Slowing Down for a Bit

A year ago this time I was running my last 20-miler as I prepared to take part in the 2011 San Francisco Marathon. Now I see the ads for this year's event and I know I'm not even close to being ready. I missed my long run today as I have missed all of the short runs, too, over the last couple of months. 

It's not choice, or heat, or lack of motivation. It's pretty nasty back pain that's taken me from health I take for granted to health I wish I had. Sleeping and sitting are just fine, but walking or standing--let alone running, cycling, or kicking a soccer ball--are out of the question. Actually, it's not really back pain any more, but radiating leg pain that's the most intense.

Either the combination of physical therapy and steroids is going to work soon or it will be a quick surgery to correct a lower-back herniated disc. I'm anxious to reach that conclusion so I can get back to a life of activity, but I certainly have come to respect the challenges that people face as they age or become physically limited in other ways.

One thing that I have learned to become is more economical. I think more about what I'm going to do before I get up because I know I have a limited amount of time before the pain kicks in. I also appreciate the things more that are in range of easy reach. Conversely, the things that are not so easy to get to become less important to me. In the end, this kind of thinking might not be too bad a thing because it's resulting in some simplification in my life.

My love and affection for my Uncle Mike have increased, too, because he deals with pain like this, and far worse, constantly, yet he lives a dynamic, abundant, and kind life, a model not unlike the one my father set.

One conclusion, many handicapped parking spaces meet regulations, but don't necessarily make things easier. I got a temporary pass to use until this is over, but I have noticed the ramps aren't near the spaces and the spaces aren't necessarily near the doors. There's rarely a place to sit when you need it, and waiting for slow elevators is way tougher than I had ever realized it might be. I can work at my desk just fine, but I try to time my four-flight descent after work so I can avoid a "local" trip downstairs that stops on each floor. I'm not kidding. Yesterday, the power went out in my office and I had to walk the four flights. I made it with no problem, but I couldn't help wonder how anyone who was truly handicapped could get out of that building. 

I'm not complaining, though, because in my heart I understand that this is just a temporary setback that I will recover from. There is positive to come out of this in that I know I will have had a good reminder about appreciating what we can do with ourselves and our time. 

I'm glad to say that even with this inconvenience I can look back at my life and say that I have used my physical ability as well as possible for the most part. I've been able to finish a few marathons, climb a mountain or two, cycle lots of miles, and coach hundreds of young people in soccer. I think I will be able to do most of that again soon, and I will love it even more when I do.

I'm slowing down for a bit, but I'm not giving up.

Two Good Guys I Sort of Know

I love team sports. Playing, watching, coaching, it doesn’t matter. Mostly, I love what team sports show us about our character and who we are as human beings.

The two NFL conference championships played last weekend were thrilling to witness yet both turned on individual mistakes. In one game, a kicker missed a potential game-tying field goal in the final seconds to leave the Baltimore Ravens just short of the Super Bowl. In the other, a punt returner twice fumbled away glory for his team, the San Francisco 49’ers.

Read any commentary you can find about how those two teams handled themselves afterwards and you will be suitably impressed by the pride, maturity, kindness, and solidarity that the players and coaches demonstrated. Their positive behavior reminds us that amidst all of the high profile, high-flying, highly-paid, professional athletes are lots of really good young men and women.

Which reminds me of a story about two of them…

Back in the 90’s, when the Redskins were regularly at the top of the football ranks (and I was a huge fan), I was riding my bicycle literally thousands of miles each year. I wasn’t a fast rider, but I was a strong one that could easily do twenty miles of commuting on a weekday basis and fifty miles or more on weekend days.

One nice spring afternoon as I was riding home from work—on a route that passes close to the Redskins training facility—I was joined by two big men who dwarfed me and the bikes they were riding. I knew instantly who they were, but rather than get overwhelmed by their fame, I did what all good cyclists do. I let them grab a wheel and then I paced them over the next four or five miles.

In my mind I was giving them a good, hard workout, but since I couldn’t see them I had no idea whether they were even breathing hard. It certainly would have been easier on me to draft behind them, given the size difference, and it would have been simple for me to take a back seat given their celebrity, but it was a unique opportunity for me to take as the ride leader and I took it.

When we reached my turn for home, we stopped for a moment. I reached for a handshake not knowing what else to do or say because I’m terrible at brushes with fame.

“I’m Art,” said one, “and this is Monte. Thanks, man.” And we shook. And we went our separate ways. That’s it. No show. No brush off. No attitude. Just two good guys I now sort of know.

Art Monk, wide receiver, NFL Hall of Fame, Class of 2008. Monte Coleman, linebacker, selected as one of the 70 greatest Redskins of all time in 2002, the team’s 70th anniversary.

Personal Flight

“There is an art to flying, or rather a knack. Its knack lies in learning to throw yourself at the ground and miss. Clearly, it is this second part, the missing, that provides the difficulties.” -- Douglas Adams, in the “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”

I bought a new car a few weeks ago, and I had an accident on Monday. It was a pretty scary accident, but the car doesn’t have a scratch on it. That’s because I wasn’t in it.

When I was a kid I often dreamed of flying. Not in a plane, mind you, but on my own; like a bird, like an eagle. Effortless and free.

As an adult I embraced the concept of personal flight described above. That’s just the way I wanted to do it. No strings attached; no propellers; no engines. Just me. The trick, Adams says, is to stop thinking about hitting the ground right before you do.

I never really imagined that I would get the chance to try that out, though, so in the middle of one of the best morning jogs I’ve had in a long time my mind was occupied with thoughts of the upcoming holidays, a few worries about aging parents, nursing my injured soccer team back to health, and all kinds of things other than the running itself.

Then it hit me. Literally. And it wasn’t the stuff of dreams unless dreams are sold at the Honda dealership.

As I crossed an innocent neighborhood intersection just at sunrise I remember seeing a pair of headlights about five feet away. I instinctively braced and bent my body away from the oncoming traffic, but I just wasn’t fast enough to avoid it.

Have you ever laced into a pitch where the sound—and the feel—of the hit is perfect? The car was the bat, and I was the ball. You get the picture. It was one of those moments where everything slows down and your senses come alive.

I remember what it felt like while I was in mid-air. Really, I do. I only travelled about fifteen feet because the driver had just turned a corner and had not gained a lot of speed. But I was flying, I knew it was happening, and there was an eerie sense of calm all the while. Thump—then quiet—then thump again, and back on solid ground.

I landed nearly perfectly flat on my back which meant that somehow I twisted either 90 degrees or 270, but I’m not sure which. I think I closed my eyes, and I didn’t hit my head, which I’m very thankful for. I stuck the landing, Bela.

My foot hurts, I have a few bumps and bruises, and I pulled a muscle in my back. But, after all is said and done, I’m okay. The hardest part of the whole thing was that I had to call my wife and start a conversation by saying, “I’m okay, but, well, I just got hit by a car.” That’s probably not what she wanted to hear right then. Actually, when would someone want to hear that?

I already knew many of the things below, but they all came back to me during and after my flight:

• Neon and reflective gear forever. I’m not 100% certain it would have helped me remain earthbound, but having flown on my own now I am not interested in doing it again.
• Life is too short.
• Take nothing for granted.
• Tell people that you love them. Often. Appreciate everyone who has you in their hearts.
• There are some things worth worrying about. Most are not.
• Be at peace.
• Run. Jump. Laugh. Live a life of abundance.
• 42.

I’m going running again soon—just as soon as I heal up a little bit more. And I’m going to go back and cross that street, too. I’m done with flying for a while, though.

Toeing the Line

I'm not quite there yet, but for all intents and purposes I'm on the starting line for the 2011 San Francisco Marathon. At 35,000 feet of cruising altitude I'm on my way to the west coast.

As I left home this morning, Sally reminded me that my training had gone well. Indeed, it had. I missed only a single run of 3 miles, and that happened very early on. I made a couple schedule changes to work around busy weekends, but those went smoothly, too. In the end it went 99.7% well, from a mileage standpoint.

My 53 year-old body held up okay. As I age I have noticed that no two days feel exactly the same way physically. The first few steps out of bed give me an indication of which muscle, bone or joint is going to bark: hip, toe, back, neck, or shoulder. Yes, all gave me a twinge or two over the last 4.5 months of training, but none stopped me and I have no complaints. I am running, and I know that others cannot.

Remarkably, I can only remember one really rainy day during this time around. It was a hot Wednesday morning as I "commuted" to work. That particular route is hard and virtually shade-free so the drizzle kept me cool and comfortable. But, most of the time my training was done in dry, hot conditions. Dry--being a bit of a relative term during a Northern Virginia summer--only means it's not raining. Humidity, though, was almost always my running partner.

As with any long term activity, I did hit a motivational snag or two. I'm good at setting goals and plans and sticking with them, but I'm human, too. There were days where I wanted to turn around and go back home. There was one 20-miler that tanked at 14. There were more than a few days where my stomach wouldn't cooperate.

Am I confident? Well, I absolutely know I will finish unless something out of my control happens. There are variables, of course, to contend with, and big hills on the San Francisco course. Sometimes, you just have an off day. But I can deal with that because so much of the marathon is done before you ever take a step on race day. I'm planning to bring home a medal, but if I somehow don't, well, I'll be okay with that.

Through it all, I had my vision of what it will be like to step on the finish mat and register my time. It's that last step that matters to me, though, not the clock. I will be thinking of Sally at that moment. She is the reason I have done all of the bike rides and runs over the last eighteen years. Her love motivates me, and I hope that these things I do help in some way to secure a healthy life for her long into the future.

I'll meet you at the finish.

A Way to Get from Here to There

A few years ago I was an avid bicycle commuter. Conveniently, the ten miles between home and work are paved by the historic Washington & Old Dominion trail, which traces the path of the old railroad system. It goes much further in either direction, of course, but a segment of the trail is perfectly suited for my needs, and safe, too. Only 4-5 roads to cross the whole time.

As I gradually rounded into shape (a quite precise choice of words) each summer, I reached a point of transition from a guy out getting exercise to one who was traveling to and from work. The difference is this: in the former it’s an accomplishment just to complete the ride; in the latter you don’t even think about the ride itself, you just go.

Unless you habitually run low on gas, you probably never bother to think about whether you will make it to work or not, right? Your car just gets you there, right?. Sort of the same thing.

I have now run the distance to work 7-8 times. And, until yesterday, doing so was a huge achievement. Before that, I could never quite get the run to feel like a commute. No gears to shift, no power steering, no automatic transmission, no coasting. Just me and my clunky legs.

The path is 70% uphill, which is something you don’t really notice on a bike with multiple gears. So for most of those attempts, it was all I could do just to make it the whole way. Although I can run much further than ten miles, somehow these particular ten miles always seem extra hard and a bit daunting.

Of course, that may have something to do with the destination. On the weekend I know I’m headed to a nice/long rest and I can take the time I need. On the weekday, I’m bound to be behind my desk by a certain time. Not that my work is something I don’t enjoy; it’s just not as good as a shower and a nap...

So yesterday—for the first time ever—my legs became just a way to get there. Maybe I just got in the right frame of mind. I’m not sure, but instead of thinking about the possibility of not making it I was able to reflect on all kinds of other stuff while my legs and feet just kept churning along.

My first steps were directly into the face of a west side rainbow—something I can’t ever remember seeing since most of our rain comes in the afternoon making rainbows appear in the eastern sky. “This must be the sign telling me it is going to be a good run and a good day,” I thought, “and I’ll gladly take it.” After that signal, I quickly decided that whenever I got tired I would straighten up my back, tighten up my stomach, look a little further forward, and think positive.

You know what? It worked. It really did. And for a while I felt like the “me” part—my heart and mind—were just along for the ride.

Pretty cool.

Angel On the Hill

The day promised to be warm and would get warmer so I was well on my way before the sun had risen Sunday morning. The cloud cover would keep me from overheating, and I started my 20-mile trek with 20 ounces of water, 20 ounces of Gatorade, and three packs of goo-trition.

[urbandictionary.com defines “gootrition” as the process of obtaining food necessary for bad health and obesity. Goo-trition is my term for those little packs of gel that provide quick energy for endurance events.]

The first ten miles went great. Felt great. Looked great. Even the four miles after that were solid. My pace dipped a bit, but then picked up again slightly.

As I neared the 15-mile mark my rations were getting low, but I thought I had reserved enough to make it through. My feet were hurting a bit, but not too bad. My attitude was good and not too shaky. I had this one. Almost.

The last quarter of this route—and there’s no getting around it—are steadily uphill and into the sun. Neither thing is too bad by itself, but together they are completely draining. As I came out of that last bit of shade the sun was bright and hot and four miles left felt like forty miles to go. And by the last mile, I had nothing left. No energy, no water, no nothing.

I’ve learned many times over that one foot down, one foot up gets the job done. Next foot down, next foot up. Drink a little here, drink a little there, and arrive home safe and sound. I knew I would—and I did—but something special happened in the last mile.

As I turned the corner to the home stretch, my pace had slowed to a shuffle, and I was hot, tired, dry and thirsty. To make matters seem worse, I had to pass right by a 7-Eleven where there was ice, Slurpees, gulps, water, juice, soda, refrigerators, cold cuts, kool-aid, squirt guns, water balloons, popsicles, freeze pops, ice cream, fudgesicles, well, anything that was or sounded cold or wet (or both). I dreamed of climbing into the icebox and sleeping on the icebag mountain, and that didn’t make my mental state any less fragile.

Right in front of the store there is a little grassy hill, not more than 4-5 feet above street level. Normally I just run on by, but there, on the very top, was a beautiful golden angel smiling and waving at me. I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t tell who it was or even if she was real. I stared at her, and she wouldn’t look away. I thought the stare-down might work if she had mistaken me for someone else, but she kept right on smiling at me as the sun made her blonde hair glow from behind. Was this angel there for me?

Turns out she was.

My angel was one of my soccer girls whose family had seen me on the road and had stopped to wave me on. If you’ve ever run a long race and you’ve seen a friendly face in the crowd then you know sort of what this felt like. But in the race you’re looking for that face, and you know it should be there. This time I found one quite by happenstance. Or, rather, she found me.

And she carried me home. Not literally, of course, but spiritually. I honestly don’t remember my feet touching the ground over that last half mile.

Thank you, Holly. You made my day.

It’s better to feel good than to look good

Contrary to Billy Crystal in the old Saturday Night Live skit, “Fernando’s Hideaway,” I’m convinced that looking “mah-velous” is not that important.

I have evidence to prove it. This picture was taken of me near the START of the 2010 Marine Corps Marathon. Now, granted, most of the blame for this disturbing image must go to the photographer, and I am positive that I didn’t really look that bad. Bad, yes, but not that bad. This imposter has no neck or chin and a cone-shaped head, apparently… [Note: I’ll never know who took this shot since it came from the race photography company.]

Anyway, most of the time when I’m running I have a feeling I look pretty darn nasty. Especially toward the end of a long training run—like the 16-miler I did last weekend—well, you get the picture. Or, maybe you don’t so here are some key features of me at my running best and my photographic worst:

• A fuel-belt wrapped around my waist carrying four bottles of water and the remnants of sticky calories in goo form. An emergency napkin or paper towel sticks out randomly, too.
• Shirt and shorts soaked to the skin due to 2+ hours of profuse, but oddly soothing sweat. Even on a cool day, I sweat.
• Shirt tucked in on one side to keep the itchy part of the fuel belt away from my delicate skin.
• Shirt un-tucked on the other side so that I look partially stylish. I’m not kidding about this. No one tucks their shirt in anymore. No one.
• A ball cap on my head--to protect my scalp from the sun--which soaks up sweat and then drains drip-by-annoying-drip about four inches in front of my eyes. Like mosquitos I can’t swat away.
• A drooping lower lip that makes me look like I’m beaten, but actually indicates the complete opposite. When my lip falls I know I’m in a good zone (or at the dentist).
• Lower legs built like tree trunks due to poor circulation and sporting a few choice bulging veins. Wouldn’t it be nice if those bulging veins were muscular and not varicose?

And having revealed this reality to you, I have one more.

I. Don’t. Feel. Bad. At. All.

I can do this. I’ll do it as long as I can, and I don’t really care how I look. I feel just fine, thank you.

And it’s better this way.

3-4 Thursday .2

Don’t look too closely. This 3-4T was actually written on a Friday morning. Okay, but I thought about all this yesterday.

1: It Can’t Be, But It Is

My nephew graduates from high school in a few weeks. This is not possible. He is still two and wearing a denim blue hat, matching jeans, a white turtleneck, and a red Christmas sweater (on Easter Sunday). I’m sure of it. When he walks across the stage to get his diploma I know I’m going to see him reaching for Tata-Head.

2: Last Dance

Almost exactly a year ago I sent my brothers an email describing a day I had spent at the hospital with my parents. The day had been difficult, but as Mom and I readied to leave late in the evening Dad rallied, rose from the bed amidst a tangle of wires and lines, and offered his embrace to his wife who quietly accepted. Without moving, they stood together as if in a private and forever dance. No words were spoken. It was the sweetest thing I have ever seen.

3: The Second Time Is the Hardest

Yesterday, I ran up a 1/2 mile hill four times. This is what I do once a week to get ready for the hills of San Francisco in July. I will work up to five repeats in a couple of weeks and then stay at that level the for the rest of my training.

That’s not me in the picture, but it is a cool picture, don’t you think?

I can tell I’m getting stronger because when I’m not running on hills I feel better. Great. But, here’s the thing. The first time up the hill is fine, the second time kind of sucks bad, and the third and fourth times are okay. Why is that?

Seems to me that the last one should be the worst, but it never is. Wait, I kind of get that because the last one is THE LAST ONE, but why isn’t the third one harder than the second one. I know there is a simple answer somewhere, but I haven’t found it yet. I have an idea, though. I’m going to run them in reverse order next time to see what happens….

A Plastic Potato and a Purple Pony

My nephew, Grant, will graduate from high school in a few weeks. When he was a toddler we used our fancy new 8mm video camera to capture some of the key moments of his childhood. A Christmas; some birthdays; an Easter visit at our house.

After a few years of watching (and taping) as all seven of our nieces and nephews grew up, we stopped using that camera. It either broke or we gave it away so we still have the tapes, but no mechanism to watch them. And that technology has long since come and gone.

But, then, there’s eBay. A week ago, I “won” an old camera that will not only play the 8mm tapes, but lets me import them to my computer and convert them to a digital format.

Anyway, two nights ago (and sixteen years later) there on our Mac was two-year old Grant carefully opening packages, singing “Rudolph,” and gleefully enjoying Christmas Day, 1995. The big moment, though, came when he opened one of the gifts that Sally and I had for him. “Tata-head,” he shouted, “Tata-head, Tata-heeeaaad! Tata-head, Dad. Tata-head, Annie!” He stood on the couch on his tip-toes and with all his heart, “Tata-heeeaaaadddd!”

It’s a plastic potato, after all.

And that episode reminded me of the time a few years prior when we gave Bridget, our oldest niece, a miniature (also plastic) “My Little Pony” of an unnatural, bold, dark purple shade, a shiny light purple mane, eyes two big for its head, and stars and sequins on its back. That gift, quite literally, forced the breath to escape from Bridget’s little body. She was speechless (unlike Grant) and momentarily unable to breathe as she held her precious friend tight to her chest.

Would that we could carry that unabashed joy throughout our lives. It’s hard to celebrate so easily and so simply when combined with our happiness we face challenges, and sickness, and sadness, and pain. My sweet young loved ones had not yet witnessed those things so their pleasure was uncomplicated by anything other than the moment itself. It’s a shame that they have and will experience times of sorrow, but such is life for all of us.

I’m pretty good at seeing light through darkness, but today (thanks to Grant and Bridget) I am going to try a new mantra when the clouds roll in. It goes like this:

Tata-heeeaaadddd!

The Best of Times

When I’m considering the next big event to run (read marathon) I look for “race reports” written by previous participants to help me make my decision. These first-hand accounts give excellent insight into the course, the hills, the weather, and all other things related.

Honest retellings are, frankly, much more reliable than the promotional materials you find on the event web sites, although that stuff also has good value.

Yesterday, as I was reading a blog of the San Francisco marathon, it struck me that most race reports have a decidedly negative feeling to them. The most memorable, and most reported, aspects of the races are the moments of suffering or bad weather or tough hills. Having run two marathons myself, I remember those moments quite clearly, and they do tend to resonate. But that doesn’t discount the times of joy and beauty or the elation that came from crossing the finish line on my own two feet.

When I mentioned this thinking to Sally, my wife, she rightly pointed out that most people, when they relate stories about their lives, have a tendency to focus on the most difficult parts of their journey. Perhaps our minds and hearts lean toward the “80-20” rule where 80% of what we remember is kind of bad and 20% is kind of good.

I’d argue, though, that our lives aren’t really that way. I think that 80% (or more) of what we experience is good and even great. Perhaps the other 20% is marked with overwhelming pain and sadness on occasion, and maybe that’s why it takes a bigger portion of our consciousness. And I don’t disagree that the challenges we face are often interesting and stirring, but it’s what we do to overcome the challenges that truly inspires.

Maybe the simple realization that life just comes with joy and sorrow can help us keep a more balanced perspective. “Accept the bad with the good” seems trite, yes. On the other hand, accentuating the negative seems counterproductive to a life of abundance well-lived. We can choose to hurt every day or we can choose to celebrate each day while coping with the hurt. I choose the latter.

And so, after I finish my next marathon, I’m going to write a race report that never mentions how hard it was. No, wait, I’m going to use the “20-80” rule where 20% of the story focuses on the hard parts and the other 80% tells you what a thrill it was to run across the Golden Gate Bridge twice. I may not have run my best time, but the run will be among my best of times.

127 Hours

I’m always looking for a good, inspirational story, but I’m not sure I was ready for this one. After sampling the first couple of chapters—thank you Kindle for the nice feature of “sample ebooks before you buy”—of Aron Ralston’s, “Between a Rock and a Hard Place,” I took the plunge into an amazing tale of life and death and survival.

For those of you who don’t know, Ralston is a young man who became trapped in one of Utah’s “slot canyons,” and had to make the decision to amputate his own arm in order to save his life.

Slot canyons are other-worldly and beautiful places to hike and climb. They can also be very narrow, and that explains how Ralston became trapped by a huge boulder. Accidentally dislodged, the rock crashed onto Ralston’s arm, pinning it against the canyon wall, and isolating him in a place where no one knew he was or could be.

After five days of gradually starving and dehydrating—and exhausting all other possibilities to extricate his arm—Ralston freed himself using only his body weight, materials from his climbing gear and backpack, and a somewhat worn down utility knife (think LeatherMan).

To say Ralston exhausted all possibilities is a bit of an understatement because he has immense experience in both climbing and rescue climbing. The ingenuity he demonstrated to craft a pulley system to potentially move the boulder is not something most of us would be prepared to do in the same situation. For virtually the entire time he was trapped he pounded away at the boulder hoping to break enough off to allow him to pull himself free.

Yes, I was inspired, but not by the central story. Ralston is a man who sets lofty goals and then pursues them relentlessly—even after his accident. At the time he became trapped he was most of the way through his plan to climb all of the 53 Colorado mountain peaks that are over 14,000 feet in elevation. Yes, lots of people have done that. I’ve even climbed one of the easier ones (Pikes Peak). What made Ralston different? He went after all of them during the winter. Alone. He is the only one.

As Ralston videotaped (he always carries video and still cameras with him) his goodbyes to his friends and families there was sadness, but very few regrets. That’s because he has lived his life to the fullest extent possible. A life of abundant living, fully lived, fully experienced. That’s what I hope for.

The movie, “127 Hours,” is in theaters now.

How much is a championship worth?

Last night, while I was running on my treadmill during a snowstorm, I watched “Miracle” for the unknown-th time. It’s the story of the 1980 USA hockey team and their spectacular and unexpected Olympic gold medal. Their run to the podium included a, literally, miraculous victory over the then-unparalleled team from the Soviet Union.

I can’t help it. I cry every time I watch it. With all of the changes in the world since then I cannot help wondering if we will ever witness anything like that again. But then I remembered that I just did have a similar feeling.

On a much smaller scale, but also unexpectedly, my soccer girls won their first tournament championship.

Granted, the games were played in the middle of the night—when everyone should have been asleep. Granted, the competition was nowhere near the same level. Okay, sure, it’s not the really the same at all. In my heart, though, the joy was as good as it gets.

You see the girls had been close to winning before, but never quite made it over the hump. They have more “finalist” medals than they know what to do with, and they are proud of their second-place finishes. But it’s not the same—not nearly the same—as the feeling that champions get.

And, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t really even sure how much they cared. They are a pretty even-keeled bunch. They enjoy their sport, they are proud of their accomplishments, they don’t worry too much about losing, and they laugh a lot and have fun together. When the tournament began I told them that they were playing against older teams and that I would be happy as long as they never quit.

So, with no time remaining on the clock in the final—and after a last second penalty on one of our defenders—an opposing player lined up to take a penalty kick. That’s one-on-one with the goalkeeper for those of you who don’t know. If she makes it, we get second place. Again.

Our keeper, Kaitlyn, stood there nervous but ready and she blocked it. Championship! But, wait, the referee decided that something (I’m not sure what) had been done wrong—and a re-kick was awarded.

Kaitlyn blocked the second kick, too. And out of the team box raced her mates, jumping up and down, hugging each other, not letting go, screaming, laughing, celebrating.

Priceless.

I Need a New Goal

I ran a 10k on Thanksgiving, and I finished in under one hour. I hope to be faster someday, but for now that was an okay time.

I didn’t train to run a fast 10k. My ability to do that came as a result of my Marine Corps Marathon training—sort of a by-product of four and a half months of endurance preparation. With speed-specific workouts I’m pretty sure I could have done even better.

Marathon training gives my life purpose and focus. It helps me deal with other, tougher things because it provides a solid framework I can rely on. In the end, it improves my outlook, reduces stress, helps me manage my weight, and makes me feel better about life, in general. All good stuff.

Without a big goal in front of me, though, I feel kind of lost. It’s too easy now to get up early and NOT run because I haven’t put a new plan in place. I feel myself slipping from 6 days of exercise per week to 5 to 4 to 3 (last week). I’m afraid to gain my winter weight back, and stepping on the scale this morning confirmed that creep has begun.

And when I don’t exercise I simply don’t feel that great. Conversely, when I do get up and go I feel all the better for the rest of the day.

So I’m going to find and set a new goal. There’s an inaugural marathon in Gettysburg, PA, on May 1, that sounds about right. To get ready for that, I’m going to need some lucky breaks—not four months of snow like last year. But I think I’m going to look around a little bit, too, before I make that commitment. Maybe there’s a new place to visit in the spring that has a good course to run.

I’ll keep you posted.

Not Your Typical Motivational Speaker

Several years ago, on the way back from a long ride, my knees were achy. I had gone on a hilly course, and even with 20 gears on my bicycle I was pretty worn out. All I had to do was crest one more modest hill, and I would just about be home. It didn't feel easy, and I was griping to myself about that nagging pain.

Just as I reached the top a guy passed me going the other direction. He was perfectly balanced on his bike-- and pedaling at a comfortable pace--but he had only one leg. I stopped griping immediately.

I've seen that same gentleman many times since. Even in the last few weeks, as I tapered down to the marathon, I saw him pass me by. He's not racing or pushing; he just glides along. I often wonder what he would do if he had to catch himself in an emergency, but his demeanor says that he's got that pretty well figured out, too. I admire and respect people that can overcome physical odds to do things that many others would probably just not try.

The picture shown here is of another person with a relentless, positive attitude. I literally came across John Tartaglio at Mile 14 of the 2009 New York City Marathon. He had been ahead of me up to that point, but the arduous task he faced made mine pale in comparison as I gradually caught up.

It's kind of hard to tell what he's doing in the picture, but Tartaglio is "running" with no legs. He lost them both--almost all of the way up to the hip--to an infection when he was in high school.

To ambulate, he straps both of his stumps to a single spring and then competes on crutches. I described the sight later to friends by saying that he "runs" on a tripod. He usually competes in his racing wheelchair, but his goal that day was to become the first amputee missing his thigh bones to run NYCM.

It was truly an amazing thing to witness, and I was not embarrassed to stare for a while at an incredible example of perseverance and courage in a young man of just 22 years. And, yes, I learned later, he does make motivational speeches. I'd like to hear him.

In His Honor

Elaine, Pidge, and Sally, my marathon support team

As I waited for the starter's gun to go off, I was fully aware that it had been a long and sad few weeks. My training had gone perfectly well. In fact, I had completed 99.5% of the 640 miles I needed to cover over the last eighteen weeks. But the anticipation and excitement I felt last year in New York were missing, and for good reason. I miss my dad.

My friend Michelle's enthusiasm and nervousness should have influenced me more. The power of the exuberant crowds and all of the "first timers" should have rubbed off on me. The perfect weather should have made me relaxed and confident. My support team, with Sally among them, was waiting for me at Mile 4, again at Mile 8, and, finally, at the finish. All of those things were good, and true, and helpful, but they couldn't make me complete. I miss my dad.

I cried in the parking lot of his last "working building," the Pentagon. I cried as we passed the park where I ran the base paths as a toddler. I cried as we ran by the place where we fed the squirrels. I cried as we went by the Department of Labor, the Air and Space Museum, the HHS building, NASA headquarters. I cried as we passed Arlington Cemetery, where he will be laid to rest soon.

For the majority of his career as a civil servant, Washington, DC, was my father's life. Yesterday, it was my honor and privilege to finish the Marine Corps Marathon on the very paths he graced with his skill, his dedication, and his energy. While I was exhausted and sad for much of the 26.2 miles, I never, ever, ever considered quitting. When I reached the finish at the foot of the Iwo Jima Memorial, I raised one hand and silently pointed to the sky.

Yes, it was a hard day. Yes, it was a sad day. But, mostly, it was a good day. I got to run with my dad one more time.

Rest in peace, Dad, and thanks for coming with me.

Inspired Again

In 1980, I was inspired by the incredible cross-Canada "marathon of hope," a personal crusade by a 22-year old Canadian name Terry Fox. He was raising money for cancer research after losing one of his legs to the disease. Yes, he ran nearly 4,000 miles on one leg and a crude (by today's standards) prosthetic. His gait was more of a hop-skip-and-jump because his artificial leg was inflexible and acted more as a balancing platform rather than a second leg.

Two days ago, ESPN ran an episode of the "30 for 30" series and Terry Fox was the central figure. I was struck by many things including the raw aspects of his trek. He labored mile after mile with only a single friend following in the van they shared  most of the way. He was not supported by Nike (not really even in existence then) or any other major sponsor. He was not in it for the personal wealth. He was not trying to become a hero. He was just a young man who was doing something quietly spectacular, quietly awesome.

I remember a brief mention in Runner's World about Terry Fox back then, and maybe a little bit on the national news. I was impressed by him, but never imagined doing anything like that. I still can't fathom the pain he must have been in, but I know this: Terry Fox convinced me that you can do anything you put your mind and heart into.

Terry Fox, you have  inspired me again. Rest in peace.

Some Inspiration

The other day I finished my first 20-miler of this training season. Over the next month, I'll do it two more times before beginning my taper to the Marine Corps Marathon on October 31.

I felt great through the first 18 miles, and then I faded kind of badly for the last two. Encouraged by finishing, I was a bit discouraged by my slow pace at the end. Run finished, I stiffly crossed the parking lot to my car. I watched two men work themselves into their sports wheelchairs. One had no legs, and the other had them, but could not use them.

The pain I was feeling disappeared. No complaints.