Saturday morning, I ran my first "long run" since I was cleared to run by my doctor. It ended up being a very reflective run.
Backing up a bit...in September 2013, I fell and injured my foot while training for the Chicago Marathon. Five weeks before. Things haven't been right since. I finished the marathon but it wasn't pretty. I didn't run for weeks after and went on to complete the Savannah half marathon in November - I like to refer to that as my 13-mile walking tour of Savannah.
Since November, I've rested my foot, been to a sports medicine doctor and got orthotics for my shoes, got new shoes, tried running and finally gave up/in and went to a podiatrist. The good doc put me in a walking boot - up to my knee. I cried when he told me it was a must for 4-6 weeks. He, in turn, told me that runners are the craziest group of people that doctors deal with because we don't ever, ever, ever want to hear that we can't run. Period. For probably the first time in my life, I strictly followed doctor's orders because that was the fastest way to get back in my running shoes and on the road.
A week and a half ago, the boot came off. I have strict instructions to take it slow and to start over with running. I ran one mile last Monday. I ran 2 miles on Thursday and Saturday, as mentioned earlier, I had my first long run with my running group, The Runagades. I ran 4 miles.
When I got into mile 3, I thought, "I'm just getting warmed up and I have to stop in less than a mile? I want to run!!!!" And then I thought about my very first long run...
My first long run was with Team in Training in August of 2006 - 8 years ago. The training schedule called for a 4-mile run. When we started, I was quite sure there was no possible way to cover that distance. Four miles was stupidly long and impossible and crazy and what was I thinking!?! My coaches, Kenny and Jackie, were by my side and got me through it. It was pouring rain - the rain was coming down so hard it hurt when it hit my skin. But we didn't stop. There was no stopping. I was registered to run a full marathon in Phoenix 5 months later. There was no time to waste. I recall thinking, "How in God's name will I ever run 26 miles if 4 seems so impossible."
Five months later, Kenny crossed the finish line with me in Phoenix and it was magic. When I returned to my hotel room, I retrieved a voicemail from Jackie congratulating me and telling me that he was proud of me and it was perfect. It was a magical, perfect day. And it was the beginning of my running addiction.
Ironically, those are the only two runs I remember from those five months of training. There were 2-3 runs per week for five months and I only remember those two. The first one and the last one. I remember the friendships that bloomed and the breakfasts we had together, etc., and I even remember being out on runs and enjoying my time with the group, but the only runs I specifically remember are the first one in the rain and the last one that had a finish line.
For me, both of those runs were life changing. I found running and in all the places I've run since and at the 20+ races I've completed, I found a fraternal group of people who no matter the speed, the condition, the size or the shape, accept and embrace one another due to a common love of putting one foot in front of the other and covering the distance. I found a strength and determination in myself that I didn't know existed. Most importantly, in Kenny, Jackie and the rest of the running group, I found a family of friends that without running, I would have never met. We come from all different walks of life, range from 20s to 60s, from various professions, from different parts of the country and are all at different stages of life. They are all priceless to me.
What I realized Saturday in my little ol' 4-mile run is that first 4-mile run almost 8 years ago has turned out to be the one that means the most to me. It actually changed my life. Without Kenny and Jackie right there, in the pouring rain, guiding me through those 4 miles, I have no doubt that I would have stopped at mile 2 and said, "To hell with it!" which means so much would be different. With their encouragement, I finished and I was so proud and in that moment, I believed that 26.2 was possible. I believed that with the right people by my side, I can do anything.
I ran again last night. It was hot and really humid and I was a sweaty, heavy-breathing mess at the end. But when I got the 4-mile-beep from my GPS, I smiled and very quietly said, "Thanks, Coaches."
Jackie & Kenny, you are so special to me. Thank you for those four life changing miles.
More to come.
Running TALL,
Julia
I run TALL - both in height and in heart. Twitter: @girlrunningtall
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Friday, January 17, 2014
One Word Makes a World of Difference
As I've been injured since September, this is another post that is not running-related. Boo.
Mid-day Monday (four days ago) I was in my office having a quick catch-up telephone call with my husband, Mark. I asked if he'd received a text from Little Mister who had sent a text picture of the 100 he made on his math exam (Woohoo, Little Mister!). Mark reached for his mobile and in a horrific, alarming manner starting saying things along the lines of, "What?!" "Oh no!" "No way!" "What?!" As you might imagine, I thought he'd lost his mind. 100% on a math test is the goal and gets a "Hell yeah! That's my boy!" Then he read to me what he was reading on his phone.
Before I tell you what it said, let me back up a bit.
We moved into our home almost fifteen years ago. Until the last couple of years, our neighbors had not changed and we've grown to adore the familial nature of our cul-de-sac. One of the homes is occupied by the Rhodes family. (Yes, names have been changed.) Paul and Linda Rhodes are kind people who greet you with a smile and a squeeze when you see them. I know they are a bit older than we are but I don't think it's by much - not even ten years. Their daughter, Julie, lives in southern Florida with her husband and pre-K son. Two years ago, their twenty-year-old son, Ian, was killed - shocking everyone around them. Linda's family all live close by after moving from California years ago so we see them often as well. Her father has been ill so they spend a lot of time caring for him and helping out Linda's mom. Friday or Saturday of last week, I saw them in their driveway when I looked out the window. All was well.
So Monday, when Mark could finally speak, he read the text to me. "Hey Mark just wanted to let you know that Linda passed away." All I could say was, "I don't understand." We hung up the phone and I was speechless. Absolutely speechless.
After a few moments, the southern girl in me popped up. Ok....time to notify people. I made a couple of calls to neighbors to start the process. Ok....time to help. Paul probably needs paper products for all the people who will be coming to his home to comfort him. In times like these you can never have enough paper cups, Klennex and toilet paper. Perhaps I'll make a lasagna or a nice one-dish meal that's easy for folks.
Poor Paul. How is he feeling? How is he managing? He lost his son and two years later his wife?
Mark replied to Paul's text asking what we can do to help. No response. Not shocking. He had plenty to do, right? Later in the day, Mark called Paul and left a voicemail. Nothing. For the entire evening, the house was dark. No one was home - and we looked out often because we were very worried about Paul.
Tuesday, Mark called again. Paul finally answered. Mark asked him how he was holding up and he said, "It's hard and Linda is tired and helping her mother." Okay....
It seems that Paul left one word out of his text. It should have read, "Hey Mark just wanted to let you know that Lindas father passed away."
In the weirdest way possible, we were so relieved. Obviously we wished nothing but the best for Linda's father and his health...but Linda is still alive. Mark and Paul were able to laugh with one another. We spread the word about what will now be a great story that we all share. Even in the sadness of the loss of Linda's father, as usual, we all laughed. That has been the nature of our cul-de-sac for fifteen years. One word - or lack of - changed the meaning of one text.
One word makes a world of difference.
© Copyright Julia Vertreese, January 2014
Mid-day Monday (four days ago) I was in my office having a quick catch-up telephone call with my husband, Mark. I asked if he'd received a text from Little Mister who had sent a text picture of the 100 he made on his math exam (Woohoo, Little Mister!). Mark reached for his mobile and in a horrific, alarming manner starting saying things along the lines of, "What?!" "Oh no!" "No way!" "What?!" As you might imagine, I thought he'd lost his mind. 100% on a math test is the goal and gets a "Hell yeah! That's my boy!" Then he read to me what he was reading on his phone.
Before I tell you what it said, let me back up a bit.
We moved into our home almost fifteen years ago. Until the last couple of years, our neighbors had not changed and we've grown to adore the familial nature of our cul-de-sac. One of the homes is occupied by the Rhodes family. (Yes, names have been changed.) Paul and Linda Rhodes are kind people who greet you with a smile and a squeeze when you see them. I know they are a bit older than we are but I don't think it's by much - not even ten years. Their daughter, Julie, lives in southern Florida with her husband and pre-K son. Two years ago, their twenty-year-old son, Ian, was killed - shocking everyone around them. Linda's family all live close by after moving from California years ago so we see them often as well. Her father has been ill so they spend a lot of time caring for him and helping out Linda's mom. Friday or Saturday of last week, I saw them in their driveway when I looked out the window. All was well.
So Monday, when Mark could finally speak, he read the text to me. "Hey Mark just wanted to let you know that Linda passed away." All I could say was, "I don't understand." We hung up the phone and I was speechless. Absolutely speechless.
After a few moments, the southern girl in me popped up. Ok....time to notify people. I made a couple of calls to neighbors to start the process. Ok....time to help. Paul probably needs paper products for all the people who will be coming to his home to comfort him. In times like these you can never have enough paper cups, Klennex and toilet paper. Perhaps I'll make a lasagna or a nice one-dish meal that's easy for folks.
Poor Paul. How is he feeling? How is he managing? He lost his son and two years later his wife?
Mark replied to Paul's text asking what we can do to help. No response. Not shocking. He had plenty to do, right? Later in the day, Mark called Paul and left a voicemail. Nothing. For the entire evening, the house was dark. No one was home - and we looked out often because we were very worried about Paul.
Tuesday, Mark called again. Paul finally answered. Mark asked him how he was holding up and he said, "It's hard and Linda is tired and helping her mother." Okay....
It seems that Paul left one word out of his text. It should have read, "Hey Mark just wanted to let you know that Lindas father passed away."
In the weirdest way possible, we were so relieved. Obviously we wished nothing but the best for Linda's father and his health...but Linda is still alive. Mark and Paul were able to laugh with one another. We spread the word about what will now be a great story that we all share. Even in the sadness of the loss of Linda's father, as usual, we all laughed. That has been the nature of our cul-de-sac for fifteen years. One word - or lack of - changed the meaning of one text.
One word makes a world of difference.
© Copyright Julia Vertreese, January 2014
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Duck, Duck, Goose...
This isn't a post about running. It’s 100% an opinion post. You've been warned.
Roughly 24-hours ago, I started seeing headlines about a fella
from Duck Dynasty , Phil Robertson, and the fact that he gave his opinion about
homosexuality in a magazine interview. I
have not read the articles – not the original article or the articles about the
article. I also don’t watch the show not
for any particular reason that it’s just not my cup of tea. My husband and my son are regular
viewers.
This post isn't really about his opinion because I believe he’s
entitled to it. Just as I’m entitled to
my opinion that Mr. Robertson is a bit small-minded. This
post is about the parallels in today’s arguments against homosexuality and the past
(and unfortunately current) arguments against interracial relationships.
It all started with a text exchange yesterday with my husband:
Mark: Um, doesn’t **John Doe*** have a couple of
gay relatives?
GRT: Why?
Mark: He’s on FB agreeing with the homophobic and
otherwise disparaging comments made by the patriarch of the duck dynasty
family.
GRT: I think his son just came out.
Mark: That’s just awful. Not sure how you could feel that way about
something you help create.
GRT: Not sure how you could feel that way
period.
Mark: Well said.
After that is when I saw the Phil Robertson headlines. Then I noticed a ridiculous amount of social
media posts about Mr. Robertson’s opinions.
Truth be told, I’ve been more than a little shocked at the number of my friends
and family members that are praising his “Godliness” and openly backing Mr.
Robertson – even those folks who have openly gay family members and
friends. What is it the Bible says about judging...?
Between that text exchange and the onslaught of social media
messages about Mr. Robertson, who apparently is either the devil for being
homophobic or now has a seat reserved beside Jesus in Heaven because of his very
Christian views, my mind has been spinning.
Let me be clear. I do
not agree with Mr. Robertson. I have very
simple views when it comes to other people’s relationships: be kind to children, be kind to the elderly, keep
the church out of my government and keep the government out of marriage. I have a damn good reason for the last part
of that opinion.
My husband is black.
Our 16th wedding anniversary is tomorrow. Forty-six years ago, our marriage would have
been illegal. Sixteen years ago it was frowned
upon. Forty-six years ago, Mark and I
would have been jailed. Sixteen years
ago, we lost friends because we decided to be together. Forty-six years ago, we would have been told our
marriage was against God. Sixteen years
ago, we heard the same. Forty-six years
ago, interracial couple Mildred and Richard Loving won a civil rights case that
started in 1959 when the couple pled guilty to miscegenation – or simply put, being
married – and ended with a U.S. Supreme Court decision which overturned laws
prohibiting interracial marriage.
Sixteen years ago, our marriage was still ‘illegal’ in several states. South
Carolina removed its constitutional ban on interracial marriage in November of ’98
– a year after Mark and I were married.
Alabama waited until November of 2000 – a month after our son was
born.
Black and white together was disgusting.
Black and white together was nasty.
Black and white together was unnatural.
Black and white together was un-Godly.
Proclaiming your disdain for interracial marriage proved
that you were a good Christian, with Godly strength and strong character.
Sound familiar?
Today, those same things are said about same-sex
couples. Two men together is
disgusting. Two women together is
nasty. Two men together is unnatural. Two women together is against God’s
will. Mr. Robertson is a good Christian man that all Christians should look up to because of his beliefs. Blah, blah, blah. (For a moment, let me point out the hypocrisy
of men who don’t approve of women getting married but certainly don’t mind the
homosexual acts of two tarted-up women doing “un-Godly” things to each other in
porn. Tell me I’m wrong…)
In the fall of ’94, Mark and I were sitting in the living
room of my college apartment when a friend from home called to see if the rumor
was true…she’d heard I was dating a black guy and wanted to know if it was true
and made her opinion clear on the subject – it was not an opinion that was pro-interracial
relationship. It was the first of many
awful conversations with a lot of different people. We had been outed and our coming out was not
much different than the stories I have heard from my gay friends.
I often hear people talk about homosexuality being a choice
and that makes me giggle a little. I had
a discussion with someone who told me she thinks being gay is a choice and you
can change it when you want. My response
was, “Think about that for a second. Why
would you choose a life of pointed fingers and judgment? Why would you choose to risk losing your family
and friends? It’s not a choice. People instinctively choose what’s easiest
not the road of resistance.”
I know a little something about choices (or lack of) and
hard paths. I didn’t choose Mark. Mark didn’t choose me. Something much larger than either of us
brought us together. Something stronger
than us decided that we were going to have a tough road. In the beginning, although it was unspoken, neither
of us wanted to deal with the fallout that came with the two of us being
together. We fought our own hearts but in the end, there
was something magnetic between us and we couldn’t walk away. Eventually, we stopped fighting and became
one and here we are. We believe that all
is as God intended. We believe it’s very
natural.
Now, as I listen to all of the homophobic rants and judgment
spewed throughout the media, it’s all so familiar to me. It’s like having flashbacks only the players have
changed a bit – not the haters but those that are condemned and judged. The
haters have stayed a pretty consistent group.
My heart aches to think that anyone in any relationship could have their
new-love butterflies taken away by fear of what others might say or how others
may react. My heart aches for the
couples who aren’t treated as a couple because a government says they can’t be.
For the record, I’m not mad at Phil Robertson. I feel sorry for him but I don’t hate
him. I wish more people were open with
their opinions as long as they’re not preaching them. I would appreciate knowing what I am dealing
with instead of having folks hide behind being politically correct. If you
hate black people simply because they’re black, say it. I don’t need to know your reasons because I’ll
never understand them but I’ll also know not to bother with you. Same holds true if you hate gay people. We won’t agree, but I’ll know where you stand
and life will be easier for both of us.
Many people have heard me say over the years that I don’t
judge people. I don’t. I’ll talk about you all day long and twice on
Sundays but I won’t judge you. I’ve
walked in the shadows of judgment and, simply put, it sucks. Mr. Robertson has to live in his skin of
judgment. That’s his burden. I just pray that people like Mr. Robertson
don’t confuse their religious views and opinions with other people’s individual
and civil rights. I hope that this year’s
Supreme Court rulings in favor of equality doesn’t take thirty years to trickle
down to the states like the 1967 Loving decision did.
I hope the day will soon come that acts of love, kindness
and generosity get more media time than acts of hatred, judgment and
condemnation.
Be kind to children.
Be kind to the elderly. Hell, be
kind to everyone in between. Keep the
church out of my government. Keep the
government out of my marriage.
Running TALL - on the road and in my heart & soul,
Julia
© Copyright Julia Vertreese, December 2013
© Copyright Julia Vertreese, December 2013
Thursday, October 31, 2013
I Don't Mean to Brag But...I Did It. #yearof40
I'm not going to lie - right now, I truly believe I can do absolutely anything. I may not be able to do it as fast as others, but by God, I can do anything.
As previously stated, my biggest #yearof40 goal was to complete a full marathon and I decided that Chicago was the one. The last full I ran was Chicago in 2009 and I loved it so why not go back! I marked my calendar for the day registration opened and along with tens of thousands of other runners, panicked when the site started crashing. I must have entered my information into that site 72 times before it finally took - and it was just in the nick of time because the race shut down registration for a week or so and then held a lottery for the remaining entries. Whew!
In the midst of my training, I was a busy Tall Girl. My niece was born in December and stole my heart which means I try to see her as often as possible. My sister, Leo, got married in May. I've made two trips to Florida with my Aunt Clara, my mom and Little Mister to see Double G. I spent a fair amount of time shuttling Little Mister to and from camps, practices, games, activities, etc., and we've been preparing to put our house on the market and picking out fixtures for our new house. Oh, and I'm a full time paralegal!
The kicker for the Chicago training came five or six weeks before the race. There was a battle between a spider, a pothole and me. The spider and the pothole came out fine. Short of the long: there was a spider dangling from a web over the road where I was running. But there weren't any trees and I was staring at the spider trying to figure out from what it could possibly be dangling. I looked up at the web and my foot hit the edge of the pothole and rolled right on in taking the rest of me with it. I hit the ground pretty hard.
I will now admit to the world that I didn't go to the doctor for one reason - I knew the doctor would tell me that I couldn't run Chicago and I did not want to hear it. Period. So I iced. And I re-iced. A lot. I had my longest training run - 15 miles - three weeks before the race and it wasn't pretty. The week before Chicago, all I could think about was the 11 miles for which I didn't train. And worse that that, the .2 at the end. In a 26.2 mile run, .2 is the most important.
On race day, my walk to the start line was just under two miles. It was a nice warm-up. I checked my gear, puffed on the inhaler and got in the starting corral. As always, as I made my way up to the start line, I listened to Al Pacino give his "Inches" speech from "Any Given Sunday." I have listened to that speech at the start of every race I've completed. Next is Alice in Chains "Man in a Box." Beyond that, the music goes on shuffle and music from the last four decades and all genres rotate through my ears.
I was about two miles in when I knew. I felt that little bit of tenderness in my foot and I knew that sooner rather than later this was going to be trouble. But I kept going and I was a bit distracted by a new pain. It was in my right hip. What in the world? Where did this come from? Never in all of my training had I had this pain.
I got to the half mark at a slower pace than anticipated - even with the bum foot. Part of that I think is a crowded start. I was, after all, running with 37,000 people. Another part was slowing down in Boys Town which is quite possibly the most entertaining, encouraging part of the course. At Mile 14 the wheels started coming off. My foot hurt terribly but worse than that, my dang hip! Time to mentally regroup but that was a challenge because I was in such pain that I thought I would have to stop due to nausea - a severe pain reaction.
Mile 15: Aid station. I've never been to an aid station that I can recall. But in my mind, Tylenol would make a difference - even if just mentally. I stepped up to a small tent and asked for Tylenol. "We're out." Um, what? Out? And then I looked in the tent and what I saw hit me like a ton of bricks - there were people laid out. As in literally on the ground and not vertical at all. I'm not sure why it hit me so hard but in hind sight, I think seeing people who had no intention of getting up and finishing the race was not what I needed at that moment. I had to get out of there. I asked where the next aid station was located. Mile 16.
Mile 16: Aid station. This was a larger aid station and I had to step into a parking lot to get to it. I was greeted halfway through the parking lot by a doctor/volunteer who saw me limping and here's how the convo went:
MD: What do you need?
GRT: I'd like a Vicodin with a tequila back, please.
MD: I'm sorry?
GRT: I'd like a Vicodin with a tequila back, please.
MD: Ok. Well...I can give you some Tylenol with some water to chase it.
GRT: All right. If that's the best you can do, I'll take it.
Into the tent of the fallen we went. This was a much larger tent and I shielded my eyes from the folks on the cots. It was a runners' war camp triage without all the blood. At least I hope there was no blood but since I didn't look I can't tell you for sure. A cute little volunteer came up and wrote down my bib number and asked what hurt for the official Tylenol records. I said, "Everything." She needed something more specific. I told her that my left foot and right hip hurt. The doc squinted his eyes, looked at me and said, "Which one of those hurt before you got here?" Busted. Hm. My foot, I admitted. He smiled and said my hip hurt because I was compensating for my foot. Lucky me.
He told me because I made him laugh I could have the entire bottle of water and sent me on my way. This is when contract negotiations between my mind and body began. Every two miles, my will and my body would come together and negotiate and renegotiate to the finish line. My mind was determined. My body could have cared less. So at Mile 16, the best my body could promise was to get me to Mile 18.
Mile 18: With some very encouraging text messages from my mother, my sisters and my dear friends, I made it to 18. My body agreed to extend our contract to Mile 20. This was another great neighborhood, Pilsen. The community was out in full force - even for the slow participants which meant they were out there for a long time. Music was playing. Folks were dancing on the sidewalks. It was a very welcome distraction.
Mile 20: Another contract negotiation. Six miles to go and that's a really long way on legs that hurt as much as mine did. At that point, I wasn't sure if I could still feel my legs. My mind started racing a bit and I had somehow managed to trick my brain with the pain. Coping mechanism perhaps? Can I feel my legs? Am I now imagining the pain? How am I actually making my legs go one in front of the other? Find a better song to distract you. Text someone. Be in charge of you. Yep, these thoughts actually happened. And none of them made any sense. Contract extended for two miles. Just get to Mile 22, Julia. Just get to 22...
Mile 22: Can I go two more miles? Where would I be if I went two more miles. Are two more miles worth it? I'm a travel geek and before I go to a new city, I all but memorize where I'm going to be, the closest public transportation routes, good restaurants and fantastic shoe stores. I also endlessly study course maps. I knew that getting to Mile 23 meant that I was crossing the bridge over the interstate to get back to the east side of Chicago. I also knew that getting to Mile 24 meant being back on Michigan Avenue and a straight shot to the finish line. Most importantly, I knew that I'd earned a new pair of shoes. So the body/mind contract was extended to Mile 24 and a pair of shoes which will forever be known as my Mile 22 shoes.
Mile 24: I was on Michigan Avenue. The excitement in the air was building. There were more and more people on the course. There was no negotiating another two miles here. Mind and body were on the same page. There was a finish line 2.2 miles away and I was going to go across it even if it was on my hands and knees.
Mile 26: The 11th Street Bridge. .2 to go and my body took over. I hadn't actually run in 10 miles. Yep, ten miles of walking due to pain. Ten flippin' miles. But when I laid eyes on that Mile 26 marker, something happened...I started running. I ran that .2 miles and nothing hurt. The finish line got closer and closer and I ran and it felt so good that even as I type these words, there are tears in my eyes. It was heaven. It was bliss. It was pride. It was me. I did it. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't easy. But it was worth it. The pain, the fear, the nausea, the mind/body negotiations, the awful gels, all of it. It was worth every bit of it for the way that .2 miles felt, for the way that finish line felt.
I was wrapped in a mylar blanket. A sweet teenage boy put a medal around my neck and told me I did a good job as I stood in front of him with tears streaming down my face. Bless his heart. I walked a few steps away and held onto the fence. The pain was back and it was back tenfold. I was hurting in places that I hadn't hurt the entire day. The ugly cry was making its way out and I had to let it happen. I had to get it out. I pulled myself together and once again tried to figure out how I was going to go any farther. I took about 5 steps and in front of me appeared a man that had clearly been sent down from the heavens ... in a beer truck. He poured a cold 312 straight out of the beer truck tap and put it in my hand. God, bless him.
I sent my mother, sisters, husband and friends a note to let them know I finished and my phone immediately went dead. I walked the two miles back to the hotel in pain and reflection. I also stopped halfway to rest and to eat the largest cheeseburger I could find in a record amount of time. I also had another ice cold 312.
Those who know have heard me say (more than once) that I don't necessarily like running. I like finishing. The most intoxicating thing I do is cross finish lines whether it's a PR or in pain. It is the most amazing feeling.
And I simply cannot wait to do it again.
With pride and with tears in my eyes I tell you that there is definitely more to come.
Running TALL,
Julia
As previously stated, my biggest #yearof40 goal was to complete a full marathon and I decided that Chicago was the one. The last full I ran was Chicago in 2009 and I loved it so why not go back! I marked my calendar for the day registration opened and along with tens of thousands of other runners, panicked when the site started crashing. I must have entered my information into that site 72 times before it finally took - and it was just in the nick of time because the race shut down registration for a week or so and then held a lottery for the remaining entries. Whew!
In the midst of my training, I was a busy Tall Girl. My niece was born in December and stole my heart which means I try to see her as often as possible. My sister, Leo, got married in May. I've made two trips to Florida with my Aunt Clara, my mom and Little Mister to see Double G. I spent a fair amount of time shuttling Little Mister to and from camps, practices, games, activities, etc., and we've been preparing to put our house on the market and picking out fixtures for our new house. Oh, and I'm a full time paralegal!
The kicker for the Chicago training came five or six weeks before the race. There was a battle between a spider, a pothole and me. The spider and the pothole came out fine. Short of the long: there was a spider dangling from a web over the road where I was running. But there weren't any trees and I was staring at the spider trying to figure out from what it could possibly be dangling. I looked up at the web and my foot hit the edge of the pothole and rolled right on in taking the rest of me with it. I hit the ground pretty hard.
I will now admit to the world that I didn't go to the doctor for one reason - I knew the doctor would tell me that I couldn't run Chicago and I did not want to hear it. Period. So I iced. And I re-iced. A lot. I had my longest training run - 15 miles - three weeks before the race and it wasn't pretty. The week before Chicago, all I could think about was the 11 miles for which I didn't train. And worse that that, the .2 at the end. In a 26.2 mile run, .2 is the most important.
 |
On race day, my walk to the start line was just under two miles. It was a nice warm-up. I checked my gear, puffed on the inhaler and got in the starting corral. As always, as I made my way up to the start line, I listened to Al Pacino give his "Inches" speech from "Any Given Sunday." I have listened to that speech at the start of every race I've completed. Next is Alice in Chains "Man in a Box." Beyond that, the music goes on shuffle and music from the last four decades and all genres rotate through my ears.
 |
| Morning walk to the start line |
 |
| Sunrise in Chicago |
 |
| Waiting to start |
I was about two miles in when I knew. I felt that little bit of tenderness in my foot and I knew that sooner rather than later this was going to be trouble. But I kept going and I was a bit distracted by a new pain. It was in my right hip. What in the world? Where did this come from? Never in all of my training had I had this pain.
 |
| Beautiful tree-lined neighborhood |
I got to the half mark at a slower pace than anticipated - even with the bum foot. Part of that I think is a crowded start. I was, after all, running with 37,000 people. Another part was slowing down in Boys Town which is quite possibly the most entertaining, encouraging part of the course. At Mile 14 the wheels started coming off. My foot hurt terribly but worse than that, my dang hip! Time to mentally regroup but that was a challenge because I was in such pain that I thought I would have to stop due to nausea - a severe pain reaction.
Mile 15: Aid station. I've never been to an aid station that I can recall. But in my mind, Tylenol would make a difference - even if just mentally. I stepped up to a small tent and asked for Tylenol. "We're out." Um, what? Out? And then I looked in the tent and what I saw hit me like a ton of bricks - there were people laid out. As in literally on the ground and not vertical at all. I'm not sure why it hit me so hard but in hind sight, I think seeing people who had no intention of getting up and finishing the race was not what I needed at that moment. I had to get out of there. I asked where the next aid station was located. Mile 16.
Mile 16: Aid station. This was a larger aid station and I had to step into a parking lot to get to it. I was greeted halfway through the parking lot by a doctor/volunteer who saw me limping and here's how the convo went:
MD: What do you need?
GRT: I'd like a Vicodin with a tequila back, please.
MD: I'm sorry?
GRT: I'd like a Vicodin with a tequila back, please.
MD: Ok. Well...I can give you some Tylenol with some water to chase it.
GRT: All right. If that's the best you can do, I'll take it.
Into the tent of the fallen we went. This was a much larger tent and I shielded my eyes from the folks on the cots. It was a runners' war camp triage without all the blood. At least I hope there was no blood but since I didn't look I can't tell you for sure. A cute little volunteer came up and wrote down my bib number and asked what hurt for the official Tylenol records. I said, "Everything." She needed something more specific. I told her that my left foot and right hip hurt. The doc squinted his eyes, looked at me and said, "Which one of those hurt before you got here?" Busted. Hm. My foot, I admitted. He smiled and said my hip hurt because I was compensating for my foot. Lucky me.
He told me because I made him laugh I could have the entire bottle of water and sent me on my way. This is when contract negotiations between my mind and body began. Every two miles, my will and my body would come together and negotiate and renegotiate to the finish line. My mind was determined. My body could have cared less. So at Mile 16, the best my body could promise was to get me to Mile 18.
Mile 18: With some very encouraging text messages from my mother, my sisters and my dear friends, I made it to 18. My body agreed to extend our contract to Mile 20. This was another great neighborhood, Pilsen. The community was out in full force - even for the slow participants which meant they were out there for a long time. Music was playing. Folks were dancing on the sidewalks. It was a very welcome distraction.
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| Around Pilsen |
Mile 20: Another contract negotiation. Six miles to go and that's a really long way on legs that hurt as much as mine did. At that point, I wasn't sure if I could still feel my legs. My mind started racing a bit and I had somehow managed to trick my brain with the pain. Coping mechanism perhaps? Can I feel my legs? Am I now imagining the pain? How am I actually making my legs go one in front of the other? Find a better song to distract you. Text someone. Be in charge of you. Yep, these thoughts actually happened. And none of them made any sense. Contract extended for two miles. Just get to Mile 22, Julia. Just get to 22...
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| Chinatown |
Mile 22: Can I go two more miles? Where would I be if I went two more miles. Are two more miles worth it? I'm a travel geek and before I go to a new city, I all but memorize where I'm going to be, the closest public transportation routes, good restaurants and fantastic shoe stores. I also endlessly study course maps. I knew that getting to Mile 23 meant that I was crossing the bridge over the interstate to get back to the east side of Chicago. I also knew that getting to Mile 24 meant being back on Michigan Avenue and a straight shot to the finish line. Most importantly, I knew that I'd earned a new pair of shoes. So the body/mind contract was extended to Mile 24 and a pair of shoes which will forever be known as my Mile 22 shoes.
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| Crossing the bridge approaching Mile 23 |
Mile 24: I was on Michigan Avenue. The excitement in the air was building. There were more and more people on the course. There was no negotiating another two miles here. Mind and body were on the same page. There was a finish line 2.2 miles away and I was going to go across it even if it was on my hands and knees.
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| This is the truth! They hang around for the slow runners! |
Mile 26: The 11th Street Bridge. .2 to go and my body took over. I hadn't actually run in 10 miles. Yep, ten miles of walking due to pain. Ten flippin' miles. But when I laid eyes on that Mile 26 marker, something happened...I started running. I ran that .2 miles and nothing hurt. The finish line got closer and closer and I ran and it felt so good that even as I type these words, there are tears in my eyes. It was heaven. It was bliss. It was pride. It was me. I did it. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't easy. But it was worth it. The pain, the fear, the nausea, the mind/body negotiations, the awful gels, all of it. It was worth every bit of it for the way that .2 miles felt, for the way that finish line felt.
I was wrapped in a mylar blanket. A sweet teenage boy put a medal around my neck and told me I did a good job as I stood in front of him with tears streaming down my face. Bless his heart. I walked a few steps away and held onto the fence. The pain was back and it was back tenfold. I was hurting in places that I hadn't hurt the entire day. The ugly cry was making its way out and I had to let it happen. I had to get it out. I pulled myself together and once again tried to figure out how I was going to go any farther. I took about 5 steps and in front of me appeared a man that had clearly been sent down from the heavens ... in a beer truck. He poured a cold 312 straight out of the beer truck tap and put it in my hand. God, bless him.
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| Sweet nectar of running... |
I sent my mother, sisters, husband and friends a note to let them know I finished and my phone immediately went dead. I walked the two miles back to the hotel in pain and reflection. I also stopped halfway to rest and to eat the largest cheeseburger I could find in a record amount of time. I also had another ice cold 312.
Those who know have heard me say (more than once) that I don't necessarily like running. I like finishing. The most intoxicating thing I do is cross finish lines whether it's a PR or in pain. It is the most amazing feeling.
And I simply cannot wait to do it again.
With pride and with tears in my eyes I tell you that there is definitely more to come.
Running TALL,
Julia
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| My reward...and I'm still carrying it in my purse. |
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| Mile 22 Shoes. |
Saturday, October 12, 2013
#Yearof40 Goals Achieved (Almost)!!!
This post will be short. I've got to prepare.
Tomorrow morning at 8:00 central time the gun will fire and I will be on my way to achieving my biggest #yearof40 goal. I will begin my 26.2 mile run to the finish line of the Chicago Marathon.
It won't be fast or pretty. About 5 weeks ago, I injured my foot and it's not 100%. My longest run was 15 miles AFTER my injury and I shouldn't have done that. I know that tomorrow my foot will hurt. I know that. But I also know that I will finish.
I am anxious.
I am nervous. (Redundant, I know, but I swear I am feeling both.)
I am excited.
I am proud.
I am running TALL.
More tomorrow. If I can move...
Julia
Tomorrow morning at 8:00 central time the gun will fire and I will be on my way to achieving my biggest #yearof40 goal. I will begin my 26.2 mile run to the finish line of the Chicago Marathon.
It won't be fast or pretty. About 5 weeks ago, I injured my foot and it's not 100%. My longest run was 15 miles AFTER my injury and I shouldn't have done that. I know that tomorrow my foot will hurt. I know that. But I also know that I will finish.
I am anxious.
I am nervous. (Redundant, I know, but I swear I am feeling both.)
I am excited.
I am proud.
I am running TALL.
More tomorrow. If I can move...
Julia
Monday, September 9, 2013
The Toast
My sister, Leigh Ann, married her love, Marty, on May 4th. It was a gorgeous day in every way - weather was perfect, the bride was gorgeous, the ceremony was intimate and sweet, and in the end, a good time was had by all. There was delicious food, fantastic bubbly (I love the bubbly), singing, dancing, laughter, family, friends...everything was simply perfect....except my toast.
I wasn't ready. I mean, I was ready in the sense that I knew what I was going to say. I knew well in advance I was giving a toast and I had run the thing over in my mind repeatedly. I had the bullet points loaded in my brain for when the time was right. But guess what? The timing got screwed up. You see, I thought I giving a toast just after the cake cutting. So I had it all planned out. Dinner would be over. Folks would be mingling about and then gather for the cake cutting and then I'd do it...when folks were just standing around. I'd timed it out so that I'd have a drink before dinner, a drink during dinner and one in my hand by the time that we got to the cake cutting so that nerves wouldn't be so much of an issue. But instead, during dinner I was suddenly told it was time. What? What?! What?!?! I hadn't had my pre-dinner drink. I didn't even have my during-dinner drink! So, I managed to get the waiter to find a glass of champs for me and told the toast-pusher that she just had to wait until I'd finished at least one glass to push me anymore. [As a side note and for the lady readers, it's worth pointing out that the waiter had a more-than-striking resemblance to Gilles Marini...to the point that almost every lady at the wedding reception called him Gilles and giggled all night. A girl could do much worse than having a Gilles Marini look-alike pouring your champs for an entire evening. But I digress...] So, I got the one glass of bubbly in me, stood up for the toast, realized that everyone was seated, quiet and focused on me, panicked and forgot everything. I bungled the whole damn thing. Quite frankly, as I was speaking, I lost track of what I was saying because my brain was screaming, "Just stop talking! You're botching this!" but my mouth wouldn't stop and I don't really know what I said. At one point, I even heard the bride - THE BRIDE - helping me fill in the blanks. If I could have turned up the bottle of champagne - or the bottle of tequila that my mother and my husband had stashed in the other room, for that matter** - I would have. This toast has bothered me since. I think about it every week.
As the title of this blog indicates and as all of you surely know by now, I'm a runner. Saturday mornings I get up early, go meet a group of friends and we set out for our weekly long run. I typically end up running by myself as we all run different paces, etc. Saturday morning runs are mentally cleansing for me. Depending on the length of the run, various things happen. I reflect on the past week. I think about what's coming up in the next week(s). I zone out and let my legs take over and give my brain a rest. I occasionally have conversations with God, my Granddaddy and more recently, my brother-in-law, Michael. One thing has been consistent with my Saturday morning runs since May 4th - my many thoughts and regrets over that toast. So I'm going to set it straight.
My toast - or at least the version I can get on paper. You'll have to imagine the shaking hands and quivering voice on your own:
For almost five years, I was an only child and an only grandchild. I thought I had it made. And then, a month before my 5th birthday, Leigh Ann came along and I thought my perfect world had been shattered as I had to share everything including the time and attention that once had been all mine. I couldn't have been more wrong. As it turns out, that tiny, cone-headed baby had a lifetime of gifts to give me. Through her - my very first sibling - I have been able to experience all the gifts of having and being a sister - except the clothes sharing part because Leigh Ann stayed tiny. We played together. We fought over toys. I'm sure at some point one of us complained that the other was "looking at me!" or "touching me!" She called me Sissy. To this day, I don't know why that stopped but it was probably for the best. Five years after Leigh was born Pye came along and, together, Leigh and I adapted. Since then, we've continued to play together and argued with each other and shopped together and cry together and laugh together and spend holidays together, and...and...and... Little Leo, as she's known in our family, visited me in college and was right beside me to welcome Nolan into this world. All of these things - the playing, the fighting, the college visits, being by my side - were among countless amazing gifts.
Even on her wedding day - the day that is suppose to be all about her and her love, Leo continued to give gifts. As she said her vows, she brought Marty and Hayden, Marty's son, into our family. I take the liberty of speaking for all of us when I say we couldn't be happier. On her day, Leo gave Pye, Mitch, Mark and me a brother-in-law and a nephew. She gave Ansley K and Nolan an uncle and a cousin. She gave my parents their third and final "M". (I gave them Mark. Pye gave them Mitch.) We all got the pleasure and the gift of witnessing the three of them become a family of their own. In return, our wish for Leigh, Marty and Hayden is the gift of a long life together filed with love, laughter, fortune and good health.
Love you most, Leo.
RunningTALL and as a proud sister,
Julia
**The history of my mother, my husband and their tequila bottle is a story for another day...
I wasn't ready. I mean, I was ready in the sense that I knew what I was going to say. I knew well in advance I was giving a toast and I had run the thing over in my mind repeatedly. I had the bullet points loaded in my brain for when the time was right. But guess what? The timing got screwed up. You see, I thought I giving a toast just after the cake cutting. So I had it all planned out. Dinner would be over. Folks would be mingling about and then gather for the cake cutting and then I'd do it...when folks were just standing around. I'd timed it out so that I'd have a drink before dinner, a drink during dinner and one in my hand by the time that we got to the cake cutting so that nerves wouldn't be so much of an issue. But instead, during dinner I was suddenly told it was time. What? What?! What?!?! I hadn't had my pre-dinner drink. I didn't even have my during-dinner drink! So, I managed to get the waiter to find a glass of champs for me and told the toast-pusher that she just had to wait until I'd finished at least one glass to push me anymore. [As a side note and for the lady readers, it's worth pointing out that the waiter had a more-than-striking resemblance to Gilles Marini...to the point that almost every lady at the wedding reception called him Gilles and giggled all night. A girl could do much worse than having a Gilles Marini look-alike pouring your champs for an entire evening. But I digress...] So, I got the one glass of bubbly in me, stood up for the toast, realized that everyone was seated, quiet and focused on me, panicked and forgot everything. I bungled the whole damn thing. Quite frankly, as I was speaking, I lost track of what I was saying because my brain was screaming, "Just stop talking! You're botching this!" but my mouth wouldn't stop and I don't really know what I said. At one point, I even heard the bride - THE BRIDE - helping me fill in the blanks. If I could have turned up the bottle of champagne - or the bottle of tequila that my mother and my husband had stashed in the other room, for that matter** - I would have. This toast has bothered me since. I think about it every week.
As the title of this blog indicates and as all of you surely know by now, I'm a runner. Saturday mornings I get up early, go meet a group of friends and we set out for our weekly long run. I typically end up running by myself as we all run different paces, etc. Saturday morning runs are mentally cleansing for me. Depending on the length of the run, various things happen. I reflect on the past week. I think about what's coming up in the next week(s). I zone out and let my legs take over and give my brain a rest. I occasionally have conversations with God, my Granddaddy and more recently, my brother-in-law, Michael. One thing has been consistent with my Saturday morning runs since May 4th - my many thoughts and regrets over that toast. So I'm going to set it straight.
My toast - or at least the version I can get on paper. You'll have to imagine the shaking hands and quivering voice on your own:
For almost five years, I was an only child and an only grandchild. I thought I had it made. And then, a month before my 5th birthday, Leigh Ann came along and I thought my perfect world had been shattered as I had to share everything including the time and attention that once had been all mine. I couldn't have been more wrong. As it turns out, that tiny, cone-headed baby had a lifetime of gifts to give me. Through her - my very first sibling - I have been able to experience all the gifts of having and being a sister - except the clothes sharing part because Leigh Ann stayed tiny. We played together. We fought over toys. I'm sure at some point one of us complained that the other was "looking at me!" or "touching me!" She called me Sissy. To this day, I don't know why that stopped but it was probably for the best. Five years after Leigh was born Pye came along and, together, Leigh and I adapted. Since then, we've continued to play together and argued with each other and shopped together and cry together and laugh together and spend holidays together, and...and...and... Little Leo, as she's known in our family, visited me in college and was right beside me to welcome Nolan into this world. All of these things - the playing, the fighting, the college visits, being by my side - were among countless amazing gifts.
Even on her wedding day - the day that is suppose to be all about her and her love, Leo continued to give gifts. As she said her vows, she brought Marty and Hayden, Marty's son, into our family. I take the liberty of speaking for all of us when I say we couldn't be happier. On her day, Leo gave Pye, Mitch, Mark and me a brother-in-law and a nephew. She gave Ansley K and Nolan an uncle and a cousin. She gave my parents their third and final "M". (I gave them Mark. Pye gave them Mitch.) We all got the pleasure and the gift of witnessing the three of them become a family of their own. In return, our wish for Leigh, Marty and Hayden is the gift of a long life together filed with love, laughter, fortune and good health.
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| Rick, Mom, Joel, Leigh, Michelle, Marty, Mary Pye, Mitch, Julia, Nolan, Mark, Hayden & Emily |
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| Nolan and Leigh |
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| Leigh and Mark |
Love you most, Leo.
RunningTALL and as a proud sister,
Julia
**The history of my mother, my husband and their tequila bottle is a story for another day...
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
#Yearof40 Week 9 - A Different 40 Year Celebration
This week's post is about a different 40-year celebration - my mother's retirement after 40 years at what is now Wells Fargo.
In July of 1973, when I was 6 months old, my mother was hired at First National Bank of Catawba County which became First Union, which became Wachovia, which became Wells Fargo. For 40 years my mother gave the bank everything she had - and then some - as a way to provide for my sisters and me. We cannot ever thank her enough for what she's given us.
I think in modern times you'll be hard pressed to find very many people who have stayed loyal to one company for 40 years. Her dedication to the bank was rewarded when it counted most. Because those for whom she worked valued her work ethic, her reliability, and her work product, when Mom needed time away to be with Granddaddy before he left us, there was never a question asked or an eyebrow raised - she took the time she needed and wanted. Same is true for when Rick fought against and beat the hell out of his cancer. When Nolan was born, she made a quick phone call and was able to witness the birth of her first grandchild.
The current generations, including my own, could all learn a lesson from my mother. Get a job. Work hard. Be loyal.
Forty years is a long time. Let's think about some of the things that have happened since she started working at the bank in July of '73...
I am happy to report that in spite of Ansley K's recent fear of strangers, she did not have stranger danger with me! I was so afraid that she'd see me and scream bloody murder but alas, she did not. Instead I was greeted with this precious, no-stranger-danger smile that melted me...
And before I left and before I all but kissed her little face off, we had play time where I melted some more...and considered putting her in my luggage...
It was a great time shared with family and friends. I love celebrating my family's accomplishments - even just a plain ol' birthday. In a world where the news has nothing nice to report, I find great joy in the simple pleasures of my family - my crazy, hectic family. But this was not a plain ol' celebration - this was 40 years in the making and I'm so happy for her. She's going to enjoy spending her days with AK until early 2014. After that, she has endless options for what to do with her time and I can't wait to read her next chapter.
More to come.
Running TALL,
Julia
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| July 1973 The day Mom was hired at the bank |
I think in modern times you'll be hard pressed to find very many people who have stayed loyal to one company for 40 years. Her dedication to the bank was rewarded when it counted most. Because those for whom she worked valued her work ethic, her reliability, and her work product, when Mom needed time away to be with Granddaddy before he left us, there was never a question asked or an eyebrow raised - she took the time she needed and wanted. Same is true for when Rick fought against and beat the hell out of his cancer. When Nolan was born, she made a quick phone call and was able to witness the birth of her first grandchild.
The current generations, including my own, could all learn a lesson from my mother. Get a job. Work hard. Be loyal.
Forty years is a long time. Let's think about some of the things that have happened since she started working at the bank in July of '73...
- August 8, '74 - Nixon resigned
- April 1, '76 - Apple Computers was founded by Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak
- May 29, '76 - Mom and Rick were married
- May 25, '77 - First Star Wars movie was released
- August 16, '77 - The King died
- December 19, '77 - Little Leo was born
- May 4, '79 - Margaret Thatcher became Britain's 1st female Prime Minister
- July 1, '79 - Sony releases first Walkman
- July 21, '81 - Charles and Diana's Wedding (I remember watching that with Mom...we lived in Boone at the time)
- September 21, '81 - Sandra Day O'Connor confirmed as first female Supreme Court Justice
- June 22, '82 - E.T. phoned home
- April 3, '83 - NC State wins National Championship when a missed shot from Dereck Whittenburg turned into the alley-oop heard around the world...and 2 game-winning points from Lorenzo Charles
- April 27, '83 - Mary Pye was born
- July 13, '85 - Live Aid
- January 28, '86 - Challenger explosion
- November 9, '89 - Fall of the Berlin Wall
- April 1, '91 - Duke beat Kansas for National Championship
- March 28, '92 - The Shot. Best basketball game in the history of NCAA.
- April 6, '92 - Duke beat Michigan for back-to-back National Championship
- June 23, '93 - Lorena Bobbitt got mad and...
- October 3, '95 - OJ Simpson found not guilty
- December 20, '97 - Julia and Mark are married
- December 31, '99 - We partied like it's... Millennium! Y2K
- October 2, '00 - Little Mister was born
- November 7 - December 13, '00 - Hanging chads recount
- April 2, '01 - Duke beat Arizona for National Championship
- April 23, '01 - Apple introduces the iPod
- September 11, '01 - The world as we know it changed forever
- February 1, '04 - Janet Jackson had a 'wardrobe malfunction'
- February 4, '04 - Facebook founded by Mark Zuckerburg
- August 29, '05 - A crazy lady named Katrina...
- July 21, '07 - First Harry Potter book released
- September 6, '08 - Pye and Mitch are married
- April 5, '10 - Duke beat Butler (in a hell of a game) for National Championship
- May 2, '11 - Osama Bin Laden is killed
- December 6, '12 - Ansley Kay was born
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| Trouble x 3: Mom, Mama Michelle and Sister Susan |
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| Joel & Michelle |
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| Susan & Todd |
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| Nolan and Leigh Ann |
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| Little Leo, Mom, Julia & Mary Pye |
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| Marty & Mark |
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| The Three Ms: Mitch, Mark & Marty This is what happens when they are together... |
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| ...and I'm sure we do not want to know what lies are being told or what they're laughing at... |
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| AK laughing it up at the party |
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| AK being entertained by Nolan |
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| Even the car ride home was fun... |
I am happy to report that in spite of Ansley K's recent fear of strangers, she did not have stranger danger with me! I was so afraid that she'd see me and scream bloody murder but alas, she did not. Instead I was greeted with this precious, no-stranger-danger smile that melted me...
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| No Stranger Danger! |
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| Can you see me melting... |
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| Big Girl time in her chair... |
More to come.
Running TALL,
Julia
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