Healing and Racing
I'm going to spend about 30 pissed off, sad seconds on what I have to say first, which is that I'm injured. Healing for a runner is agony, it means not running at all. People suggest alternate forms of cardio - biking, swimming and they are all good ways to workout, but they're not running. Running is worship, therapy, release. Running is sacred and when you can't access that part of yourself, it feels like a kind of amputation. It's been thirteen days since I've been able to run, I have brains enough to know that to run on an injury isn't going to get me anywhere, and so I wait until the swelling subsides and the pain lessens.
I went to my chiropractor. He felt and manipulated my ankle, pinpointed the place where the pain was residing like a mean little marble and told me to hold on to the table I was lying on, he needed to pull. Things shifted and rolled, he "unjammed" a joint, but warned that it could jam right back up as soon as I got off the table. I wanted permanent.
A friend recommended her podiatrist, an ultramarathoner. He fit me in immediately, I liked him just as quickly. He prescribed a six day regimen of steroids to "quiet things down." I'm in the middle of day three, when I finish up with this, I will try to run a mile and see where it goes.
The very first question the podiatrist asked me was "Are you training for something now?" I loved that. And yes I am.
The 1000 mile project is big, but I am also training for a 20K in Belgium on May 31st. I'll meet my old running partners, we'll all trash talk a little bit and then we'll do what we do together. There's not much talk after about mile three, that's just right. Nearly a year ago, I ran this same race with them and afterward, promised to be back to do it this year. It was a boozy promise, made in the unlikely candlelit confines of a 17th century piggery, but a promise is a promise and I am getting closer and closer to race day, my mind obsesses.
Last year, race day was a beautiful day. Rare, hot sun beating down; too hot actually, but in rainy Belgium, you take the sun when you can get it. There were 27,000 runners, so the race start area, a huge green park area was absolutely a festival atmosphere. Neil, Marcel and I met early and found the rest of the running team that we were officially part of but practically speaking, we really were our own tiny team. We found shade, greeted other friends there. I took off my shoes, lay down on the grass and put on my ipod, shut my eyes. Neil and Marcel gravitated toward each other and me, stayed loose but in each other's orbits. We didn't talk, we knew what we were there for and everything else is unspoken. After a bit, we made our way to our start slot.
Tens of thousands of people packed and jostled into their spots at the Cinquintenaire, this massive, massive monument of three arches built to commemorate Belgian independence. There is a pre race traditional playing of Ravel's Bolero for the crowd over booming speakers. The crowd quiets for the 15 minutes as the music and tension builds. That year, three military men appeared at the top of the arches, and then began to rappell down, unfurling the colors of the Belgian flag in great, billowy waves. Bolero came to it's grinding, crashing conclusion and a cannon boomed off, thudding my head and chest and we began to filter slowly through the great, great arches.
There is another tradition, not as pretty as Bolero. The arches are an unofficial start, timing chips don't actually start until about 500 yards past the arches, so men line the long hedgerows outside the arches and take a final pre-race pee. Both my boys were squared away, and I eyed those damn hedges for about a minute before I dashed off behind them. All set. Neil told the story later that night, with equally startled by and proud of me. The man is very British.
We ran and the run was good. At 10k I end up pulling away from the guys. Running for me is very unsentimental. It is an escape from my nature. It gives me perspective from the swirling vortex of deep thought that child rearing and writing require. I run for myself, I invite the hurt, I will not wait for someone who is not ready when I run. I will start beside them and meet them afterward, but the run belongs to me. If a runner is stronger than me, I expect him to leave me behind. The race belongs to the runner, and no one else. That day, with Rob and the kids cheering me on at 16K, I finished 8 minutes faster than my best time.
That night, we all met back up for a dinner party at Neil's house. Neil and his wife Janine live in a house that was built in the 1600's. It's been brilliantly and lovingly renovated, it is exquisitely charming, absolutely homey. They entertain in what used to be the piggery - also built in 1640. It is totally fitted with lights and a huge, gorgeous old rustic table, flowers, candles, music. It is outside, closed on three sides but still outside, open to the air so sweet and green. We toasted each other the first of many, many times through the night, empty bottles all lining up in silent true testament to our work hard/play hard ethic. With cold white wine bringing flush to my cheeks, I looked around at my friends and my family, at the life I had gathered there in a different world, one that I would be leaving soon and I felt a kind of deep peace that comes with a job done damn well. I did my race and I love my guys and here were the fruits of our labor, all the hard runs in January rain, schedules juggled to meet up, running through the various, inevitable crap that life hands out - the payoff was here, in the dying orange yellow light surrounded by waves of unexpected love. Isn't it all sort of unexpected?
We told stories and ate and drank (and drank). There was trash talk and that promise that I would return to let them try and beat me this year. At about 1 am, the party had come down to just this little circle, together in cool sweet purple night air under sheets of silvery moonlight, no one wanting the night and all it represented, to end. Neil and Janine disappeared for a few minutes and came back outside with a very old bottle, like a prop from some movie where a stash of dusty old bottles is found in some forgotten cellar. Neil stood and said that it was a very special bottle, a 52 year old bottle of port. That they had been saving it for a long time. I protested immediately, I told him to save, it, to KEEP saving. He looked at me, with clarity and truth and said with quiet urgency, "Jenny...you're LEAVING." We drank this beautiful wine, from special crystal glasses and I remember thinking that it was very possible I might not ever taste anything as uniquely wonderful ever again.
A bit later, in my pillowy wine haze, I joked that I would need to conduct some pretty stringent interviews to find new running partners in Illinois, stating that potential candidates would need to meet me every sunday, design the route, time it, keep the pace and ignore the fact that I will never ever know where we are going. Neil laughed and agreed that yes, we could do the same route three weeks in a row and I still never knew know where to turn. I laughed a bit and said, I know, I really am so bad with that, and he said quietly "you have us."
So that, that is what I have been thinking about these past two weeks.
I went to my chiropractor. He felt and manipulated my ankle, pinpointed the place where the pain was residing like a mean little marble and told me to hold on to the table I was lying on, he needed to pull. Things shifted and rolled, he "unjammed" a joint, but warned that it could jam right back up as soon as I got off the table. I wanted permanent.
A friend recommended her podiatrist, an ultramarathoner. He fit me in immediately, I liked him just as quickly. He prescribed a six day regimen of steroids to "quiet things down." I'm in the middle of day three, when I finish up with this, I will try to run a mile and see where it goes.
The very first question the podiatrist asked me was "Are you training for something now?" I loved that. And yes I am.
The 1000 mile project is big, but I am also training for a 20K in Belgium on May 31st. I'll meet my old running partners, we'll all trash talk a little bit and then we'll do what we do together. There's not much talk after about mile three, that's just right. Nearly a year ago, I ran this same race with them and afterward, promised to be back to do it this year. It was a boozy promise, made in the unlikely candlelit confines of a 17th century piggery, but a promise is a promise and I am getting closer and closer to race day, my mind obsesses.
Last year, race day was a beautiful day. Rare, hot sun beating down; too hot actually, but in rainy Belgium, you take the sun when you can get it. There were 27,000 runners, so the race start area, a huge green park area was absolutely a festival atmosphere. Neil, Marcel and I met early and found the rest of the running team that we were officially part of but practically speaking, we really were our own tiny team. We found shade, greeted other friends there. I took off my shoes, lay down on the grass and put on my ipod, shut my eyes. Neil and Marcel gravitated toward each other and me, stayed loose but in each other's orbits. We didn't talk, we knew what we were there for and everything else is unspoken. After a bit, we made our way to our start slot.
Tens of thousands of people packed and jostled into their spots at the Cinquintenaire, this massive, massive monument of three arches built to commemorate Belgian independence. There is a pre race traditional playing of Ravel's Bolero for the crowd over booming speakers. The crowd quiets for the 15 minutes as the music and tension builds. That year, three military men appeared at the top of the arches, and then began to rappell down, unfurling the colors of the Belgian flag in great, billowy waves. Bolero came to it's grinding, crashing conclusion and a cannon boomed off, thudding my head and chest and we began to filter slowly through the great, great arches.
There is another tradition, not as pretty as Bolero. The arches are an unofficial start, timing chips don't actually start until about 500 yards past the arches, so men line the long hedgerows outside the arches and take a final pre-race pee. Both my boys were squared away, and I eyed those damn hedges for about a minute before I dashed off behind them. All set. Neil told the story later that night, with equally startled by and proud of me. The man is very British.
We ran and the run was good. At 10k I end up pulling away from the guys. Running for me is very unsentimental. It is an escape from my nature. It gives me perspective from the swirling vortex of deep thought that child rearing and writing require. I run for myself, I invite the hurt, I will not wait for someone who is not ready when I run. I will start beside them and meet them afterward, but the run belongs to me. If a runner is stronger than me, I expect him to leave me behind. The race belongs to the runner, and no one else. That day, with Rob and the kids cheering me on at 16K, I finished 8 minutes faster than my best time.
That night, we all met back up for a dinner party at Neil's house. Neil and his wife Janine live in a house that was built in the 1600's. It's been brilliantly and lovingly renovated, it is exquisitely charming, absolutely homey. They entertain in what used to be the piggery - also built in 1640. It is totally fitted with lights and a huge, gorgeous old rustic table, flowers, candles, music. It is outside, closed on three sides but still outside, open to the air so sweet and green. We toasted each other the first of many, many times through the night, empty bottles all lining up in silent true testament to our work hard/play hard ethic. With cold white wine bringing flush to my cheeks, I looked around at my friends and my family, at the life I had gathered there in a different world, one that I would be leaving soon and I felt a kind of deep peace that comes with a job done damn well. I did my race and I love my guys and here were the fruits of our labor, all the hard runs in January rain, schedules juggled to meet up, running through the various, inevitable crap that life hands out - the payoff was here, in the dying orange yellow light surrounded by waves of unexpected love. Isn't it all sort of unexpected?
We told stories and ate and drank (and drank). There was trash talk and that promise that I would return to let them try and beat me this year. At about 1 am, the party had come down to just this little circle, together in cool sweet purple night air under sheets of silvery moonlight, no one wanting the night and all it represented, to end. Neil and Janine disappeared for a few minutes and came back outside with a very old bottle, like a prop from some movie where a stash of dusty old bottles is found in some forgotten cellar. Neil stood and said that it was a very special bottle, a 52 year old bottle of port. That they had been saving it for a long time. I protested immediately, I told him to save, it, to KEEP saving. He looked at me, with clarity and truth and said with quiet urgency, "Jenny...you're LEAVING." We drank this beautiful wine, from special crystal glasses and I remember thinking that it was very possible I might not ever taste anything as uniquely wonderful ever again.
A bit later, in my pillowy wine haze, I joked that I would need to conduct some pretty stringent interviews to find new running partners in Illinois, stating that potential candidates would need to meet me every sunday, design the route, time it, keep the pace and ignore the fact that I will never ever know where we are going. Neil laughed and agreed that yes, we could do the same route three weeks in a row and I still never knew know where to turn. I laughed a bit and said, I know, I really am so bad with that, and he said quietly "you have us."
So that, that is what I have been thinking about these past two weeks.
May your healing be as quick as your feet.
ReplyDeleteMay your wine (and chocolate) always be sweet.
May you run your best 'til you reach the end.
...then come celebrate with a slow-footed friend.
(Happy running, Jen. I envy your passion for it.)
Missed you today - my friend. BUT! I met Cara Mitchell - the infamous - whom I have heard of these past 20 years and we had a bond...funny enough, she lives right across from Penny Park on Florence, just behind the coach house. Is that block our Bermuda triangle or what? Lovely lady and a lovely time. I missed you though. Can we get together very soon? Please, lets make a date. I won't run with you, but I'll meet you for wine afterwards :)
ReplyDeletexoxox Carrie