I was chilled thoroughly as coffee concluded and made a quick grocery store stop for some fuel for the run. I got home and sat in my chair contemplating a nap and dreading the cold run. The reluctance to run mounted. I didn’t know what running clothes to wear. If I wore winter running tights I would get hot after a couple of miles; if I wore shorts and a tank top, I’d be fine after a while but the first four miles would be harsh.

I didn’t actually slap myself but I shook my head as if to realign the gears therein. Shoot, Jill. You’re a midwesterner. It’s just the weather. Just get off your ass and dress in layers and peel them off as required. Some people drink too much; I just think too much.

I realized that like grief, running had a similar four stage process. Instead of denial, anger, despair and acceptance, I dealt with laziness, inertia, fear and motion. When all is said and done, I snap my head to attention like a cartoon character and suit up. By the time I have the second sneaker laced, my hesitation blues have faded into memory.

I drove to mile one of the forest preserve run, figuring to maximize the sunshine of my run. The woods of mile zero to one could be pretty chilly. It seems ridiculous to complain, moan and scheme, because it was only 50 degrees not 30 or even 40, but it was the first fifty degree day of fall, and there was a wind chill factor! Okay, that doesn’t excuse my wimpyness, it just explains it. I started to strap on my Ipod and I realized it was out of juice. No rock and roll to keep a beat as I ran. I’d have to concentrate on the world around me without focusing on the pounding of my feet on the path.

Hence the title, Silent Running. (Hey, you try to figure out cutesy titles all the time!)

Just as I get ready to run, my trainer texted me, “Did you run yet? I just did five miles inside! I’m glad that’s done!” I explained the coffee date and said I was getting ready to rock and roll right now. She asked me about the date and I gave the short version.

I was glad for the check in: it made me feel coached. Like the coach wanted to check on her talent. More than that, I felt loved.

The first mile was cold but the cold distracted me from the initial exertion of energy. The second mile was about mechanics; am I lifting my feet, are my arms pumping, are my toes comfortable, are my sun-glasses necessary — just a general visual and sensual survey. The third mile I start to get into the swing of it. Look at the trees, try to hear the conversations of the people who pass me on bike and who I pass on foot, listen to the birds, check out the shapes of the clouds. The familiar sights appear in view – the wall of the maintenance building covered in ivy and the words FUCK YOU! I always say Fuck you too! as I pass. The three glades, the deer, the dip before the Caldwell Bridge, then the bridge itself, which I call the Bridge of Death. I tell myself that if I stop running or try to walk across the Bridge of Death, blue flames will shoot out from underneath and burn me like a pile of leaves.

Mile three to four is woodsy and pleasant, Four to five is the same. Five to six takes me out along Dempster and if I time the lights right, I get like a two minute rest. I got enough time to stretch and then I was off. If I may say so, five to six was run brilliantly, but I was startin to flag. On the way back, six to five started to feel tedious so I started brain games. First, I tried to remember the names of everybody in my eighth grade class. It was a class of 60 people but I got to 57 names. Then, high school, first year, then the name of every high school teacher then the name of every college teacher. Six to five zoomed by; before I knew it, I was out of the woods and into the clearing. Five to four was law school teachers and every concert I ever attended. That reminded me that I had no music so I stopped brain games and concentrated on running. I took a couple of 100 yard breaks between miles three to one but I finished running and in 2 and a half hours. I felt pretty strong still. I could have gone a couple more. I texted E with the totals.

If I can do the same next week, I’ll finish in a little over 6 hours, which would be better than last year. But next week, is going to be different. It’s going to be a thing of beauty in a place of amazing beauty. The things that frighten me will again fade away as I lace up my sneakers.