another marathon tale

My marathon tale has two parts. This is the second part (for the first part, click here.)

When I set my goal to run the first leg of the five person relay at The Detroit Marathon, I was very nervous. Seven miles was far more than I had ever run by the time I registered and I didn’t have a group of people interested in joining me.

Technically, if I couldn’t find five people to share the 26.2 miles, I’d have to run the entire thing myself or forfeit the $200 I plunked down to register. (My son Kit still can’t believe that anyone would actually PAY MONEY to run in a race, but that’s a different post.)

So I held my breath and registered my team. And then I went out and ran my usual three breathless miles.

Over the summer months, I gradually increased my running distance. I was careful not to increase by more than ten percent in a week. At that rate, I knew I had plenty of time to reach my goal.

And I worked on recruiting team members. I asked many people, and many people turned me down. “Good luck with that,” they told me. Finally, I recruited my 15-year old son, Cameron. He hates running, but promised to do his best. He even did some training runs with me in the rising heat of the early morning summer weekends.

My running partner Amy also joined the team. She was so enthusiastic, I got excited each time I talked with her about the marathon. We planned running playlists and talked about what we’d wear and how fast we thought we might tackle our respective race legs.

Amy talked her friend Jen into taking a leg, and I found Sue, a pal from my school community who had already run the relay in previous years. Yay! The voice of experience joined us. Now our team was complete.

Eventually I reached my goal of seven miles. Occasionally I’d run an extra mile, just to know I could do it. It felt good to have eight miles within my ken. I was confident I’d finish my leg with no problems.

It was time to assign legs. I was already set. Jen wanted the three mile leg, Amy was happy with the four-and-a-half. Sue would take the five-point-nine, and Cameron reluctantly agreed to the five-and-a half. In my head, I hatched another scheme to get maximum running time with my husband David, who was covering the full 26.2 on his own.

Our plan was beautiful in its simplicity. I’d start out with David, run my seven miles, and then hand off to Cameron, who would run the next five-and-a-half. Between us, we would run half of the marathon alongside David, then send him off with best wishes and whatever carbohydrate-rich foods we could stuff in the pockets of his shorts. We knew we’d see him at the finish line a few hours later. I was thrilled that I would be able to run next to the person I’d trained with all summer. I knew we would support each other when it got challenging.

The day before the race, we learned that the start times were staggered, with David setting off a full five minutes before me. We planned to meet under a statue at the turn in the road. We separated to our respective corrals and waited for the gun, the throng of anxious bodies keeping us warm in the sub-40 degree pre-dawn temps.

I heard the marathon starting gun and sent a silent wish of luck to my husband. Five minutes later, the half-marathon and relay gun sounded, and I was off.

With over 18,000 people registered in the race, I don’t know what craziness made me believe I’d ever find my husband. I scanned the crowd behind me and raced past those ahead of me frantically searching for a royal blue shirt and black hat, but no luck.

When the realization hit me that I’d have to run the full seven miles alone, I felt so sad. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be! But I plodded on, running the first four miles (to the ascent of the Ambassador Bridge) without stopping.

In the midst of it all, I have to admit to feeling like this running stuff wasn’t so much fun. I didn’t acknowledge that it would be every bit as hard (at times) as my training runs. But it was!

And then I hit my point of equilibrium. This is the point where my breathing becomes consistent, my heart stops its heavy thumping, and I (almost) forget that I’m running. This is the part that I love. And it came not a moment too soon.

I scaled the four percent grade of the Ambassador Bridge, came flying down the other side, persevered across the Canadian river walk and found my relay point – and Cameron. I was so glad to see him! He wondered where Dave was and I told him it was a long story and that he should just get moving.

I stood there with a lemon-lime Gatorade in my hand wondering if that was all. My part was over. And then I saw Dave. He was five minutes behind me, at the very back of the pack. But he looked good and strong and I sent him on his way to find Cameron.

Which, of course, he never did.

Our relay team finished in under five hours, just like we predicted. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. That’s what I like about running: I feel so good after I finish that I (almost) forget how awful it feels in the midst of it all.

a tale of one marathon (and two crutches)

Last Sunday morning, we Charltons were up even earlier than we usually are. The day was finally here: October 19. The Detroit Marathon. The day we trained for. The past five months all came down to just one day.

We gave it our best shot, and the marathon gave back. And then it just kept giving. But not in a nice way.

My husband, David, trained for the whole 26.2, while my son, Cameron, and I had much smaller goals of being two runners in a team of five to cover the miles, relay-style.

David’s journey started with a simple wish to complete a marathon. He’s a regular guy who has been running since he was a college student, competing in whatever 5K and 10K races came his way. He’d even run two half-marathons. And now, in his mid-40s, his goal became larger: run the whole thing. And finish it. Before they closed the course. In under six hours.

Seems fair enough.

So he trained and trained, stretching a 16-week program to 18- or 20- weeks, so he’d be extra ready. He ran the final 20-mile leg of his training, tapered off his training, carbo-loaded.

And you know what? “The marathon was EASY,” he says. For the first 20 miles. Then, at mile 21, right about the time he exited the famed Belle Isle stretch, it got hard. Really hard. “I just couldn’t go any further,” he remembers, and not because he hit “the wall” (known to runners as the point when the body uses all stored energy and has nothing to feed from.)

David’s pain was in his lower right leg, deeper than a shin splint and so intense he couldn’t continue running. He says he considered stopping and waiting for the Weary Wagon to pick him up, but the DNF (Did Not Finish) loomed too large in his mind to consider it. If he had to walk, he was going to make it on his own to the finish line.

And that’s what he did, for the final three miles.

We waited at the finish, all of us gathered together to witness the glory that crossing a marathon finish line must be. Son Kit said a few times “What’s keeping Dad? Why is it taking him soooooo long?”

I wondered the same myself, too afraid to voice my concern. What if he was hurt, or worse, had collapsed? When the time ticks on and it seems like everyone who is going to finish has already done so, the streets of Detroit become a desolate place (even more so than they tend to be in the full throng of the average day.) I worried that David was lying in an exhausted heap in a gutter somewhere.

A couple minutes before the six-hour mark, I climbed on top of a street side planter to get a better view. And there in the distance, I eventually saw him. Hobbling for sure, but moving at a pace somewhere between walking and very, very slow jogging.

I shouted and screamed. Kit echoed at my elbow. He did it! He finished the marathon! All in his own good time.

Of course, a few days, one ER visit, and in full use of two crutches later, we worry that a stress fracture is keeping David from putting any weight on his right leg.

That’s just a small gift from 26.2 miles of the streets of Detroit.

But we are proud of him, even if the fun of fetching his books, his water, his Motrin and his ice packs is wearing a little thin.

People see David coming on his ever-so-slow crutches and joke “Well, he doesn’t look ready to run a marathon any time soon!” Little do they know that’s exactly what put him in this condition in the first place.

Which brings us to next year. Another marathon? It’s too soon to tell, but the fact that David can reminisce about the race already makes me think this won’t be his last marathon, which is fine.

Any time you can set a goal, even a lofty one, and achieve it, I say you deserve to do it again. And again and again and again. Even if you have to do it on crutches.

In fact, THAT’S a sight I’d like to see.

a sponsor i can trust

There’s some big excitement among runners here in Detroit. This Sunday, October 19, is The Detroit Free Press/Flagstar Marathon.

The official excitement started when the Detroit Free Press hit our breakfast table on Monday. Our various names were proudly displayed in the special marathon insert. Cool.

But then, I started to notice something interesting. And honestly, I might not have thought about this if it weren’t for an essay by Stephen King in Entertainment Weekly a few weeks back. King asserts that baseball (another beloved sport in our home) has been ruined by TV greed.

Here’s what he means: when no double play, no chat on the pitcher’s mound, no seventh-inning stretch can go by without an endorsement by corporate America, you know the sport has gone to the big guys. He mentions the Coke-sponsored seventh inning stretch at Fenway Park, and we have the Wallside Window pitching change and the Verizon Wireless call to the bullpen at our own dear Comerica Park.

King says “I tell myself I'm cynical — hardened to all this — and mostly I am, but I'm still amazed at how corrupting television can be...although there's no doubt MLB has loved being corrupted.” Unlike King, who is truly angry that baseball has gone corporate, I just chuckle and shake my head.

But then I begin to see what he means.

I’m not surprised that each Detroit Marathon event is sponsored by another company – The Free Press and Flagstar bank headlining the 26.2 gig. The 5K Run presented by Compuware flies by me, but the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Kid’s Red Nose 5K Fun Run is just plain too much to say.

The pace setters are, by the way, The Bally Total Fitness Pacers, and en-route energy will be provided by The New Balance/University of Detroit Cross Country Team GU Energy Gel Station at the 14.7 mile mark.

I wonder if I could get corporate America to sponsor ME for the 7-mile leg I’m running in the marathon relay? And if so, who would I choose? Comcast Cable? No – I give them too much money each month to be comfortable doing even more for them. 7-11? Nope, not me. These days, I’m more likely to be sponsored by Clorox Disinfecting Wipes or Sun-Maid Raisins or Ultra Palmolive Concentrated Dish Liquid.

But I’d really like to be sponsored by a company that I like and whose logo I would feel proud to wear. Trouble is, these companies aren’t at all part of big corporate America. Hardly anyone knows about them except me.

Maple Creek Farm CSA (community supported agriculture) has, for the past 10 weeks, been helping me feed my family wholesome, organic produce, so I’d consider wearing their name on my chest. Erwin Orchards has some of the best U-Pick apples in Michigan, so they get a vote, too. Garden Fresh Salsa is one of my favorites – and hey, it turns out they too have a close relationship with the Detroit Tigers.

I guess when all is said and done, the one company that I know inside and out (and can trust without flinching even a little bit) is my own company: Team Charlton. Four co-owners, no employees, just love and trust and a shared vision for the future.

Yep, I’ll put that logo on my hat and wear it, any time.

that worry? i'm saving it for later.

I’m an early morning runner. This time of year that means the beginning of my runs are sometimes in the dar, but that’s when I have the most energy. Just before I leave, I stand near the back door to my house, at a tiny set of stairs that leads to the larger first-to-second floor staircase. It’s a small spot, and the wood stairs form a perfect place to stretch my leg muscles before I go out the door.

I turn my head to the left and look at our family calendar on the wall. It’s just at eye level and as I stretch, I occupy my brain by looking at it. Immediately I see the plot of my life for the month. If I look closely, I can see myself scurrying around in my busy daily life – all according to what’s written in the calendar. The craziness of each day is written in each box of each month.

Overwhelming.

I’m still stretching, preparing to run for 45 or 60 minutes or more, but here I stand, perfectly still, letting my muscles ease into the stretch. I’m standing more still than I will be all day, just for a few quiet moments.

Other times, when I look at the calendar, I start to hyperventilate slightly. I freak out about how much I have to do each day and curse my foolishness for this project I’m involved in or that committee I’ve agreed to form, AGAIN. But when I stretch my legs and stare at my calendar, I don’t freak out. I don’t feel my heart beat faster with the dread of all I have to do. I just stare, passively, calmly, as if the calendar mapped out someone else’s life.

I know all of that frenzy will be there no matter what, day after day. That will never change. But that worry is all for later. Because now I have something important to do. Something for myself, for my health, for my mind and, ultimately, for my family. I have to run.

For now, that’s all I need to do. I don’t need to plan a meeting or make a meal or fold laundry. I only have to run.

All the rest can wait.

And if having that feeling three or four times a week isn’t motivation enough to run, I really don’t know what is.

your road? or mine?

The bird suddenly became stiff, its neck straight and firm. As it fell to the ground, it looked like the yellow duck my son used to play with in his bath. Perhaps it was in shock; more likely it was already dead.

A second bird flew up and away to safety.

It’s amazing how quickly a life can move from free flight, in the midst of a bird-crazy game of swooping dangerously close to traffic, to complete stiffness, a lifeless body bobbing in the road between speeding cars like a ball gradually losing its bounce.

We don’t often witness such a quick death. It makes us catch our breath and realize how very fragile we all are after all.

Jacqueline Robinson met her end in a tragic encounter with a car, too. According to a story in The Detroit Free Press, the 40-year old Detroit woman was riding her bicycle in the wee hours of September 19 when a car struck and killed her before driving away.

Now, Robinson’s life is memorialized at the roadside by a mountain bike, pained ghost-white and draped with a little sign revealing her name and the date she died. No one has claimed responsibility for the “Ghost Bike,” but the paper reports it is part of a quiet movement meant to expose tragic car versus bicycle deaths on roads that were meant for us all.

On Freep.com, Handyman2112 posted his thoughts:

“…those very roads that we're supposed to share with the bicyclists are built
and maintained by the taxes that we drivers pay on every gallon of gas that we
buy. What do the bicyclists contribute? Maybe there should be a road tax on
those fruity-looking body suits they all wear.”

RunAndBike countered:

“To all of the ignorant and arrogant posters regarding bikes sharing the road,
please brush up on the Michigan Vehicle Code. Bicycles are considered vehicles
and have a right to occupy a FULL LANE of the road if they choose (unless posted
and prohibited).”

The arguments go back and forth for quite a few comment pages, if you care to read on.

What’s your view? Do bicyclists deserve to fear for their lives when they share the roads? Are we Detroiters so in love with our cars that sharing the road just isn’t an option? Is it a right, or a privilege, to drive freely, without consideration for those who are smaller and more vulnerable?

And is it really about car versus bike, or something a whole lot bigger?

I imagine that Jacqueline Robinson’s family is missing her. What can we do to make sure this doesn’t happen again?

Photo by Bill McGraw, Detroit Free Press

in the pink

Fall colors are here, and once again, we're surrounded by pink.

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and Leslie Martinez stood up and pledged to do something pretty amazing to recognize the event. She considered it, tossed it around in her head, asked her friends and family what they thought, and then signed her name on the dotted line.

Next June, Leslie will walk the distance of two half-marathons, back to back. Over the course of a weekend, she’ll cover 26.2 miles on foot. She’s doing the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.

Everyone knows the commitment this kind of event requires. For months, Leslie will train by walking her neighborhood or on a treadmill, following a training plan designed to get her to just the right fitness level. And she’ll be reducing her own risk of breast cancer just by doing the training.

What many of us don’t know is that each person who walks in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer must raise a minimum of $1,800 just to participate. “I’m a non-athletic person, so to be willing to walk for that long and that far AND raise that kind of money – well, I’m either insane or highly dedicated,” says Leslie.

I vote for the latter.

Dedication means Leslie will be donating $400 of her own money. Then she’ll ask her friends to dig deep. The rest she will make up through pot luck dinners, garage sales, and countless pink-iced cupcakes adorned with pink ribbons, which she’ll sell one by one.

Leslie says she will walk for everyone who has been touched by breast cancer. It’s a big group: over two million women living in America right now have been treated for breast cancer. And the group swells to include those 175,000 who are yet to be diagnosed each year.

But she’ll also walk for the children, husbands, mothers, fathers and siblings who have loved and supported a woman through breast cancer. Leslie’s grandmother died of breast cancer, and her own mother is a survivor who braved surgery and radiation not five years ago. Breast cancer is one of those diseases – if you can’t say you have felt its effects personally or within your own family, undoubtedly you know someone who can.

So why doesn’t Leslie just donate the money and politely bow out of the marathon distance?

“I’ll walk because I CAN,” says Leslie. “Twenty-six point two miles is nothing compared to 26.2 hours of chemo, 26.2 hours of doctor’s visits or 26.2 hours of radiation.” Leslie hopes her $1,800 will help uninsured women get quality health care – and if she gets one underserved woman the mammogram she needs, she may just save one life.

Leslie says raising a bunch of money and walking more than 25 miles is the hardest thing she’ll ever do. I think she’s wrong. Turning her back on the event because she doesn’t want to ask people for money, or because she loathes the idea of training for months to walk such a distance … that would be the hardest thing she’d ever do.

How do I know so much about Leslie? She’s my sister. And I’m proud of her commitment.

If you’d like to support Leslie, please visit her website by clicking here.

physical exercise? or mental?

“So you make two loops and then you twist?”

“No, I think you do the twist first, then the loops.”

“Here, let me try. Uh? Howd’s it work?”

This week my children and I busied our kitchen with homemade pretzel making. We were all craving chewy, salty doughiness and had never made pretzels from scratch. After punching down the inflated dough and pulling it from the bowl, we sectioned it in eighths and hand-rolled each piece into a rope.

Then came the fun part: figuring out how to make a pretzel shape. It’s deceptively difficult.

A loop, a couple of twists and a pinch. And once you think you’ve mastered it, you get to prove to yourself that you have to figure it out all over again with the next piece of dough. Each dough rope is like the very first time.

If we made pretzels day after day, we’d quickly become accustomed to the loop/twist/pinch and could do it in our sleep. But for now, we are still firmly in the learning stage.

My friend Molly says something similar about running.

She confesses that before she started her “running career” she assumed that running was all about the body – once the legs become accustomed to the motion of running and the heart gets used to beating so fast -- running is essentially a no-brainer. You run without giving it a second thought, just like brushing your teeth or taking a shower.

Hold up! This is where the needle scratches across the record.

Yes, to some extent, running does become easier the more you do it. Your legs scream a little less each day, and your breathing eventually returns to your command. You can predict at what landmark you will start to sweat. Even the hallucinations stop, for the most part (though at the tail end of a really long, hard run, bushes swaying in the breeze still look an awful lot like smiling children waving slowly and serenely, dressed in 1950s play clothes, like they do in a very bizarre cusp-of-waking dream.)

But what never becomes easier is the simple act of getting out the door, especially if you have four young children, a large extended family, a husband and a dog who need you every waking moment of the day, as Molly has. The mental strength needed to motivate Molly to run day after day far exceeds any physical challenge running started out as.

But somehow she does it. You can’t set your watch by her, but Molly drags herself out, sometimes in the company of one or more children in the jogging stroller or on bicycle, because she knows how good running feels. And, maybe in the long run, because she wants to instill in her kids a love of exercise. She is a positive role model.

And this is all the more difficult because Molly, as an overworked mom, has the wisdom to know how good it feels to lie on the couch with a book or some knitting.

We running moms admit it – it’s not always family needs we hurdle in order to get our shoes laced and our running bras correctly positioned. Just as often, it’s the exhaustion that sets in from caring for others day in and day out.

It’s just another life lesson we learn from running. Physical exercise transitions into mental exercise.

And because we are mothers, we are up for the challenge of both. Thank goodness.