13 Miles = Superbad (in a good way)

This past Sunday, I ran my first "half-marathon". It was unintentional: I was supposed to run 13 miles, which is just under the halfway mark of the 26.2 mile race, but it turns out that the loop we run in Prospect Park is 3.35 miles, and we ran the loop four times . . .

superDORK!

Running 13 plus miles was much less difficult than I had anticipated. There were several reasons why it was a successful run: I was well hydrated, it wasn't very hot outside, I had eaten enough food, and I was wearing good gear (lightweight and not annoying, and my sweat didn't make it look like I peed my pants). But I think there was one key factor that made my run so smooth: James Brown.

That's right. Before we hit the ground running, I downloaded J.B.'s 20 All Time Greatest Hits into my ipod. The music was perfect: good rhythm, wild, unrestrained, steady . . . it made me forget that I was running because I was, like, dancing inside. That man is FUNKY.

To my surprise, 13 miles did not hurt!

But it was a different story when I got home:

exhausted, accomplished, and still a dork.

Dad's knee is still injured, so he's been working out on the elliptical. I have no idea what it's like to trudge on that machine for two hours, but he's going to drop me a line soon and update me/you on his progress.

We're off to Battle Creek, Michigan, tomorrow for a vacation with the family. My dad and I will be running 15 miles together on Saturday!

Here goes nothin' . . .

Headspins and Peacemaking

Here's an update on Dad's condition, taken straight from an email sent this morning:

Hi Mir,

I have had this swollen right knee for the past 10 days and stopped any running about a week ago...and the swelling has been going down and the limp is less and the soreness is less. Dr Vanhuysen saw me again last Tuesday and reiterates that this is (simply) arthritis and that my knee is complaining (my words and translation into people talk) and he believes that I CAN run the marathon but that I will have to be more creative from here on in.

For example, I need to be stretching what he says are very tight hamstrings (posterior thigh muscles) 20 minutes every day. And I should now not just run but start either using the elliptical trainer or biking to stay fit...not just running. And if the knee is swollen or worsens, then to stop running for awhile and do alternative exercise to stay (and increase being) fit.

He even suggested that I try something called CHI running (sp?) where instead of running the standard way, where one lands on the heel first when in stride, I should try and land on my forefoot. Thus the force won't be translated onto my inner knee (where I have arthritis) but ? more to my private parts, where I have no arthritis and might even feel good (I added the last whole idea).

Anyway, I have been stretching for the last three nights and today will get back into the game on the eliptical. I have lost about 9 days on working out...

ONWARD!

Dad

As for my own training, things are going well physically--on Wednesday, Andrew and I ran about 8 miles (doubling back and up again on the hills), and it wasn't too tough, just the typical pain-in-the-ass kind of pain to overcome. But the weather in Brooklyn has been hotter and more humid than the devil's crotch, which makes it nearly impossible to run. Or to have a social life, because the only times to jog are in the very early a.m., or after 9 p.m.

In other news, and don't laugh, lately I've become mildly obsessed with this television show, "So You Think You Can Dance" (not to be confused with "Dancing With The Stars"). First of all, SYTYCD has depth, and is very artistic: the choreography is moving and gorgeous, just like the competing dancers. The judges are very insightful--they're artists themselves, real ones--and you can't help but really feel for the competitors. As a writer, I know very well what rejection feels like, as well as hope. And to see these dancers work their asses off, literally, just to be "picked" makes my heart soar and sink. It's raw and real, and as an artist, it's easy to be empathetic towards these guys.

It's also easy to be jealous. I create things by sitting and tapping plastic keys. I put together words and build narrative arcs. So watching their bodies do things I didn't know bodies could do (how does one jump that high without a trampoline?) made me a little envious, but mostly it inspired me to learn and accomplish a new set of skills. Specifically, breakdancing. And salsa. Sexy salsa, ala Dirty Dancing Havana Nights. (sidequestion: does it matter if one's partner--husband--has no rhythm?) Usually when I see things that blow my mind, I want to pick them up and learn to use them to blow minds, too. I usually try. Like the banjo. I'm buying one in September.

When I saw one of the dancers bust out some superfresh breakdancing moves, specifically the headspin, I had one of my moments. I said to myself, "I will learn to do this," and decided that after the marathon, breakdancing is going to be my next "mission." Then I realized that I'm 30. Not that 30 is old,or too old to learn how to breakdance, but still. I realized that it's sort of impossible to do some things I would've been able to do 10 years ago. That my body was getting less pliable, or that my time was shorter than it was a week ago, or 10 years ago. Or that in 10 years, it will be REALLY difficult to learn to breakdance. Or master it, at least. Or master a lot of things, because obviously it takes years to master something . . . anyway, what I'm trying to say here is that I had a bit of a sad moment: my body isn't as young as I thought I was. I was still thinking it was 18, or 23. Once you hit 30, there starts to become a bigger difference between your age and 18, which there really isn't when you're 23. Am I making any sense?

So my confidence felt a little defeated. Outsmarted by the passage of time. I mean, do you remember when you first realized that your body was a little less bendable and resilient than it used to be? Do you remember when you first saw a wrinkle on your face, or your bones started to ache (and then continued to ache in the same place from then on out)? Do you remember when you realized you were not as young as you thought you were, that you were closer to "old" than you were"young", and how much that feeling sucked, especially when the fact didn't go away? Kinda mindblowing. Kinda . . . shitty.

If you don't understand what I was feeling, just watch this and ask yourself if you think you can dance . . . like this:




I'm not sure how to shrink this video to fit on the page, sorry!


Yes, I'm 30, and yes, it's not that old. But it's still a little weird for me to be treated like a person closer to 40 than 18. For instance, the other day, some teenager called out, "Hey lady, can I pet your dog?" and I looked around for a woman with a dog. But the kid was talking to me! (Ughhh, I just called a teenager a kid. Ugghhh! See what I mean? Painful!) And after watching these 20-somethings on SYTYCD throw their bodies across the stage and fly through the air, I was like, "I bet that with a good decade of training, I could do that, too." But then I realized that even if I had a fat chunk of money in my savings account and took dance lessons from a private instructor for a decade, I still probably couldn't, because by the time ten years passed, I'd be achier and more prone to injuries. . . sort of. The bottom line is that the other day, I got really scared of getting any older, or maybe I got really afraid of dying, because there are so many things I still want to do. I want to master things--dancing, music, writing, and . . . myself. Master my self. (and no, not in a gross way.) I want to make peace with the present moment. What if as I'm taking my last breath, I'm not ready? What if the very last feeling I have is a feeling of being unsatisfied??? Yikes..

I want to breakdance. I want to learn the banjo. I want to be less grumpy, and I want to work at an animal sanctuary. I want to pout less and do my hair more often. More yoga. Less procrastination. I'm not sure that all these things will ever happen, or at least happen without any breaks in their consistency, but what I can start doing is finding some simple peace and goodness. And I'm pretty sure that it is already here, with me, and all around me. I just have to acknowledge it. I want that last moment to be a full one, and maybe, since I have no idea when that moment will come, the best way to be ready for it is to be satisfied with the present moment.

But that's a hard thing to learn to do. Probably even more difficult than figuring out how to headspin. We'll see . . .

Anyway, tomorrow is a big day, because for the first time in my life, I'll be running 13 miles, all in one attempt. With lots of breaks, I'm sure. But I'm looking forward to it. And the post-run peanut butter ice cream binge.

this is best ice cream in the entire universe.

Let's Hear It for the Tortoise!

A steady pace wins the race.




That's right! NPR had a story today on running:

Imagine for a moment how our earliest ancestors felt when they came down from the trees and stood on two legs.

"Hey, now we can carry stuff!" they might have thought. They paid a price though — on the ground it was a tiger-eat-monkey world, and two legs were slower than four.

But one prominent biologist, Dan Lieberman, a Harvard professor of anthropology, says not so fast. Humans invented something better than speed — endurance running. It allowed us to hunt faster animals, and that changed the course of evolution.

To listen to it or read about it, click here: For Humans, Slow and Steady Running Won the Race



In other news, both Phil and I have hit a pothole in our training: Dad has a swollen knee, and I had a crappy run last night. A bad run isn't so alarming (it was about 90 degrees and I could only do 8 1/2 miles out of 10, plus, I had to pee the entire time, so deal with it!). But a swollen knee? NOT GOOD! Here's Dad's email:


Hi blog mistress..... today...and last night.....I am discouraged...my R knee is swollen and I am limping...I was at the doc's 4 days ago and he said I have a bit of arthritis in my inner R knee but no big deal. And I have had two 5 mile runs since then and I am not doing so well. Last night I decided to run 5 on the treadmill thinking that would be easier on the knee, but it is visibly swollen, and it hurts. Today we are to do 10 miles and I have decided to do an hour and a half on the eliptical trainer instead to be even nicer to Mr. Knee. Ah well, we will see what we will see. I am stretching every night and I will call and make an appointment to see doc again soon. I think something else is wrong. Going to stay "up"...Left, Right, breath in, breath out. Talk to you later. Dad


A couple of weeks ago, he got his legs checked out, x-rayed, etc. and it seemed all was well, but then a few days ago, Dad's knee swelled up to the size of a tennis ball. It took the combined nagging of my mother, my sister and me to convince him to take a break and NOT exercise AT ALL until he got things checked out again. I instructed him to eat lots of peanut butter ice cream. Fingers crossed that things get better. I just bought our plane tickets to Chicago!

Running Through Time

I recently asked my father (Phillip) to give me a little overview on his relationship with running. Below, I've posted his email response. His thoughts were surprising, because it hadn't really occurred to me that my dad was getting older. I hadn't realized running isn't as easy as it used to be for him. I didn't know he had to take two ibuprofen a day now. Or that his recovery time takes much longer than it used to. My father has always been timeless to me. I'd never seen him as a person who grows old. He's just My Dad. It's difficult for me to recognize him as someone who, like everyone else, is just a human. --Mira

Dad and Sabina, circa 1981

I have been running since med school . . . so since 1971, but not far and not often. When we all moved to Battle Creek is when I really started to run more regularly, ie 3 to 4 times a week - but only 3 to 4 miles at a time. And I have been a faithful runner in different countries (vacations) and all different times of the year. But I have never really studied running . . . never stretched . . . always had cheap shoes . . . just ran.

stud!

I had thought about running the marathon occasionally but it always just seemed to be"way out there" . . . over my head. I figured it would take too much time and dedication to prepare for a marathon.

Then, all of a sudden, I hit age 60 and figured that it was too late to even think about running a marathon - I was afraid that I would hurt myself, my knees, etc.

Andy and Dad, prom date pose

When Mira, our youngest daughter, suggested that we run a marathon together . . . BOOM! I jumped at the chance. Suddenly, it seemed possible. We could do it together. I had new courage and motivation. I would never have done this alone. Period.

So far, things are going "ok". I have seen a podiatrist because of right foot pain and he tells me that I have arthritis of my right great toe. Today, I saw an orthopedic doc re: my right knee pain and he tells me that I have some arthritis in my inner right knee. But neither of these docs considered the problem significant enough that I shouldn't train for and run the marathon. And I looked at the x-rays myself and they actually looked pretty good to me.

Things have changed, tho. Now, I am taking ibuprofen twice a day most every day. And I am going to start taking glucosamine, too, and I now have a heel wedge in my right shoe to help with my bowlegged tendency and decrease the discomfort.

As a vegetarian, I need to read up on nutrition for a vegetarian, age 61, preparing for a marathon . . . (I've been saying this for the past two months.) All I am doing now is trying to make sure I eat after I run and trying to eat a lot of protein (eggs, protein bars, beans, etc.)

Mira's wedding. We danced to "Should've Known Better" by She and Him

Well! We are now up to 12 miles at a run and this Sunday I believe it'll be 13! Sarah, one of my running colleagues at work, tells me that this is when a lot of training people quit. I'm glad she warned me.

One step at a time . . . .breathe in, breathe out.

---Phil

The Gassing of the Geese: A Sad Day in Prospect Park

Huckleberry and Maybe, two pensive pups

I'm a country girl, born and reared in the rural outskirts of Battle Creek, Michigan (Cereal City, USA!). I grew up sandwiched in-between cornfields and a big lake, we never locked our doors at night, our dogs we leash-free. As kids, we played games like "Survive in the Wilderness" and climbed lots of trees. We knew when and where to look(out) for deer, and that the honks of geese flying over our heads meant the official start or end of a season. The great outdoors was just as integrated into my family's life as much as domesticity was, if not more, and we were taught to treat wildlife as something sacred, not disposable. The earth was ours to share and care for, not to destroy and mistreat.

Now I live in Brooklyn, NY. It's been quite an adjustment. There are so many people. There is so much waste. There is always a faint smell of urine and garbage, and we'd be crazy not to lock our doors at night. We have bars on our windows, and we live in a "fancy" neighborhood.

entrance to the park

Luckily, Andrew, the dogs and I live about a 4-minute-or-less walk from Prospect Park, a 585-acre public park in Brooklyn. We moved here from Manhattan JUST TO BE CLOSE to the park. We spend at least 3 hours in it every day, rain or shine. Every day. No joke: 2 hours in the morning for the dog's "off-leash time", and an hour or more in the evening for more playtime. I also jog around the park. It's where I've been doing all my marathon training.





We met the majority of our friends, not to mention some of our closest friends, in the park. My mentor, Vijay Seshadri, has a book of poems called "The Long Meadow", which is named after the section of the park where we take our dogs to run every day. I've grown accustomed to--I'm nurtured by--the park. In the fall, we listened to the migrating birds. In the winter, we made snow sculptures and went sledding.




On the weekends, there are free public concerts in the park. We have picnics here. We read books in the park. We come here to remind ourselves of what is important to us. We come here to forget that we are human and remember that we are animals.

This spring, we got to see the ducklings and the goslings swimming around the lake, peacefully coexisting with the swan and turtles. In fact, I usually hit this point of the park during the 2 mile mark of my jog. Watching the wildlife, and seeing parents introducing their little kids to the waterfowl, is one of the perks of the path.

But the geese are dead now.

They all were slaughtered. And not for any religious reasons or vengeance. Rather, they were gassed by the Department of Agriculture--the very people who we entrust to protect our wildlife and take care of it.

Their reason for the genocide? Air safety.

Apparently, ever since the "Miracle on the Hudson" authorities have been afraid of another incident (which was a freak accident). They're afraid of something that might cause harm or death, so they are exterminating anything that might get in the way of eternal life.

Okay, so maybe that's not how they put it, but still. One accident, one random accident, and now all the geese must go? Yep. Their goal is to eliminate all geese within a 7 mile radius of the major NYC airports. Because everybody knows, geese are terrorists. And if we kill them, we will never die.

But there's so many problems with their logic. Gasoline, aircrafts, destruction of nature. . . these are the things that are causing our demise. Not migrating geese. Not nature's natural patterns. And killing of animals as a preventative measure only hurts us in the longrun. Geese are part of the ecosystem. They're part of the food chain. These geese were gassed, double-bagged then dumped into a landfill. They killed over 400 Prospect Park geese, including the babies, and dumped them in a landfill. It was done as a secret operation--the public wasn't notified before or during the netting and slaughter. Then, the geese were disposed of--dumped in a landfill--not even used to feed the poor, or the hungry. Just turned into garbage.

Maybe learns about birds.

Here's the double-whammy: Prospect Park is at the far end of the 7 mile radius surrounding JFK. And these geese were of the non-migratory variety that don't leave Prospect Park. They didn't migrate. They never flew higher than a bottle rocket.

But now, they're gone.

For the past couple of days, Prospect Park has been eerily quiet.. The ponds are empty, and the other birds have been acting strange, too. Dead silent. Last night, I saw a bright white swan waddling around the shore, looking confused and lost.

I overhead a mother say that she'd been taking her daughter to the park every day to watch the animals, and her daughter had just learned how to say the word, "goose". . .

Something is terribly wrong.

So is it fair to say that the logic of the Agriculture Department, the NYC Parks Department and Audubon Society is . . . for the birds? Should they be reprimanded before it's too late?

Their next stop: the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge.

To learn more, click HERE.

Thoughts On Running 12 Miles: Just Do It.

And now, I will put Michael J. Fox and Aristotle in the same blog entry:


"I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection. Excellence, I can reach for; perfection is God's business." - Michael J. Fox, actor.

"Excellence is an art won by training and habituation. We do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have those because we have acted rightly. We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit." - Aristotle, Greek philosopher.

Agreed.

So on Saturday, I ran more miles than I ever have (at once) in my life: TWELVE MILES! Two days later, I'm still a little sore, but I feel excellent. And FYI, not only is strenuous exercise great for your body and your mind-->long-distance running is great for your sex life, too, especially if you want to spice it up and bring role playing into the bedroom: after running 12 miles, I make a great narcoleptic paraplegic!


A couple of months ago, my longest run was six miles. Right before I set out, I was a little frightened. But I did it. It wasn't too bad, and I was proud of myself. In the shower, I started thinking, "wait, I just did six. Soon, it'll be 12. Then I'll have to do 18. Then 20. . . " My excitement started to wither. My deliberation continued. " . . . and some people race the marathon. And then there are ULTRA-marathons. A hundred miles! Some people build rocket ships. And fly to the moon, or lead countries. Someone invented the computer. Someone else will be winning the Pulitzer. Six miles. Six miles?! Six miles is nothing!" . . .

I guess I was a little too hard on myself. I have a tendency to do that--to not recognize my accomplishments, but rather look ahead at what others have done and I have not. Is this masochism? It pushes me to NOT settle, but it also pushes me away from inner peace. My friend Doug somehow convinced me that if I continue thinking that way, I'll never enjoy anything. I'm trying to remind myself just to focus on what is happening at the moment. It's a work-in-progress on many levels.

I'm not the only person who feels this way:

I ran 5 miles today...tomorrow is my 12...it IS quite a quest! I am excited at the challenge. I have found that I enjoy the run more when I don't daydream and, instead, pay attention to the world around me or my body - ie, be more "mindful" and "aware"...but, just like when I meditate: my brain is constantly wanting to revert to daydreaming or thinking about the future or past. --Phil Ptacin

My dad ran his 12 yesterday (his recap is coming soon).

I ran my 12 on Saturday. Something happened during that run, something that took me by the shoulders and centered me into place. I'm not thinking of the future so much right now. I'm not thinking ahead, and I'm not dwelling on things I can't change, either.


Here's what I learned: The thing about running is that it's so easy. If you are not injured, if you have legs, arms, feet, toes and a torso that are all functioning okay, individually and together, all you have to do is RUN. (Even if you don't have all those things, like feet, there are ways around it.)

It's also so easy to not run. All you have to do is not do it. Or if you are running, just stop. It's THAT easy. You get tired, you get a cramp, it stops feeling good (rarely does it feel good to begin with), so you recognize the feeling as pain, and you stop.

What I learned about running 12 miles is that it's not much different than running 3: you either do it, or you don't. It gets hard, and you either keep going, or you stop. After a while, you get tired. You get hot. Thirsty. Bored. Tired. You get tired, then your tired gets tired. Then you dig into your energy reserves, run some more, and then your energy reserve gets depleted. Then you keep running. The hard part is when you dig deep for more fuel and you realize you've got nothing left. There's no reserve, there's just what you've got: legs, feet, arms, lungs, blood, and the road in front of you. So you either keep going, or you stop. It's that easy.

Mind you, this was my first 12 miles. It was hard, but I knew that if I didn't rock this one out, if I quit and took it easy when it got hard, the next time around would be just as hard, or even more difficult. If I didn't push through, it wouldn't get easier. At one time, 6 miles was overwhelming. Now 6 miles is like 3 miles.

Here's me, a total tool, before 12 miles. . .

Andrew ran the whole way with me. We looped Prospect Park, passing hot dog vendors, moms with strollers, other runners with their own pains and their own goals (and yes, many passed us, too). As tired as I got, my ego still came along for the free ride: when we passed a slower runner, I felt a false sense of accomplishment. ("Take THAT, slowpoke!") Sometimes, I felt self-conscious--like when the sweat that my thighs produced from rubbing together made it look like I peed my pants. I ran out of distractions: My ipod ran out of batteries. There were many kinds of uncomfortables that I felt: I had to go to the bathroom. I was too afraid to use the port-a-potty. I got cranky. I got bored. Sometimes, I'd fantasize that I was running from zombies. That if we stopped running, we'd die. It worked for a little.

At one point, maybe around mile 10, some random words from my subconscious popped into my head. I thought about the little boy in "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy, who asks, "Are you carrying the fire?"

Carrying the fire.

Fire. Keeps humanity alive. An agent of destruction in the world. It is a destroyer; it is a life giver. In the barren, post-apocalyptic wasteland of "The Road" (and ahem, it didn't seem too unbelievable of a world, either), the boy and his father can either abandon hope and die, or live. Keep going. Carry the fire. They choose to live. In spite of the nearly impossible circumstances. It's as simple as saying "yes" or "no". To be, or not. And yet . . .

I got tired of trying to think. I stopped thinking. I had nothing left. All I could do is quit, or run. So I kept running.

My body hurt. But it didn't. My brain kept nagging me to quit, give up, stop running. And my legs would do whatever my brain told them to do. Inside my head, there was a constant battle going on between two voices: one, whining and insisting that I quit, and the other, deliberately ignoring the nagging demands.

So I kept running.

That's all I could do. Around mile 11, I remembered how I'd told Andrew a few hours before the run how I was excited to push myself past my limit, to feel what that feels like. But around mile 11, I thought about how stupid that comment was. My legs felt like they were full of cement. I didn't care to find out what my limit was anymore. I wanted to quit.

Then, we had just half a mile left. And most of it was up a steep slope. It felt like a beard could've grown faster than the speed of my run. All I could do was go one step at a time, nothing more. If I looked away from the road in front of me, I would loose all my drive. I stared straight down and inched along. I couldn't quit. I couldn't think of finishing. I just had to put one foot down then lift up the other up, put that foot down and lift the other up. My legs kept on going--they would do whatever I commanded them to do, but it was getting extremely hard to listen to that nagging voice inside me what kept telling my legs to quit. The other voice inside me needed something to hold on to, but I wasn't sure what to listen to. Then, I heard a gentle sound. It sounded like the ocean, it was a perfect rhythm, completely natural: breath. Breathe in, breathe out. It was a beautiful song. Everything became time-less.

I saw the finish line. My legs started to move faster. Elongated. I sprinted to the finish line. I felt like I was divided in three: my body, my ego, and my mind.

For the first time ever, I also experienced "Runner's High". I had heard of it before, and wasn't sure what it meant--happy to run? feeling good after exercise?"--until it hit me:

"I don't care about anything in the world!" I exclaimed to Andrew. I was so full of joy; I felt invisible. I felt like I was floating. Nothing could have swayed me or brought me down. There was no past, no future, just the present moment. Like we had a secret that no one else had. Like we were ghosts, watching our bodies and the rest of the world.

Yiannis Kouros, a legend in the world of Ultrarunning, once explained what he was feeling when he was running:

"Some may ask why I am running such long distances. There are reasons. During the ultras I come to a point where my body is almost dead. My mind has to take leadership. When it is very hard there is a war going on between the body and the mind. If my body wins, I will have to give up; if my mind wins, I will continue. At that time I feel that I stay outside of my body. It is as if I see my body in front of me; my mind commands and my body follows. This is a very special feeling, which I like very much. . . It is a very beautiful feeling and the only time I experience my personality separate from my body, as two different things."

One English teacher stated that during the last one and a half miles of the Ice Age Trail said, "[I] found myself running far faster than I had all day; I wasn't even conscious of my feet touching the ground as I crested the knoll ahead of the finish line. I wasn't running; it was as if something much larger than I was running me."

Testimonials above = runner's high!

Here's what I found on the interwebs about RH:


Runner's high is said to occur when strenuous exercise takes a person over a threshold that activates endorphin production. When the body is put under stress, the mind reacts accordingly and releases endorphins. Endorphins are any of a group of opiate proteins with pain-relieving properties that are found naturally in the brain. Through studies with athletes it has been found that endorphine levels increase with exercise.

Special interest arose in the possibility that elevated endorphin levels might explain the mood changes that occur during running, in particular the euphoria of the runner's high, and the increased resistance to pain that occurs during exercise. Pain can be described as a complex experience that involves a bodily response to a noxious stimulus followed by an emotional response to the event. In a sense, pain is a warning mechanism that helps the body protect itself from harmful stimuli. When a person is running they are putting their body under stress. When this happens, stress and pain occur, causing endorphin levels to rise in the brain. People's pain thresholds tend to increase directly following exercise such as a long-distance run and their moods are often elevated. An elevated endorphin level will then produce a mood change.

Throughout time, runner's high has been debated and there is still no general definition as to what it is, or even if it exists. I'll admit that back in the day, I did once or twice partake in consumption of a mind-altering substance, but I've never reached a high like I did on Saturday just by running. Did I reach that state because of the endorphins my body produced? Or was it more than that? Was it because that voice in my head/my ego ran out of things to latch onto, and for the first time in a very long time, I was in my purest form? Did all the thoughts and memories and desires and fears and filth that my mind has accumulated slip off me, and I just WAS? Did I reach some kind of enlightenment?

Here's me after 12 miles.

Perhaps.

But a couple hours later, I was sacked out on the couch, moaning slightly. My muscles were inflamed, I couldn't sit still and I didn't want to stand or walk. I ate a pasta dinner and a giant tub of ice cream (peanut butter chocolate, thank you very much), and was pretty much out of commission for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

But it was so worth it.




Tomorrow: four miles.

And So, It Begins

Today I ran like Forrest. I was trailed by a bike stalker for two miles until he ran into the back of a UPS truck while fixating his eyes on me. I was tired at the conclusion. I ate soybeans and water for a recovery meal.

* * *

No, this is not that kind of runner's diary.

Yes, it is a digital log--a jog blog if you will--of the mileage, the diet, the progress, the struggles and the accomplishments of our training for the Chicago Marathon in October, but this blog is more than that: it's a diary of the thoughts, the frustration, the insights, the battle and the steps towards the enlightenment that comes when one lets go, or is present, or gives up. And by giving up, I mean makes the decision to end their self-induced suffering.

The end of suffering?! you ask. Isn't running 26.2 miles pretty much the equivalent of locking one's body in an Ultimate Fighting cage with Macho Man Randy Savage? Probably. Jogging, running a marathon, nonetheless, IS painful. But there's a difference between pain and suffering. One is about trying to control the uncontrollable. That's what causes suffering.

A story: about a year ago, I hit rock bottom. I was recovering from the loss of a baby who died in the 5th month of my pregnancy. First of all, I hadn't planned on getting pregnant: I was taking the pill, and I never missed a day. (I'm that .01 percent.) But still. It happened. It wasn't easy. I embraced it.

Anyway, during the ultrasound that would tell us the sex of our baby, the doctors told us instead that our baby was sick. With my head still on the pillow in the exam room, I learned she was really sick. That she wasn't going to survive. They told us that it wasn't our fault--the doomed pregnancy was purely a genetic fluke, and there was nothing we could have done to prevented it. But that didn't matter. I felt responsible. I felt like there was something I could've done differently--eaten more apples, been happier about the surprise leap into parenthood. I blamed myself: if only I had not had that extra glass of champagne (or three). If only I had drank 8 glasses of water a day. Evian bottled water. Or washed my hands more often. Or eaten more broccoli. I wanted control. I wanted control of the things I had no control over. And not being able to change things didn't feel good of .

Months after the loss of our baby (we named her Lilly), our support system had all moved on. People had their own lives to care for. I tried to move on, too. I tried very hard, but I couldn't. I wanted my feelings to be different, andwas forcing my emotions to get back into their seats, shut up and be quiet, be happy or at least fake a smile. But this made me more exasperated because it didn't work. It just made me more angry, more depressed, more resentful. I tried harder. I got worse.

I started seeing a therapist. She was strong, honest, brutal, and helpful, but she couldn't make me let go of the desire for control. After a few months, "You have post-traumatic stress disorder," is what it eventually came down to. My therapist diagnosed me as Clinically Depressed with PTSD, and strongly encouraged that I promptly be medicated with antidepressants. With her pen, she scribbled the name of an (expensive) Upper West Side psychiatrist down onto a piece of paper, then sent me on my way.


I am clinically depressed. I said it out loud. The "clinical" made it sound so official. And by admitting these words, I knew something was finished. The denial of my pain was leaving me, as was the anger that bounced with love, sadness and grief.

Post-traumatic stress disorder. I knew the admission was a beginning. Once I said the words out loud, I felt as if I'd opened the festered secrecy of my heart. PTSD. Depressed. And I continued to confess rapidly and urgently, and felt ready to accept the previously unforeseen liberation.

Antidepressants. Relief. The professional diagnosis of my emotions made them feel justified--I was not imagining the invisible pain that I couldn't shake. But medication?



I never wanted to be a person who popped a "happy pill" each morning. It was too 1994, too New York, too cliche. I wanted to feel alive again, eager and curious and adventuresome like the girl I was at age 5, 12, 25 . . . I simply wanted to end my suffering. Yet, as sure as I was about my longing for happiness, I was ambivalent about going on antidepressants. What if they didn't work? What if the pills didn't make me glad, but diluted my grief instead? I was reluctant, but more than that, I was desperate.

The day before my intake appointment with the psychiatrist on the Upper West Side, I received a call from my friend Patrick, one of my best friends whom I had met in college. Pat grew up in the Midwest. He played ice hockey. He was an accountant. He called himself "Paxmax: making peace through taxes." Pat had once admitted to having a problem of NOT being able to take life seriously. I laughed when he said this. Pat and I had gotten so close because we were always laughing at one another. We were always trying to be funny, self-deprecating . . . it had sort of become a competition. To wit: there is more ribbing in our friendship than KC bbq joint. (When I told him I was starting a jog blog, he responded with the mock jog log at the top of this entry.)

Anyway, this "dark period" of mine had made Pat concerned--he wasn't used to not being able to make me laugh at myself, or at least at him. He started calling once or twice a week to check in and keep tabs. When I told him that I'd found a solution to my misery, and explained where I'd be going the next day, what I'd be getting and taking, my friend scoffed at my enthusiasm.

"I need to," I explained. "My serotonin levels are all jacked up. It's clinical! I need meds!"

"You fool," he teased. "You ain't no Girl, Interupted. Why don't you just go for a jog instead?"

And in that instant, everything changed.

* * *

You see, nobody really wants to suffer. And there aren't too many people who willingly (or often) want to be in pain. I didn't want to feel my own grief: I'd never experienced something so profound as losing a child. I had never been so alone in my feelings. And I didn't want to feel the pain, so I dodged it. I was scared at what it might feel like. I wanted something else: I wanted the death never to have had happened. I wanted to feel good. I wanted to be just like everyone else. I wanted to be normal, wanted my feelings to be happy ones, or at least some kind of comfortable smear. I wanted to to get rid of my grief. But by avoiding the pain, by refusing to confront it and push through it, my pain pickled like a kosher dill. It started to stink. And I started to stink. And the stinking made me suffer.

So I started to run. After my friend's simple yet savant alternative to antidepressants, I started jogging. In the beginning, I couldn't run for the life of me. Not a single mile. I'd start strong, then feel a burn, get a sidecramp and slow down. I'd powerwalk, feel embarrassed, then quit. (Hey, leaving the house had been victory enough for me!) But with the encouragement of my husband Andrew, I tried again. And again. Soon, I could run a mile. Then two, three, four. Okay, maybe it took me awhile to get to four. But eventually, I felt like a "runner." And I was amazed at what I was capable of. Soon, I started to feel a little better. I started to feel feisty, even. I felt in control of my body, and knew the difference between creating something (running) and wanting (yearning for things beyond my control). Once I'd managed to ignore the incessant chatter in my head that told me to want this or want that, to do this or go after that, once I set myself into the present moment, I started to feel better.

This is why I run.

Or at least what got me running again. And why run a marathon? Go big or go home, I figured. Let's see how far I can go, I thought.

A little while ago, I asked my dad to run it with me. He said "yes". He didn't hesitate much, either. I asked my Dad because he's a great runner, and because he's always up for a Zen-like challenge. I also asked him because I knew he was no stranger to the the things on my life's radar map: not only has he been a runner his whole life, but Dad has also experienced the pain of losing a child--my father had been in the car when my younger brother Julian was killed by a drunk driver. And my father had survived in more ways than one.

Dad had lost his son in a tragedy that he had no control over, yet he had remained spiritual and wise and at peace. He is still a forgiver. He still has a healthy, if not stronger marriage. He is a vegetarian. He's the one who prompted me to become a vegetarian, in fact. He is the most compassionate person I've ever met. I've always wanted to learn more about him. I decided to run and train for the Chicago Marathon and ask my father to join me because I knew he had some insights on grief--on "good" grief.

Plus, he's a great running partner.

* * *

There are now 99 days left until the marathon. We are up to mile 10 (we were up to 12 but switched to a new training routine that now includes a lot of hill work. Yeeoouchhh!). I've gotten up to 11 miles before, but still, even when I am just starting to finish up mile 1, it still can suck and I can still hate it. There are good days and bad days, and on the bad days, I forgive myself. Sometimes I butcher the rub because I didn't drink enough water that day. Sometimes it's because of the weather--too hot, usually. Sometimes I didn't get enough sleep the night before, or eat enough and more than often, there is pain when I run.

But I try to push through. It keeps getting easier. The pain isn't scary, and it is disappearing. I focus on my breathing. I explore the feeling of the sidecramp. I make friends with it. A sidecramp has never killed anyone. I try to keep going, and when I'm on mile 5 and it's hot out and the sweat between my legs makes my shorts appear as if I've peed them and my ipod has run out of batteries and I'm facing the bottom of a giant hill and I get scared and start to give up before I even start, I face my fear. And that's when I realize there's nothing even there--that I don't even know what I'm afraid of.



I never ended up going on antidepressants. I am forever grateful to my friend Patrick, who continues to make me laugh at myself (sidenote: the other day, he called me "a vegan with a big butt"), but mostly because it was Pat's simple yet savant suggestion that prompted my spiritual and physical resurgence after losing my child, and nearly my mind: running, the art of literally putting one foot in front of the other, is what brought me back to life.


In other news: soon to come, updates from Phil's side of things in Michigan.

Truly,

Mira

p.s. today we run 5 miles, and I admit, I am not exactly psyched about jogging on a Friday evening!

p.p.s. A shout-out goes to Laura Munson, a true blessing, who came into my life yesterday and inspired me to really believe in myself, and be at peace. She's simply mindblowing, and I'm still processing her awesomeness. Check out her story and let your mind be blown by clicking here: http://lauramunsonauthor.com/book.php