Writing With My Feet

A little slice

2010-07-08T07:25:00.000-07:00

This has been a hot summer. Day after day of 90-plus temps, and it’s beginning to wear a bit. Running can become a private war on days like these. The work needs to be done, but the mind-body connection isn’t happening. By some miracle, I get outside, start moving, and hope for the best.

This morning I decided to close my mind to the art film that is constantly developing, editing, replaying, over and over and over in my head. Instead, I opened my mind to the little things, the tiny, almost imperceptible joys of running early in the morning, as the world is just awakening.

It would be easy to force the focus, to keep my eyes consciously trained on the next little thing, every bug or butterfly or bird. But that would be cheating. So I just unburdened myself. I opened my heart and my eyes and waited for something to happen, knowing that maybe nothing would happen. And in the process, I saw things I know those whizzing by on bicycles, let alone those in hermetically-sealed cars, would never see. And if I blinked or looked the other way, I’d never see them either.

I saw three male goldfinches, feathered bodies like pure sunshine, tangled in a spat in a low tree. I saw a huge black beetle, overturned and grasping at a life slipping away (should I use a stick to turn it over?) I saw a fat worm covered in an army of tiny ants, intent on some communal task. I saw a honeysuckle plant, dense with orange flutes, thriving up a light pole towering to the blue sky. I only imagined, however, the hummingbirds and butterflies.

Mile by mile, with my heart exposed, I made it through my morning run in relatively cool 83-degrees, a teaser for the 95 the mid-afternoon will see. Another day, a different perspective.

As always, I’m glad I did.

This used to be so easy

2010-05-04T09:03:00.001-07:00

If not exactly easy, it must have been at least doable, or I wouldn’t have lasted two of the 20-plus weeks of half-marathon training I sweated through last summer.

I’m talking about running.

I’m aware that my memory is as susceptible to clouds as an average spring day. Sometimes scenarios are not exactly as I remember. It’s some sort of protective mechanism the mind has over the body’s will, like the selective memory a mother has about the physical pain of childbirth, the sleepless nights of a child’s first few years, and the “what was I thinking” reality of life with a two-year old.

And all hail! This mind/body disconnect has practically insured the survival of our species.

My brain plays a certain loop which contains multiple falsehoods. My fantasy memory every time I think about running: me, moving swiftly and effortlessly with friends on a warm, humidity-free morning. Dewdrops twinkle playfully on perfectly manicured lawns. Not a bug in sight. The air is broken only by the calling of birds and the easy laughter…yes, laughter…I share with my running partners. Oh, I should add that I’m at my ideal weight and look absolutely breathtaking in my running skirt.

Film misfeeds and catches in the projector [here]. Lightbulb burns hole in film [here].

“So, how was your run this morning, honey?” I conveniently forget the many emails and texts I send to my husband about the sheer difficulty of running and what makes me think I’m a runner and how dare I even try, blah blah blah. (He is, as ever, patient and soothing. “Running is hard. It just is,” he says.)

If running were as fun and effortless as my memory suggests, who wouldn’t want to do it?

Whatever the cause of my selective memory, I opt to remain blissfully, hopefully single-minded about running.

I’m proud that my optimistic nature keeps me engaged in a hobby that is good for my heart, bones, blood, skin, legs, toenails… (Well, maybe not toenails.) When I think about running, especially running in the spring and summer months, I smile, rather than cringe.

That fantasy loop? I’m pressing play. Again and again and again.

Run Easy sign on Flickr by Running Engelhardt

Some names have been changed to protect the innocent

2010-05-03T12:06:00.000-07:00

School has been in session for almost a week, and my oldest son Cameron, a strapping 15 year old, comes home each day STARVING. I well remember that after-school ravenous feeling myself. But as Cam is tucking into a tuna-on-toasted multigrain, I find I’m hungry too.

Not for food, but for intel.

I need the ins and outs of his day. Who did he talk to? What embarrassments happened in English class…events that soon, very thankfully, will be pegged as “so yesterday?” What boy/girl chemistry sprouted in the biology lab?

To me, Cameron’s academics are a distant second to the larger lessons of high school -- those involving the dirty, sticky mess of the real world. It’s an education I live all over again.

Cam dishes about who fails to bring lunch each day, which garage bands have formed, which have split, which kid has the most admirers. (Yes, there's an ongoing contest about whose domain enjoys the most fluttering female eyelashes.)

The conversation comes alive when Cameron chats with a friend, both seated at our dining room table (conveniently within eye- and ear-shot of the kitchen. Oh, I do love the person who designed this house.) They speak freely.

“Doesn’t it seem like all the kids who went to [a neighboring middle school] have speech impediments?”
“Yeah! What’s up with that?”

This sparks a collaborative list of maybe 15 kids and what exactly they have trouble saying. Rs and Ss are at the core of most of these, but there’s an odd one thrown in here or there, like the inability to say “red ribbons” or “gym locker.”

I can’t quite tell if the issue is with the speakers, or the listeners. No matter. I’m learning that whatever a teenager perceives, incredible or quirky, becomes reality, plain and simple.

For at least 30 seconds. Or until next week, which is the same as forever.

“I hear in swimming class Aaron Simpson thrashes in the water. He never seems to get anywhere. It’s hilarious. How does that even work?”
“Dude! I know it. He was in my class. I had to count his laps and it was pretty slow going. Painful.”
“I heard that on the first day, Harrison jumped in the pool and then started to drown, so the teacher had to jump in to save him. Fully dressed!”

This one I know is true. I’m relieved that the teacher was on his game. Pools plus teenagers can equal some pretty disastrous results.

Pretty soon, a portly man walks down the sidewalk, passing by our dining room window. The boys take notice.

“Hey, doesn’t that look just like Mr. Akin, the science teacher?”
“Oooooh, yeah. Except Akin’s more ripped.”
“Yeah. He and Mr. Stewart run to the gym after class and curl one-hundreds every day.”

I giggle a little at this. I don’t know these men, but the image in my mind is vivid. Men with big bellies, puffing under the weights while chatting casually about photosynthesis.

It’s delicious to be on this side of high school, peering in. I envy the experience of growing up, yet shiver at the thought of doing it all over again. My son’s chatter reminds me that high school is a testing ground – a time to fertilize connections between tiny buds of life and the grander scheme of things.

Having just poked up from the firm, comforting earth of early childhood when family is life’s only reference, high school attacks like harsh sunlight, drenching rain and threatening wind, all at once. Life-giving, but scary too.

And once that blossom opens to the sky, rooted but growing upward every single minute, high school becomes a time to recognize the foibles of others, comparing them to our own. Those we can control (like jumping into a pool), and those we can’t (like spraying spit when we say “fish and chips”). That’s the extracurricular education that grows naturally from boys beginning to take notice of their world.

Thankfully, this gentle ribbing is as far as it goes for Cameron and his friend. At least while I’m listening.

I know that all too soon, Cameron and his pals will be off in college, living their lives, and I’ll have precious few chances to hear their conversations. But for now, my ears are open, and I’m listening for all I’m worth. You never know what I might learn.

a common thread

2009-01-07T10:14:00.000-08:00

Christmas is over for another year, and as I type, I’m in the car en route from Chicago back home to Detroit. I’m always happy to return home after spending a few days with family, then a couple of nights in a hotel in the city.

This is the time, in the waning days of year, my husband and I hash through the happenings of the previous 12 months, usually marveling at the swift passage of time. It’s also the time we share our dreams, plans and resolutions for the coming year.

Sometimes when I think back over time, I find a common theme for the year, like a silver thread in a tapestry that stands out among the more mundane daily threads. This reminds me of the silver hairs I’m noticing more and more in my hair – yet another startling reminder of the passage of time. Notice how I say “silver” rather than gray – it’s a more regal word.

A few months ago, my dear friend Cindy shared with me some exciting news. She and her husband, who own a beautiful and unique home here in the Detroit area, bought another beautiful and unique home to which they plan to transition over the next few years as they move into the next chapter of their lives.

The new home is on the western side of Michigan, very near Lake Michigan and close to Chicago where their son now lives. My nickname for their new home is “Frank’s House” because this special home was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, an architect whose work I have always admired, but, until now, had not known much about. Cindy has her own name for her new home, based on her experiences of becoming acquainted with the home – much to her surprise. Make sure you read what she has written about her path of discovery to her new home.

A few months later, my friend Gigi and I were sharing book recommendations and she suggested I read “Loving Frank,” a fictional account of Frank Lloyd Wright’s real-life affair with Mamah Borthwick Cheney, a very early American feminist who lived with her husband and children in one of his designs in Oak Park, Illinois. Told from Mamah’s perspective, the novel is wonderful and surprising – a must read. And the best part is the glimpse into the private life of a man touched by genius. If you plan to read the book, I encourage you to abstain from learning much about Wright’s life while you are reading. The end of the book is very dramatic and you’ll be happier if you remain ignorant of the real-life happenings.

My husband knew of my growing interest with Frank Lloyd Wright and took the chance to book tickets for a tour of the Frank Lloyd Wright home and studio during our Christmastime visit to Chicago. Since our children were with us, he chose a special “design detectives” tour especially for kids AND led by a couple of young teenagers.

A freak December rainstorm didn’t dampen our excitement for the tour and the guides didn’t disappoint. They had their own opinions about Wright’s work and actively encouraged questions and comments along the way.

We learned about Wright’s influences and how he incorporated them into his designs. We looked carefully for signs of nature, Froebel gifts and Japanese influences in Wright’s home. We counted fireplaces and marveled at the beauty of the windows – carefully obscured by Wright’s trademark leaded glass designs and positioned high on the walls to allow maximum exposure of surrounding nature, yet minimum views of neighboring homes Wright considered to be highly unattractive.

After our tour, as we walked down Forest Avenue, we counted several Wright homes, and on Lake Street, the famous Unity Temple in Oak Park, all beautiful in their own ways, and we felt a little closer to the genius mind that created them.

I love how Frank Lloyd Wright has offered me a welcome distraction from the difficult year 2008 has been. His enduring and widespread designs remind me that with time, most hard situations can be overcome. Since he built his home in 1890, our country has seen two World Wars, numerous other conflicts political and economic, and somehow we are still here. And we can still appreciate beauty.

saving my feet

2008-12-16T07:50:00.000-08:00

Runners know that strong, healthy feet are critical to a positive running practice. We hear and read about thighs, backs, hamstrings and knees, knees, knees, yet no one talks much about feet.

Until there’s a problem. And I have a problem.

I have inherited an inefficient mechanical system in my feet. Simply put, my feet don’t work the way they are supposed to. This problem, coupled with the complete lack of arch to varying degrees in each foot, has brought bunions into my life. Hard, bony knobs that protrude from the joint of my big toe. That alone would be a problem – shoes don’t fit and any pressure causes a lot of pain – but the bone has caused my big toe to angle uncomfortably toward my smaller toes. It’s a problem I’ve seen coming for decades.

I know what adopting a “wait and see” attitude would bring: toes that eventually cross over or under each other in an attempt to find space while the bony bump grows larger and larger. Would I be able to fit into shoes in my 80s? Would I be able to walk? Would arthritis cripple me?

Four years ago I had surgery to correct the most aggressive of my two feet. It was long and hard. Eight weeks in a cast to my knee, followed by weeks of gradual recovery. I shudder when I think about it.

I wasn’t a runner then, so my recovery was more of an inconvenience than a life-changing event. I do know that my foot was stronger when I recovered. It saw me through hundreds of logged miles when I eventually did start running.

After I completed the Detroit Marathon relay in October, I had my second bunion surgery. People asked “You did it again?” I have two feet, I answer, with a chuckle. Thankfully, this foot was less deformed, and my swifter recovery is proof. Two weeks in a foot-only cast, followed by a month or so of non-weight bearing exercise to strengthen and heal before I can run again.

I guess it’s not strictly correct to say that I still have bunions. But to me, because my feet still work the same way as they always have, I risk regrowth. I don’t know how long that could take, but I’m willing to consider myself a “recovering bunion-oholic.” Like an alcoholic, I’ll never be truly free of the risk of relapse.

Now, well into my recovery, I feel wistful when I see a runner brave the Detroit December elements. I say “Oh! There’s a runner!” and my children pat my hand, as if to say “It’s OK, Mom.”

I’m discovering how much I depend on running to balance my life, soothe my mental health. A potentially devastating downturn in the economy crowds my thoughts, and when I’m not in motion, patiently allowing the thoughts to do their work and then leave my brain, scattered on the sidewalk like dried leaves behind my running feet, the thoughts linger. And grow larger.

Because the economy is affecting my working life, I find I’m struggling to figure out who I am and where I fit, as a stay-at-home mother whose children are at school all day, and a writer whose assignments have all but dried up.

Running for me is so much more than physical exercise. And I’m only now beginning to understand this. Running keeps me sane. So, for the last four weeks, I’ve been just under the sane radar. And it hurts.

Thankfully, the year is coming to an end. And so is my recovery. I feel a burst of something good and positive coming toward me, by way of my own internal control. Slowly, carefully, I’ll start running again.

And it will be like the first time.

I can’t wait.

no man's land

2008-11-11T14:05:00.000-08:00

Today is November 11, Veteran’s Day here in America. Collectively, we pause for a moment (usually when we realize there is no mail service today) and remember the various veterans of wars our country has taken part in. Commonly, we consider the Vietnam War and the ongoing Iraq War – those safely within living memory.

But in other parts of the world, this is Armistice Day, the marking of the end of World War I. British wear red paper poppies on their chests for weeks before November 11, in remembrance of the 60 million European soldiers who fought in The Great War.

In one of my many running playlists, I have a special song that reminds me of kindness and brotherhood that sparked one night on the battlefields during Christmas, 1914. The song is All Together Now by a 1990s Liverpool band called The Farm.

The song itself is a historical account of a temporary, trenches-decision ceasefire between British and German soldiers fighting in Belgium. In the cold, miserable night, the Germans decorated a small tree to celebrate a nationally beloved holiday. The British eventually joined in and the two forces met in “no man’s land,” the flat border separating the two camps.

They laughed, joked, sang carols together and generally agreed to abandon their weapons for just one night in what I believe to be one of the most touching gestures of peace in modern history.

Here are some of the lyrics of All Together Now:

December 1914 cold, clear and bright
Countries' borders were right out of
sight
When they joined together and decided not to fight

All together now
All together now
All together now, in no man's
land

The boys had their say and they said no
Stop the slaughter
let's go home, let's go, let's go, let’s go, let’s go home.

OK, that last part always makes me sing out loud – partly because the song always seems to appear when I’m on a long run, homeward bound, and more than ready to finish, and partly because it’s catchy and fun to sing. Any family members who happen to be running with me laugh, or sing along.

I’d like to think that the no man’s land party was just one example of kindness shared and hatred forgotten that we absolutely need in order to have a nourishing, sustaining society. In no way can we add up all the moments of kindness during a war so that they will outnumber the moments of bloodshed and evil, but it’s nice to know that they existed, if even for just a fleeting moment.

Intellectually, I know that these soldiers finished their party, went back to their trenches, slept a bit, and the next day picked up their guns and continued to fight. It was probably a very difficult thing to do.

But being kind isn't nearly as difficult as we make it out to be. Maybe if we all hold stories like this in our hearts, it will remind us to reach out and extend the hand of friendship when times get hard. Or maybe even just when we feel the impulse.

I can hope, can’t I?

Here’s more information about the WWI Christmas Truce of 1914.

the sun of change

2008-11-05T07:28:00.000-08:00

Wow. The world feels like a different place this morning. Already I have received phone calls and emails from excited friends who sound like they are in the dawn of a new day. They have very high hopes for a long and especially prosperous day under our new president-elect, Barack Obama. Or maybe they are just happy to have avoided “more of the same” for the next four years.

And what an awesome responsibility we have heaped at the feet of Mr. Obama. If ever we needed an “out of the box” perspective, it is today – well, actually it was yesterday…and last week…and last year.

I have to admit that I tricked my kids. Both of my sons have taken a varying interest in the election since they have talked about in our home and in their schools.

But I wanted to seal the deal. I wanted them to be able to say “I remember where I was when Barack Obama became president.”

A few days ago, I told them each I was sure that John McCain would be the victor on Tuesday. “Naw, Mom!” Kit said. “Obama will win! He won at our mock election at school.” (This from the little boy who “voted” for George Bush four years ago. “He seems like a nice guy,” was his conclusion. Not too far off from half the country’s reasoning at the time.)

“Nope. I don’t think so,” I answered in my most self-assured voice.

So I challenged each son to a bet. One dollar said Senator McCain would be our next president.

“You are SO going to owe us a dollar,” said Cameron. “How do you think you’ll spend your dollar, Cam?” asked Kit.

Bingo. They were hooked. My 15-year old didn’t need this shenanigan, but my 10-year old lapped it up like a kitten. I couldn’t peel them away from the television and laptop last night.

Cameron took the helm at the remote, switching between NBC and BBC America, whose coverage was hilarious, I might add. (It was a crack-up to see the American-born experts struggle to understand the various accents – and rather bizarre questioning -- of the presenters.)

The night before the election, we found a “Electoral College Quiz” online and took it together, missing all questions but one. I have to say we are all much smarter about the Constitutional process now.

I fell asleep before 9, not knowing who held which state’s votes. And then I dreamed that John McCain did indeed win the seat, and I offered my shoulder for tender-hearted teenagers to cry upon.

When I woke up and made my way downstairs this morning, my husband told me I was two dollars poorer today and my boys whooped and hollered and wanted their cash. I told them I’d have to make good later in the day. “I don’t usually carry that much cash on me,” I said.

And sadly enough, with the economy such as it is, that’s the truth.

Good morning all! Welcome to our NEW DAY. May the sun of change smile upon us all.

another marathon tale

2008-10-23T15:57:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-10-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-17T12:06:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-10-11T16:21:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-10-08T09:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-04T17:08:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-10-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

“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.

in the long run, torture is actually good for us

2008-09-26T07:20:00.000-07:00

In his memoir “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” novelist Haruki Murakami casually reveals that his body is the type which responds positively to lots of food and little exercise.In his case positive means higher numbers on the bathroom scale.

I know what you are thinking: gee, that sounds familiar.

Murakami continues by saying his wife is just the opposite. She eats -- no matter what or how much -- and she stays slim. Yeah, we all know one of those. I saw her in the gym, just the other day. (And for the record, she wasn’t exercising. Just picking up the boyfriend.)

But back to my point: Murakami lives his life, writes his books, eats as mindfully of his belly as he can…and he runs six miles a day.

Poor guy, we sniff, mentally photoshopping our own scowling faces onto his body. Here he is, sweating and toiling on the road each day while his wife eats bon bons and frets because her size twos are too big to belt.

Life is so unfair.

How is it that some body types actually boost metabolism by consuming MORE calories? We know where this is going, and quick: Murakami will no doubt finish out the pages reeling off a zillion examples of the injustices which taunt the endomorph. Huh. I could have written this chapter myself.

Murakami says those “lucky ones” who don’t gain weight easily don’t need to exercise in order to stay slim. “There can’t be many of them who would go out of their way to take these troublesome measures when they don’t need to,” he says. True enough.

Yet the next paragraph is as refreshing as a low-calorie mint-and-melon smoothie. (Fellow endomorphs, listen up.) Those skinny people who don’t exercise? Their physical strength deteriorates as they age. And, because they have no reason to exercise to shave off pounds, they aren’t doing squat to counteract it!

We softies and roundies, on the other hand, have been exercising all along, fighting the bulge … and keeping ourselves young in the process. Fifty years from now, we endomorphs will be as spry as spring chickens, our joints well lubricated from decades of effort and sweat. And, hopefully, our minds will be sharp and nimble, too.

What seems so very unjust right now will be oh, so sweet in those octogenarian years. Just you wait.

We’ll just have to remember to be kind to those “skinny folks” we fantasized about taking down all those years ago. Yeah, sure we will.

a teachable moment?

2008-09-23T06:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had a bad day. I spent way too much time spinning my wheels at work, fretting over some challenging homework for a class I am taking, even panicking over dinner preparations. By 6:00 I was spent.

So, I laced up my shoes, pocketed a snack and...

Went to a Detroit Tigers game. (You thought I was going to say I went running. Well, that would have been predictable.)

As much as running is the universal soother, sometimes it's just not a good fit. That's when getting away from home and getting lost in a crowd is the perfect antidote. Why wouldn't I relish spending an evening with my husband and 10-year old son, Kit -- who, by the way, is crazy into baseball -- at a late-season game on a beautiful Monday evening?

The row of men sitting in front of us had a running joke about a blue sign they were wrongly accused of harboring -- allegedly emblazoned with a derogatory comment regarding the Detroit Lions head coach --but they did take time to chuckle over my son's incredible baseball prowess. Although Kit's incessant ramblings about RBIs, ERAs and pick-offs can get tedious at home, in the ball park it's really all very interesting. And relevant.

And of course, we came to see the aftershocks of last week's incredible dust up between aging designated hitter Gary Sheffield and pretty much the entire team of Cleveland Indians. We caught that little jaw dropper on television, and it was one of those moments during an otherwise ho-hum game that made us sit up straight and pay attention.

Afterward, our family conversations swayed between "Ooooh! Can you believe the Sheff? He was MAD! That was cool," and "Of course, punching the pitcher in the face is really no way to resolve a conflict."

I'll let you guess who was saying what.

Grown men, the idols of kids across the nation, can find no other way to show disapproval of another player's actions than to flip him like a pancake? What does that prove? And who laughs last?

Certainly not Sheffield, who was absent from last night's game against the Kansas City Royals serving a four-game suspension. And it doesn't help that today's Detroit News reports Sheffield as saying "It will never end until I get you. That's just the way it is. I don't mess with nobody. I don't bother anybody, but when you bother me, it's on. It could be off the field, on the field, it doesn't matter."

Yikes. Is Sheff planning to jump from the sports page to the front page after hunting down Indians pitcher Fausto Carmona and catcher Victor Martinez in Cleveland, which, by the way, is geographically very close to Detroit? I mean, what else does a guy do while he's suspended? Is revenge that sweet?

And on a larger issue, is Sheffield's mother proud of all this? Can she say she's happy that her son is openly vengeful and, apparently, will spout his intentions to any sports reporter who's asking?

I'd love it if my sons can recognize that rising above punching fists or turning the other cheek can be a very manly thing to do. Even if it isn't such a popular option these days.

You can be sure I will continue to talk with my kids about all of the choices we have for resolving conflict. And I expect our conversations to continue for some time, or at least until Kit stops muttering "But it was pretty cool" under his breath at the first mention of Gary Sheffield and his pancake-flipping shenanigans.

it takes a village

2008-09-20T16:46:00.000-07:00

In the wake of local news stories spewing grim truths like "First Grader Brings Gun to School," conversations with other mom-friends have taken on a different tone lately.

How can stuff like this happen? we wonder aloud. What are his parents thinking? we ask. What could be next? we whisper.

The worst part might even be our ever-decreasing shock as we read story after story, gun after gun, school after school. In some frightening way, we begin to normalize what we hear and read, each incident becoming less shocking -- until it finally happens in our own school or in a school down the street, sparking our fear and disbelief all over again.

"Not in my backyard" becomes "Oh no. Not again."

At a party to celebrate a friend's divorce this week, a woman who has no children of her own, but who is getting to know her partner's young teens, asked aloud "How do you protect your kids as they grow? How do you know they'll make the right decisions? How do you guide them when they become teenagers and can basically do what they like?"

Excellent question. Is there an answer?

For her, navigating the waters of influencing children as they grow into adulthood is like running a marathon with no preparation or training to keep her strong for the long haul. Sure, she gets her "walk breaks" because the three kids visit often, but don't live with her. But when she's in the thick of it, she wonders how much they listen to her or watch her movements for clues on how to push forth into the world on their own.

She offers books and walks in the park. They don't always accept. They don't always see the value. Does she make an impact? she wonders. Is all this sweat even worth anything?

Yet I assure my friend that she has more influence than she believes. She is in an enviable position for moms everywhere trying to make that all-important connection with a child who is on the cusp of shutting out all adults. She's like the cool aunt who makes money doing a creative job, who has a home strewn with things never touched by children, a funky place filled with furniture chosen for its own value, rather than just being "sturdy enough for a family." She lives her days doing as she pleases, answering only to herself. A teen's dream come true.

Maybe my friend doesn't have the luxury of breaking out of the starting line with a babe in arms to mold and shape as she tiptoes through its infancy, picking up the pace when it darts around in toddlerhood, breaking into an all out sprint when the elementary school years hit.

No, she's in full sweat when the three kids are around. She's running at breakneck pace to keep up, without the years and years of training the act of giving birth offers for those who are paying attention.

In the end, I remind my friend that every child benefits from another loving adult who takes more than a passing interest. Kids who are supported by caring adults who aren't their parents have just one more role model to learn from and follow. They are the lucky ones.

I wouldn't be surprised if she continues running alongside these three, taking in their hurts and sorrows as well as their joys and triumphs. And just when she gets used to the pace, the marathon will end and the kids will be adults, elbowing through their own lives, forging ahead to bigger and better races, perhaps even influencing children of their own.

And then my friend can slow to a walk, breathe deeply and take in the scenery. Her finish line will be within reach.

running by the numbers

2008-09-17T05:28:00.000-07:00

I've always had a difficult relationship with numbers.

Back in school, math and I never got along very well. Math was aloof ... I was afraid. Just not a good mix. I just couldn't pick math's brain to find my own way of feeling the numbers and learning just how they work.

I was too scared to stray away from the "rules" of school math, so I gave up. Math and I simply coexisted until we didn't need to anymore.

We rarely talked for years, meeting only for the occasional checkbook encounter or comparison shopping thing.

When my oldest son reached elementary school, his math curriculum was called Everyday Math and was based on the concept that math is everywhere, all the time. We shouldn't fear math! No! We should seek it out in all its glory, every single day.

Wow! That was different ... and kind of exciting, even. Learning math alongside my son the "everyday way," I discovered a freedom from the rules of my educational yesteryear. I could break numbers down in new and exciting ways and (gasp!) figure them in my head! A miracle.

Say what you like about Everyday Math -- or say what you don't like, as many mathmaticians and scientists and even parents do -- it completely freed me. And here's why: at a stage in my life when I didn't think I could learn anything new about how numbers work, Everyday Math proved me wrong.

It was a major revelation.

I won't lie. Numbers and I still walk on eggshells, and that has crossed over into my running life. I've seen great strides in my distance and abilities in the year I've been running but I'm still a very slow runner. A gentle pace for me is a good 12 minute mile. Sometimes I can break 11 minutes, but only when the planets are aligned.

My running friend Amy, by contrast, is a speed demon. Somehow, without effort, she shaves entire minutes off her time -- averaging about 8 minutes per mile.

AND she's a numbers person, a former engineer. Of course.

I always pictured fast runners to be like Olympic sprinters: arms pumping, knees high, feet lifted. Big movements, lightning speed. My own speed attempts resembled my everyday style of running, just a whole lot bigger. For me, big movements meant big exhaustion, but not much more speed. Those numbers were getting to me again.

Recently, Amy I and enjoyed a run together during a summer getaway to a nearby island. After our warm up mile, she took off at her pace, I stayed behind at mine. I watched her run and was surprised that her movements weren't big afterall. In fact, Amy's running style was a vision of efficiency. Small movements, feet barely skimming the ground ... lightning speed!

I didn't think much about it until last weekend's long run. At mile five I got bored and decided to try running Amy-style. I shortened my movements, picked up the pace and ran like I had somehere to go.

I ran fast! I was zooming! I could literally hear the wind rushing past my ears. Another miracle.

How can this be? We aren't taught how to run, we just do it naturally. So how could I pick up the pace so noticeably by changing my style, rather than just doing it bigger?

I've yet to check the "official" numbers on my pace, but I know my last three-miler was my fastest ever. All because I changed the way I look at running.

Like my math revelation, my running revalation feels HUGE. Numbers are finally smiling at me. Could they want to be friends afterall?

I'm bridging the numbers gap, mini-miracle by mini-miracle. And it feels good.

when motivation wanes

2008-09-13T04:54:00.000-07:00

Most of the time, running is just part of my life. Like eating, sleeping and working, running is part of the fabric of my days -- a habit that I neither question nor consider optional.

On those days, I'll never grow tired of running because the excitement I feel is like a fuel -- a supercharger. Other people use caffeine; I use running. (And then there are those who use both, but that's a different post.)

Most of the time, this is fine. More than fine; just how it's supposed to be.

But then there are those days when running begins to feel like a blip, a wrinkle smack in the middle of the smoothness of the day. I do it, of course, but I don't relish it or get excited about an upcoming run.

Then, running becomes (dare I say it?) a chore.

The supercharger needs some maintenance. Sometimes I know it's so minor, I just ride it out, like a minor scratch on the shiny fender. No one else will notice it, so why should I?

But when it hits me bad, I turn to America's favorite pass time: retail therapy. (There! I've admitted it and I'm happy to say that it feels good to get that out in the open.)

A sassy new running skirt, a pair of socks, even a headband can motivate me in the most predictable way. Strap on something new, and I've got to take it for a test run. Literally.

When I feel less like spending a chunk of money, and when a morning run is looming from an 8 p.m.-the-night-before perspective, I flip on my laptop and navigate to my iTunes library. With a 15 year old in the house, I can always count on some new music to be available and willing to join one of my running playlists.

If not, I spend three or four bucks on a few 99-cent songs, synch my iPod, and tuck it away until the morning.

If I think very hard about my need to buy something to motivate me to do what I'm supposed to be doing in the first place (taking care of my body), I realize I need a deeper attitude adjustment. I need to remember why I started running in the first place: to be healthy enough to be alive to see my children--and their children--grow up.

Too bad my life (and I suspect yours, too) is so full of conveniences (like cars) and unhealthy body-influences (like potato chips) that I even have to worry about counteracting all the harm I do each day just by living in the modern world.

And so I run. And I do plan to be alive to see my grandchildren grown, if it takes all the running skirts and iTunes in the world to get me there.

That's just how it's supposed to be.

a little friday plug for Detroit Writers ...

2008-09-12T13:01:00.001-07:00

View my page on Detroit Writers

say it loud, say it proud

2008-09-12T07:38:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Cindy LaFerle, a local freelance writer and the current Writer In Residence at the Royal Oak Public Library, hosted a "Writer's Life" session last evening. Understandably, the participants were geared toward getting published. They believe that this credential will put them in an elite club of "real" writers -- those who are paid for their work.

A wise panelist encouraged the group to take it slow. If you are writing now, she said, even if the only person who reads your work is your mother, you are a writer. You are doing the same work a paid writer is doing, and if you want to be published, your time will come.

An inaudible "ah ha" moment for the crowd.

And so it's the same with running. Sue, my friend and fellow Detroit Marathon relay team member told me she believes the very act of telling others that she is a runner makes her a runner.

Even if others would say that she just jogs ...or walks a few minutes of each mile...or isn't really "serious" about running -- because after all, she doens't fit the mold.

Runners, the logic goes, are lean, hungry marathoners who run daily, year round, never succumbing to injury or apathy or a busy schedule. Runners can torch a mile in less time than it takes most of us to eat a bagel.

And that's so not true, says my friend Sue. And I agree.

If you lace up your shoes and hit the pavement -- once a week or once a day -- you are a runner. If you sweat on purpose while moving your body from point A to point B, you are a runner. If you stretch and limber your muscles with the wisdom that they will work for you the next time you run, you are a runner.

And for Sue, simply stating the truth makes it true.

Anyone who runs and tells others about the experience -- or is simply caught in the act of running -- often gets promoted to a supreme fitness pedestal by those who, with a longing look, say they wish they could run, but [insert excuse here].

But I believe running isn't out of the realm of possibility for any of us, barring those with true unresolved physical challenges.

In a world of people looking for the best health, the most rewarding experiences, the challenges which keep us sharp, there simply isn't room for the elitist "RUNNER" label society is so keen to slap on.

Because every one of us is a runner, just waiting to take that first step.

hybrids are very quiet when they creep up on you

2008-09-11T14:12:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of strong feelings in the running community about iPods. Many certified courses don't allow runners to wear headphones, saying "runners should be alert and aware of their surroundings at all times."

Personally, I can run without music. But I really prefer to run with music. I even play a little game with myself and use my iPod as a reward for getting through the most difficult first couple miles of a run. I huff and pant and grimace, all the while reminding myself that when I get to two miles, or three, I can have my precious iPod.

I'm like a junkie waiting for her fix.

But music does make the second half of my run so much more enjoyable. Or maybe just getting through that tough first part --- where my body is fighting me for all its worth to stop, turn around and walk straight home, shut the door to my house and never come out again until I promise to cease such foolish abuse --- is reward enough.

By comparison, the rest is a piece of cake.

At any rate, I really do get giddy when the time comes to unfurl my green headphones from around my equally green nano, squint at the ever so tiny R or L to figure out which bud goes in which ear (does it really matter, anyway?) and get that click wheel moving.

Ahhhh. It's like a cool drink of water.

And that's what this blog is for me. A refreshing look at running, a recounting of the pains and the joys of every step. There's always something new. Hopefully, my words will be as reviving for you as they are for me. Join in. Tell me what you love (and hate) about running.

Writing with your feet is optional.