Team Good Grief's Jog Blog

10/10/10 Yes We Did!

2010-10-22T11:49:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, October 9th, the eve of the marathon, I took one very last jog. The purpose was to loosen up my muscles and get my blood flowing just a little bit before the big race. I knew I wouldn’t break a sweat; it was only a 2-mile run, a slow run, but still, it was an important run. Why was it important? Because it was the last run of my training. It was number 150 out of 150 jogs. It was mile 471-473 out of the 473 miles of training runs. (Ok, so I skipped a few). But more important than the significance of it being the last run before the marathon, it was a mile where I was able to ask myself, “So what?”

So. So what happened? What did I just spend the last six months of my life dedicated to? How was it? How did I do? And was it worth it? What was I trying to do, and what happened as a result of this incessant running?

Answer: I came back to life.

I didn’t start running to lose weight, or to win a race, or to impress anyone. I started running because I was dead: I was afraid of feeling anything, afraid of moving or being seen. I was depressed, scared of getting hurt again—by the world, and by my self. I didn’t trust my body—it deceived me when I got pregnant (while on birth control pills); it deceived me when the baby died before it could be born. My mind was angry at the world for being sympathetic. And my mind was angry at my body for . . . I don’t know what for. For failing me? For deceiving me? For doing its own thing? I don't know. But I realize I was not living my best life—I was barely living, and the only, only, only solution I could think of was to just put one f-ing foot in front of the other and take it from there. So that’s what I did. And 473 miles later, when Andrew asked me how I felt about having to run a marathon when I woke up in the morning, I realized that I was awake, and was alive again, and I was happy and grateful and was kicking fucking ass.

So we got to the point of being able to run a marathon. But it’s not like it was easy, or ever got easy. Running—the cramps and side stitches and desire to procrastinate and put it off for another day—never gets easier. Sure, you get used to 3 miles, or 6 or 16, but it’s always tough. In fact, I just read an article in the NY Times about athletes. It basically said that mental tenacity — and the ability to manage and even thrive on and push through pain — is a key segregator between the mortals and immortals in running. You have to be motivated, and to find this motivation, you must resist the feeling that you are too tired and have to slow down. Instead, you have to concentrate on increasing the intensity of your effort. Nike really, really did hit the nail on the head when they instructed us to Just Do It.

Andrew asked me what my thoughts were on the six months of training. “What would you do differently? How do you think you did?” I know I could’ve done better. Sure, I can run 26 miles now. But I could have ran them faster. Or trained harder: felt the burn more, skipped less runs, pushed myself to a new limit. I KNOW I could have because there were many times when I felt a cramp and slowed down, or even walked. I took the liberty of taking many drink breaks at nearly every drinking fountain in Prospect Park during long runs. I skipped runs when there was a tiny drizzle coming from the sky. I shuffled my priorities, convinced myself I might be getting a cold and needed to stay in. I could’ve done better.

And I will. Oprah said, “running is the greatest metaphor for life, because you get out of it what you put into it.” I could've trained better, I can always do better, be a better athlete, etc. but that wasn't the point. The point was to beat depression, not win a marathon. There were countless nights where I'd cry in bed and ask my husband, “when will I start to feel better? When will I start to feel better?” And thank the Lord, that time has come. I. Feel. Better. I feel better.

The night before the marathon, we slept at my aunt Mary’s home in Forest Park, Illinois. We ate a huge vegetarian feast of spinach pie, bean salad (my mom forgot we’d be running the next morning), bread, squash soup, hummus, greens and fruits and more beans. Everyone was giddy.

Sabina, Mary, Mom and Andy made signs. Then, we went to an expo at a convention center where we picked up our race packets, and where I got really excited.

Everything was MARATHON. Everyone was PUMPED. And of course, I am easily excited by free samples, free power gels and cold compresses and nutrition bars. Dad and I stopped to watch a video from last year’s race, and of course, we cried. Then we picked up 2 free posters. We saw Dean Karnazes posing for photos. He ran 50 marathons in 50 states in 50 days. Dad said that when a man gets to be that strong, he stops getting his periods. I took a picture with a giant shoe instead.

We all went to bed that night early and excited. Dad and I laid out our clothes, and I went to the bathroom about 4 times, hoping I could clear everything out. . . here’s the thing: my number one worry, or concern, wasn’t winning the race, or even finishing. I was really preoccupied with the scenario of whether or not I would have to go #2 during the race. Or if I might have to go #2 but wasn’t sure if it was my intestines digesting or butterflies, or a cramp from running, or from being hungry. Or gas. What if I thought it was gas, but really turned out to be something else, like the REAL DEAL?? And if that became the case, what would I do? Would I run with an extra pair of shorts? Should I have Andrew or my mom carry an extra pair, and IF I were to soil myself, would I have to run with poopy pants until I got to the mile where they’d be waiting for me with my shorts? Or if I felt gassy, would I hold it until I was close to the mile where clean shorts would be available? Or go to a port-a-potty? But what if there were many false alarms—how would this affect my timing? And what about Dad? Was this fair to him? He just wants to run. Ugghh. It was quite a hypothetical dilemma. So I tried to cleanse myself as much as possible before the race, and when the day came, all went well. Basically, the morning of the race, my butt said to me, "Mira. Don't worry. I got this. I got this one, it's under control. We're shutting off all systems, no one will be working until after the marathon. You do your thing and don't worry about me [your butt]. You just run." And that's what happened. No tummy cramps, no nothing. I just ran.

But back to the night before. The night before, I was surprised I could sleep. No nightmares of oversleeping, or running the race naked, or getting lost on the way, or soiling myself. When the morning came, the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. and I shot up out of bed, and hummed the tune to “Eye of the Tiger” for Andrew, who was already awake in bed. Dad was up, the house was stirring, and at 5:45 a.m., we walked to the train that would take us to the city to join the rest of the 40,000 runners.

It's incredible to think about how so many people were voluntarily doing something so challenging, and so GOOD for themselves. And most people were running to raise money for a charity. More importantly, everyone had such a deeply personal reason for running. As we arrived at the marathon starting corral, this sentiment moved me profoundly--the thought that we’d all be feeling pain together soon. And we wanted to, because we wanted to be better people after crossing the finish line.

45 minutes before the race, Dad and I got in a port-o-john line, one last time, then smooshed our way into the starting coral. We chose to run with the 4:30 (10 minute mile) group. We stood there. We waited. We heard the star-spangled banner. We waited and waited. The wheelchair group took off. The elites took off. We waited, our line shifting and buzzing. Then, the shuffling feet started moving faster, so we started moving, faster and faster and suddenly, we saw the Start Line. Dad looked at me, we high-fived, and off we went.

In the beginning, it was really hard not to run fast. It was so exciting, and you couldn’t help but feel just a little competitive. But thanks to Andrew, with his consistent coaching and mantras, I remembered that a steady pace wins the race. And I had to keep reminding my dad to slow down. He was so happy. Dad smiled for the first 10 miles, and the 16.2 that followed, even. He never seemed to tire. He fed of the crowd’s energy. He was SO enthusiastic and optimistic and fun.

At first, though, I had to keep reminding him to be careful not to elbow me in the boob, which he kept doing, accidentally. He swings his arms a lot when he runs. I'm not sure if I eventually just went numb, or if he was more cautious, but I don’t recall any elbowing past mile 10.

Sabina, Andrew, and my mom stationed themselves at a few spots along the course. I saw my love Andrew at mile 8ish (?), then again at 12, along with Sabina and my mom, who was wearing a lavender jumpsuit. (We called it the Elvis jumpsuit.)

They were easy to spot: my mom’s super-Polish jumpsuit, my sister’s huge smile and loud cheers, their tall yellow signs, Andrew’s bright red shirt. Having people there is almost better than water. You’re tired, but you’re running towards them—you’re running for them, and they’re waiting for you, to hug you and nourish you. They pulled us towards mile 12, and after that, we could look forward to seeing them at mile 22.

I didn’t start feeling “unpleasant” until mile 22. But what was worse than feeling tired, or sore, or spent, was the anticipation of it. See, pain doesn’t hurt. What is pain? Aside from breaking a leg, or having a limb torn off, or child labor, I guess, the pain of running isn’t really pain. At times, it’s the opposite of a pleasant feeling, but it’s not really pain. You wait for the feeling, which is the exhausting part. And when it comes, the best thing to do is just either explore, or FEEL it, and realize that it isn’t so bad. And then, you just keep running.

The thing that did suck was that the temperature in Chicago got up to about 85 degrees. We’d been chilling in 60/65 degree weather before then. When you’re at mile 22, and you’re tired, and grouchy (me, not Dad), and thirsty and your feet have blisters and you know you’re still four point two miles from being done, hot weather is no joke. Although, Dad’s tactic for the hot weather, aside from constant refueling of Gatorade and water, was to make a joke out of it. “I love this sun! I love the heat! I’m so happy to be getting my vitamin D fix!” In fact, he never complained once.

Around mile 20, I had asked him how his knee was doing (it was a problem knee). He smiled and dodged the question. After the race was over, he limped and said it had been hurting him since around mile 5, but he just let it be. How does one be so positive? Running this race, running a marathon, doing anything that is hard and painful and not easy really strips a person down to their bare essential being. I know I get grouchy and still find reasons to avoid pain, or things that are difficult, or MIGHT be difficult, to put it more accurately. But my dad is so pure, and has a disciplined drive to be good. And he is good. He loves people, he wants the best for people, and that seems to be what fuels him. Not his own problems, his dilapidated knee, his pains or sorrows or reasons to quit or complain. He just loves. And he just keeps going.

Dad practically cheered for the crowd, who, at times, was flaccidly clapping along the sidelines, and at times, some were smoking. I will say that Boy’s Town was my favorite place to run through. Those guys went all out: a stage with go-go dancers singing to “It’s Raining Men” and other disco hits. The course was great: flat, clean, at times dull, but more often than dull, FUN. There was an Elvis impersonator, a Chinese gong/percussion band, a high school marching band, cheerleaders in uniform, dogs, elderly people, street bums, Salsa music . . . then, we get to mile 22, where low-and-behold, we see the best sight for sore eyes (and feet): Mom, Sabina, Andrew, my aunts and uncles and cousins, all red-faced (it was hot out. And they were excited), teary-eyed, giant smiles, laughs . . . everyone had a moment where their hearts were just plain happy to see one another, and there was a reason for the gathering . . . but I’m not sure what it was underneath the reason of it being a race. They came to watch the race, to cheer us on, but it was for something more than that. Love? Family? Support? I think it’s love. Which is complex and cannot really be explained.

Andrew ran with us from mile 22 – 25. He was in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and a backpack. He ran to support us, and of course, I was grouchy. Can I get you water? NO. A banana? NO. Gatorade? NO. NO. NO. I just need to focus on running. I was bitchy, and luckily, he was used to it. He knew I was tired. Thought it was funny. As did my dad, who was still chipper.

But it was so freaking hot out. And we were running in the direction of the sun. And were in a desolate area on the route, where no one was cheering, and the buildings were ugly. Then, we turned a corner, and things picked up. I grabbed a cup of Gatorade, and a volunteer cheered, “only 2 more miles guys!”. TWO MORE MILES! We had accomplished 24. All we had to do was get to 25 and it’d be a breeze. We hit the “dig deep zone”, a spot that the marathon organizers set up with loud music, cheerleaders, banners, excitement, etc. etc. The fact that it was called the Dig Deep Zone actually inspired me to dig deep. See, during the run, you pull out these mantras that you’ve picked up along the way. My favorites: Make every step count. YOU ARE HERE NOW. (Be present). Trust your training. But Dig Deep really did it for me. It’s all I could do: focus on each step, yes, but I was numb. So all I could do was dig deep.

Then. Mile 25. We see Mom and Sabina and the rest of the gang. I see my Aunt Mary with a bouquet of flowers from my agent Cheryl, who is one of the first non-family members who really believes in me, and also, is a marathon runner and animal rescuer. Seeing the flowers and my family and their bewilderment that we actually were alive at mile 25 pushed us forward. We said hi and goodbye (to Andy), and then, it was just us. Just Dad, me, and 1.2 miles. “This is it!” We looked at one another again. We smiled so big, and ran. The crowd wasn’t cheering as much as watching. Watching these people, crazy people, finish the LAST MILE of their journey. Thousands of journeys and reasons and accomplishments were one mile from being finished. It was almost like they were watching people right before they went into heaven.

Ahead of us, a road. At the end of the road, a right turn. Point two miles to go. We hear music, an announcer, cheering, and look up, and see . . . a hill. A hill right before another turn. We run up the hill, and Dad runs past a very obese woman. He shouts, “Wow. Look at this guy,” and while I’m sure Dad was touched and proud of the person, and not making fun, though he didn't realize that it was actually a woman. Luckily, she didn’t hear him. But I’m confused and wondering how she beat us to the last leg of the race. We ran the entire time, ran it in less than 5 hours. She didn’t have a wheelchair, and couldn’t have started with the elite runners. So now, I’m a bit confused as to how she got closer to the finish line so much faster than the rest of the runners. My aunt told me that a lot of people cheat at the marathon—there are corners to cut, and paths to take to get ahead. But what would be the point of that? Isn’t the purpose of finishing, not to finish, but do have endured and embraced the process?

At the top of the hill, we took a left, and we saw it. “FINISH LINE”. Our feet started to move fast, on their own—I didn’t tell mine to pick up the pace. “We did it. We just ran a marathon,” I said and grabbed Dad’s hand. “We’re not there yet!” he said. But then, 20 seconds later, we were. We were done. We finished. It was over. It was over. It was over.

Then, there were the Mylar blankets, the beer, the mass-produced medals, the bagels and bananas and water and pretzels and photographers. And lots of hugging.

It had been awhile since I had felt so connected to my dad. Ever since I grew up, I’d been missing feeling like his kid, a daughter, and him, my dad. I get sick of being a grown-up. But being with him, I felt like I had a leader. A role model. A beacon. A light. And having him be that light guiding me through something so metaphorical: a painful path—filled me with so much joy. I felt so close to my Dad, too. We had endured something so profound and tough, and we felt the same feelings, and confronted them, and got through it. And that feeling of accomplishment and joy lasted for the rest of the weekend, through the many, many meals we ate after the race (all in 24 hours), and into the days that followed. I feel closer to my dad, more of a bond. Like we went deep into a dark place together and came back out, just for the sake of going into a dark place and coming back out. Just for the sake of the journey.

We both lost a child. We couldn't have seen it coming, or planned for it. I never would have wanted to have had it happen—have lost Julian, or lost my own child—but I had no choice. And I didn’t exactly handle it in the best way. I got depressed, angry, I nearly gave up. But it’s past. And I think by choosing to run, it was like a simulation of a painful experience: like an invisible experience, one that I chose to embrace and defeat for the sake of feeling the pain, and conquering it. I feel like I won. I feel like I can accept what happens, and will do better next time something might hurt. I feel like I know how to turn grief into something good. What life delivers to us forms us all, but as surely as random and sometimes tragic events shape our lives, so too does our response to those events. Something happens, something horrible and unfair (whatever that means). So what are we going to do? Give up? Shut down? The question isn’t “will something bad happen to me?” The question is “what will I do with what I’ve been given?”

Dad voluntarily does the dishes when we get home from the marathon . . .

Chicago Marathon 2010: Still Not Finished!

2010-10-12T07:53:00.001-07:00

Mira digging deep at mile 24.

Hey all!

Thanks for all your support during our training for and running the 2010 Chicago Marathon! We finished it in 4:55. BUT WE ARE NOT YET FINISHED: We still need YOUR help.

Please consider donating to our fundraisers. Look to the left side of the screen for our chip-in fundraiser info, and if you'd like to donate, please email MIRA here: mira.ptacin@gmail.com for more details of how you can help.

THANKS! and I'll be adding a post soon about the marathon weekend experience!

Marathon is THIS WEEKEND!!!!

2010-10-07T17:58:00.001-07:00

I can't believe it.

So. I'm excited and nervous, but mostly just looking forward to sharing the experience with my dad.

Sabina, Andrew and I will be flying to Chicago on Saturday, and departing on Monday afternoon.

Dad and I will be wearing yellow tanks that read "Good Grief" on the back (and our names on the front), just in case you'll be attending the race. And yes, we'll be with the latter bunch of runners, not the elites :) If you won't be able to watch the marathon, you can stalk my dad and me during the marathon: http://www.textinterface.com/pls/text/TF_BACM_DT. My bib is #15496.

Life got really busy this week, and I've barely had much of a chance to even THINK about the race, let alone prepare for it (do I bring band-aids? what should I eat this week? do I have a private moment with peanut butter ice cream and let it know we'll be seeing less of each other soon?) . . . tomorrow I hope to steal some moments to just meditate before the big day, to think about what I've learned, accomplished, slacked on, etc. etc. before the moment passes. Although, I'm thinking about running another marathon next year. . .

4 Days Until the Marathon!

2010-10-05T06:26:00.001-07:00

my first "good luck" card. Thank you, Mandi!

Hard to believe it's almost here . . . basically, I'm thinking:
- 4 more days until I'm finished with the relentless training
- 4 more days until my dad and I endure pain for an extended period of time (we're talking more than 4 hours, most likely) together
- 4 more days until my dad and I share a transcendental experience together!

I'm keeping things simple for the next few days. Lots of eating and sleeping, shorter runs, lots of ice cream. Duh. Here's a quote from the editors of Runner's World Magazine:

The body does not want you to do this. As you run, it tells you to stop but the mind must be strong. You always go too far for your body. You must handle the pain with strategy...It is not age; it is not diet. It is the will to succeed.
-- Jacqueline Gareau, 1980 Boston Marathon champ

I'm just ready to be done and take some time off! My feet could be extras in The Hobbit. Lately, we've been taking Huckleberry and Maybe (our dogs) on our shorter runs. Both Maybe and I will be very happy when to take a break from running . . .

Also! Our team Good Grief uniforms arrived! We'll be wearing yellow, in honor of Julian. Why yellow? It's from a poem of his we found a few days after he passed away:

What the Yellow Had To Say

by Julian Ptacin

I am the joy of a flower

the singing of birds

I am a promise

the happiness that fills your body

I am the delight of friendship

the feeling of being with someone

I am the light shining through your window making you warm

the sight of someone you love

I am the peace keeper

the never ending joy.

Fifth Avenue Mile

2010-09-30T07:33:00.000-07:00

So the other week, a friend of mine asked me if I'd cover her in a race she had signed up for. She had to go to a wedding and didn't want to miss the race completely: One way to get in to the NYC Marathon is to run a certain amount of races via the Road Runners club in NYC, and if she missed this one, she'd have to make it up in another race . . .

Anyway, she was one of my inspirations for becoming a runner, and she's been very good to me, so I figured I'd do it. Why not? It was only a 1 mile run, AND, I'd be registered in her age category, which was the womens' 40 - 49 category. I figured that since I was 30, and since I've been training for Chicago, I would KICK ASS. I thought that women in my start corral would look at me and ask, "wow, what's your secret for looking so young?" and I'd get the opportunity to promote vegetarianism. But no one asked me and no one looked at me funny, AND no one ate my dust. These women were FAST. Check out how awesome they are:

Being the youngest one there (my little secret), I felt pretty competitive, and when the gun went off, I couldn't help but TAKE OFF, but I forgot to pace myself and by the time I reached the 3/4 marker, I was completely out of breath and regretting that I let my ego get the best of me (once again). Note to self: steady pace wins the race. Even though I was out of steam, I still finished strong. My time was 7:20. I'm not sure if that's good or average, but it was sort of a reality check. . . just because I was younger didn't mean I was automatically fitter. Nonethless, it was fun, and brought back memories of the Presidential Physical Fitness Tests back in the day at St. Phillip Elementary School . . .

Anyway, the Chicago Marathon is in NINE days. It's time to taper, eat a lot, rest up, and get excited. AND RAISE MONEY FOR MY CHARITY (ahem ahem, hint hint). . .

My dad is in Greece right now with my mom and some friends. They'll be checking out Marathon--the actual PLACE--soon, too.

xoxo,
Mira

22 Miles, I Love/Hate You.

2010-09-23T09:47:00.000-07:00

So. I did it. Sort of. I mean, I ran for most of it, walked a couple of times, sprinted, powerwalked, trotted, dragged ass, hobbled. . .

On Sunday, I attempted and completed a 22-mile run in Central Park. It was not easy, it was not fun. I almost cried a couple of times, but looking back on it now, I'm not really sure why. Sure, it wasn't a soothing experience, nor would I deem it "pleasant", but it wasn't really painful. I didn't die from exhaustion. I wasn't bleeding, nor was I screaming in pain. I think after about mile 17, my brain was like, "Seriously, Mira. This is stupid. Why are you running? You're tired. Just stop, you moron." But there was no good enough reason to quit, other than just wanting to. The fact that there was no good reason to quit made me grouchy.

suck it, Pheidippides

But I started off the run feeling pretty confident and strong. I had a good music playlist on my ipod, was well-fed and hydrated. I wore wedgie-proof undies and good socks that cost $11, so I was sure they would prevent blisters. Then the sun started to pierce, and the track got crowded. And my $11 socks did not stop my feet from getting really hot, sweaty and soggy. Then there were the hills. Almost all of my runs have been in Brooklyn's Prospect Park, but on Sunday, Andrew suggested that, since this was such a long run ("you'll probably be out there for 5 hours"), I try out a new spot, one that I wasn't quite as familiar with. I thought this was a good idea. It WAS a good idea. But it was a bad idea to do the whole 22-mile battle in Central Park. Little did I know (or did he remind me) that Central Park has a LOT of uphills. Like, it seemed that there weren't a sufficient amount of downhills to match the amount of ups.

damn slopes . . . grrrrrr.

The hills kicked my ass. They made the run MUCH more difficult, made me hate it, and everything that crossed my path. And the fact that I was running uphill for my longest run made me realize quite early in the run that it was much less likely that I'd be able to conquer it. Which I pretty much didn't. I didn't own that run. It owned me. I just wanted to get it over with. I was grouchy, and felt duped. "Hey look! Another hill!" was pretty much all I said to Andrew during the 5 hours we were in the park (he was on a bike) other than a grunt here or there. It wasn't pretty.

At a certain point, say mile 12 or 13, I stopped listening to my ipod, too, because after a certain point, the music stopped motivating me and just started to annoy me. I told it to shut up.

Maybe I was talking to myself--to the thoughts running through my head of how much I hated running. Maybe I was telling my ego, my weakness, to shut up and just let me run. I had to finish, and as much as I hated that damn run, ("hey look! another hill!"), I had no good reason to give up. There was no blood, no broken bones, no heart attack, no heat stroke . . .

I'm about to vomit here.

So I finished. I'm obviously still angry at this run. Maybe when I get over it (and myself), I'll dig a little deeper into some meditations on what happened that day. But right now, it's time to recover.

Regardless, I still love running. We didn't break up. Andrew forgave my bitchiness, too. And oddly, I wasn't sore at all the next day.

I did an 8-mile run this morning, and have a 7-mile run scheduled for tomorrow. My parents are stopping by on their way to Greece, and they'll be visiting the actual city of Marathon, where this damn race began. For the story of how the marathon is said to have started, click HERE

The marathon is in 16 days! Time to taper down, rest up, eat a lot and start getting excited to have pretty feet again some day.

This Ain't Kansas, Toto

2010-09-19T07:22:00.000-07:00

none shall pass.

I didn't complete my 5 mile run on Thursday and I have a good excuse: there was a tornado in Brooklyn.

I've always wondered if it was possible for a tornado to go through a big city like Manhattan, or Brooklyn--what a juxtaposition that would be: skyscraper. wind funnel. And on Thursday, it happened. Sort of.

"I was in the kitchen, doing the dishes . . . "

Here's our recap: The dogs and I were on our way to Prospect Park. The news had mentioned the possibility of showers, or even a thunderstorm. I brought my raincoat. But halfway there, the sky grew dark. Lightning started to strike rapidly, like every 50 seconds. Maybe (my dog) went what we call "dogatonic" (like catatonic) after she heard thunder, so we went back home. Seconds after I closed the front door, the windows in our apartment started shaking. The sky outside was greenish black. It was fascinating and a little scary, and the three of us--Maybe, Huckleberry and yours truly--took to the hallway for shelter. As tree branches swirled around outside, we crouched in the hallway, cross-legged with our heads between our legs, just like I learned in my Midwestern elementary school tornado drills.

Check out this crazy video that was shot just around the corner from our apartment.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3bYbYZ-ryc&feature=player_embedded

That night, after the storm, Andrew, the dogs and I went to Prospect Park to investigate the damage. It was pretty insane! Here are some pictures that I took on Friday morning during the dogs' park squirrel patrol:

Maybe poses to demonstrate the scale comparison (for length, not girth.)

Huck and Maybe check for squirrel fatalities.

In an hour or so, I'm off to do my longest run yet, and I'm very intimidated: 22 MILES!!!!

My dad will be running his 22 today as well, back home along the Michigan cornfields. I'll be running mine in Central Park, for a change of scenery. I'm not sure how to brace myself for this, other than to JUST DO IT. Wish me luck!

P.S. SOS!!!! I'm still only 31% of the way into my fundraiser. For the love of dog, PLEASE HELP! If you could be so kind to spread the word of my fundraiser (or donate!) and the charity I'm running for (they're called Ready for Rescue)--send it to friends, family, post on facebook, twitter, ANYTHING--I'd be much obliged. And THANK YOU to everyone who has sponsored me: you're helping neglected animals get the love and care they deserve! Here's the most recent rescue in need of a home:

This dog Murphy was taken to my vet's my his owner to be euthanized because she just didn't have enough time for him. He was sweet, they couldn't do it so we are now looking for a foster or forever home. I took him on a walk today and he is indeed a very nice dog. He's a neutered 5 year old Weimaraner mix. Please let ...me know if you would like to help him.

What's Your Moment?

2010-09-17T10:36:00.000-07:00

Now that I've got your attention . . .

Question: Can a single decision, happenstance, accident, call, conversation, or even email change the rest of your life?

Um, yes way.

And the very cool people at Smith Magazine, makers of the "Six-Word Memoirs", have embarked on a new project called “The Moment." It's a collection of stories, testimonials, etc. of how a single moment changed a life in a profound way, and YOU are invited to participate!

Your Moment might be a split-second decision, something you witnessed, a message sent or received, a literal or mental discovery. Moments can be serious or silly, as short as a tweet, as long as 700 words, told via a single image or illustration, series of photos, or a scanned letter or post-it note. A selection of some of these Moments will appear as a book in 2011. I know you have a Moment. And the folks at Smith know you have a Moment, and we all know that it's an important Moment, and are asking that you take part in this poignant project.

Submit your Moment here or via email, Facebook, or Twitter (#mymoment).

So. What’s a Moment? It can be almost anything, as long as it’s true, personal, and changed your life in some way.

Text Moments, as little as 50 and as much as 700 words. Most of the text moments will be short essays, but they can also be Twitter feeds, Facebook status updates, IMs, or text messages sent or received.
A postcard or letter, sent or received—or some other form of communication that provided inspiration, or altered your life.
A photograph, a single shot, or series.
An illustration or comic, a single panel, or series.
Something different altogether—we look forward to being surprised by your creativity!

Sample Moments

Cheryl Della Pietra, now a copyeditor and mother, picked up the phone at 3am to find it was Hunter S. Thompson calling. She had one moment to accept his offer to be her assistant, provided she could leave the next morning. Read more about her Moment.
Adriano Morae almost pulled a knife on his schizophrenic brother. Instead, as his six-panel illustration details, he put the knife down and decided it was time to leave Brazil and start over in the United States.
Piper Kerman, a VP of a communications firm and bestselling memoirist, ended up in the middle of an international drug ring, for which she would later serve a year in prison, because she had one conversation, with one woman, one night.
Karol Nielsen saw a New York Times photo essay on families going to war, sparking her own memory about her father being sent to Vietnam when she was six months old. Her “Moment” is a poem about her father in a series of tweets.

The Moment book will be out in Fall 2011 from Harper Perennial, the publisher that made the Six-Word Memoir Project [http://sixwordmemoirs.com] a bestselling franchise. Previous SMITH books have featured contributions from Stephen Colbert, Dave Eggers, Joyce Carol Oates, Sarah Silverman, Malcolm Gladwell, Mario Batali, Gay Talese, Aimee Mann, Deepak Chopra, Dr. Jane Goodall, Tony Kushner, Chelsea Handler, and the late Frank McCourt and Harvey Pekar, among many others.

Everyone has a Moment. What’s yours?

P.S. To read my entry, which is, of course, about running, please click here. Don't forget to leave a comment and/or pass the story along.

Making Like Terry Gross

2010-09-14T08:11:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, Andrew and I made like Terry Gross* and got some Fresh Air by visiting Asheville, North Carolina. * If you don't get this reference, click HERE.

I'd heard a lot of good things about Asheville, which piqued my curiosity. I read a lot of praises about the place, like, a LOT of praises, like the best praises that a small city could ever hope for. Things like how it was one of the top 7 places to live in the USA (according to Forbes), or how it's one of America's Top Art Destinations (American Style Mag). AARP called Asheville one of the "Best Places to Reinvent Your Life"and Rolling Stone proclaimed it was the "New Freak Capitol of the U.S." Asheville pops up as "The Happiest City for Women" on Self Magazine's radar, PETA named it the most vegetarian-friendly small city in the US, Outside Magazine named it one of the "Best Outside Towns", and the author of The Geography of Bliss, Eric Weiner, cited it as one of the happiest places in the good ol' U S of A.

All this goodness made me suspicious.

I'm a skeptic and a cynic, as well as a recovering misanthrope. Have you seen the movie Coraline? It's story about how things that seem to good to be true usually just aren't true. I don't want to sew any buttons on my eyes, I just want to be happy, and be in a place where I can walk barefoot to get my mail. A place where trees are more prevalent than garbage dumpsters and bodegas. A place where, in the summertime, the sidewalks don't smell like urine.

We flew into Charlotte, North Carolina, on Friday around 7 p.m, rented a car and drove on a highway that had been adopted and sponsored by--get this--the Church of Wicca. When we pulled in to the downtown area of Asheville sometime around 9:30 p.m., we decided to go on a mission to find some ice cream. Instead, we were immediately greeted by a drum circle. That's when I immediately broke up out hives. Don't get me wrong--I like drum circles. I like drums. I don't consider myself a conservative person, either. I'm not afraid of music--I am a musician. And I like communication through music, and I like rhythm. But there are drum circles, and there are drum circles. And the only hypnotic trance that this drum circle offered was the dizziness caused by the overwhelming cloud of patchouli and American Spirit cigarette smoke.

Woy Yoy? Oh boy.

This is around the time that I announced that Asheville just wasn't for me, and quickly took to the role of the cynical commentator as Andrew and I looked for an ice cream shop. There were street musicians on every corner with no shoes on who took breaks from their didgeridoos to send text messages from their cellphones. There were a lot of white people. There was a restaurant called the Mellow Mushroom. This was what Rolling Stone considered creds for a Freak Capitol?

"I'm not trying to form any opinions just yet," Andrew said after several minutes of sitting in silence, eating ice cream on a bench. I didn't want to either, but I just couldn't help it. I had read Ryszard Kapuściński's The Emperor. Twice. I was curious if these young Caucasian rastas were aware of Haile Selassie's corruption, or cruelty. Did they know about the Wollo Famine?
I was starting to miss my pee-pee smelling street in Brooklyn.

We went back to our room at the Red Roof in, which didn't have a red roof, by the way, and went to bed.

To my chagrin, the next morning, they were gone. It was as if the sun, as it rose from behind the Blueridge Mountains, had melted the hippies. Instead, the sidewalks were less crowded but dotted with a random mix of fresh-faced people--very friendly people. In daylight, I could see what the town really looked like--bookstores upon bookstores, interesting art deco architecture, flowers and trees and clean sidewalks, yes, some tourist shops with dreamcatchers and tie-dyed t-shirts, but also lots of restaurants and nearly all locally-owned stores. All set against the background of the Blueridge Mountains. I liked it. I liked how everyone was relaxed and friendly. I liked the crispy mountain air, and the freshness of it. We went to have some breakfast at the Early Girl Eatery. We met up with husband and wife Kevin McIlvoy and Christine Hale, both authors from Warren Wilson's MFA program (which was voted the #1 low-residency MFA program in the USA by Poets & Writer's Magazine). They described their life in Asheville--how they write at home, have a flower garden, live at a slower pace, take dance lessons to perfect "The Carolina Shag"--as something like bliss. Their genuine happiness was palpable. It reminded me of what is important, and things like why I became a writer in the first place: not because I have something to prove to the world, but because I wanted to describe the world, and because to live in an undescribed world was too lonely. It was just after breakfast and right as we were driving up a mountain for a morning hike in Craggy Gardens that I started to digest my pancakes, started to let my guard down, and started to fall in love with Asheville.

To make a long story short, we had a great trip. We hiked on mountains, had breakfast with some friends who now have a baby boy as well as some chickens in their backyard (the baby boy does not live with the chickens). We went trail running, which kicked my ass. We "trotted" through about 10 1/2 miles of trail just off the Blue Ridge Highway, which is quite different from running around the Prospect Park loop. You can't really zone out; you have to be alert 100 percent of the time because there are roots to jump over, rocks to balance on, branches to dodge, streams to leap over, injuries to avoid. It's hard to be alert and present and focused for such a long time. It's hard to continuously stay focused and pay attention to yourself and to the path that is RIGHT in front of you, hard not to try to look further down to see what to expect. It's challenging, and just as challenging as it is to figured out WHERE you want to SETTLE DOWN. . . what you want your life to be, which, really, only requires you to do one or two things: 1. be present. 2. be genuine.

post-run popcorn

Along this theme of choices, I started reading the novel Freedom by Jonathon Franzen--it's very good--and am going to start reading Born To Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race The World Has Never Seen simultaneously. (I haven't started just yet.) Apparently Born to Run is amazing; Andrew read it in one day and is smitten with it. The book also inspired him to purchase those aqua socks-looking shoes to run in, which look ridiculous and are terribly unsexy and draw lots of surprised looks from civilians.

But Andy swears by them. And swears that I MUST read Born to Run because it's going to change my whole perspective on running and training. So I got that going for me . . .

We in arrived in Brooklyn late last night, and despite the fact that I can't turn my neck or head in any direction (somehow I pulled a muscle on the airplane), I'm feeling extremely refreshed and optimistic. I'm exited about the fact that there is a place out there that we could live in that is close to nature AND has a vibrant downtown that is veggie friendly, is outdoorsy, is creative, is dog-friendly, vegetarian-friendly, and has an excellent literary scene. (I am, though, concerned about how I will handle not living near the ocean, or if the rest of North Carolina is segregated and too conservative for my tolerance.) One question I always ask myself when considering where I want as a home base is "will this place be safe when the zombies come?" What I mean is, will this be a good place to be when the sh*t goes down? Quite possibly.

Anyway, lots of fun was had, and I'm going to post some more pictures of our trip below.

This weekend: 22 miles. The longest run yet. I see more toenails being lost in my future.

P.S. A story about why I run is going to be published in an anthology next year! The Moment book will be out in Fall 2011 from Harper Perennial, the publisher that made the Six-Word Memoir Project a bestselling franchise. Previous Smith books have featured contributions from Stephen Colbert, Dave Eggers, Joyce Carol Oates, Sarah Silverman, Malcolm Gladwell, Mario Batali, Gay Talese, Aimee Mann, Deepak Chopra, Dr. Jane Goodall, Tony Kushner, Chelsea Handler, and the late Frank McCourt and Harvey Pekar, among many others. You can participate and share your story, too! Check out Smith Magazine's story projects by clicking here: http://www.smithmag.net/

Wow.

2010-09-08T10:47:00.000-07:00

A quick post: anyone ever hear of Ultra Marathons? They're 100 MILES.

Meet Tony. My entire marathon will be like his warm-up.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SUZ5xB_Skk

And this little girl is running a 50-mile ultra-marathon. Um, she's 13 years old!!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gtv0PY9GOhs

My Toenail Fell Off

2010-09-02T11:01:00.001-07:00

Some things I can't believe:

1. That the marathon is only 37 days away.

2. That I'm capable of running 20 miles. (I learned this last Saturday)

3. That toenails actually do fall off after long runs . . . mine just did!

So last Saturday, I ran my first 20-mile stint! (I can't believe it, either.) It wasn't so bad, but it wasn't so easy. Naturally, when you are unable to lift your feet off the ground and the only way to be mobile is to shuffle, your brain tells your body to just stop running. But I couldn't--this happened at mile 19.5. . . I was so close!

Perky before 20!

The whole run took about 4 1/2 hours. I learned some very important things: EAT A LOT. Like a car, a body cannot run without being properly fuel. Also, pace yourself. . . steady pace wins the race. Also, wear shoes that are at least one size bigger than what your normal shoe size is--feet swell! And they sweat, so it's vital to wear socks that wick. Not socks that suck.

Not so perky now, are we?

When we got home, I couldn't sit still but I couldn't really move, either. It took me about 3 days to fully recover. And then my toenail fell off! Also, I've also been waking up around 3 a.m. every night and raiding the freezer for more ice cream. I can't help it!

I used to have pretty feet. Really.

The next 20-mile run is on Labor Day. . . wish me luck! I'll write a more detailed post about it on the day after . . .

It's Been Awhile . . .

2010-08-16T07:50:00.001-07:00

I'm not sure what happened, but I got hit by a case of writer's block and ran out of runner's steam. I think it had to do with self-doubt--mostly about my writing career. But I'm still running . . . today, an easy 5-miler.

Saturday was my husband's 34th birthday. I was happy to see that there was an article in the NY Post (published on Andrew's birthday!) about the group I'm raising money for. Check it out!

Nonprofit to the rescue: Lovable dog hit by car gets back surgery, needs home

BY Amy Sacks
SPECIAL TO THE NEWS

Saturday, August 14th 2010, 10:07 AM

Noonan for News

Doug Halsey and his group Ready for Rescue paid for 2 year old dog Kirby's surgery after the pitt bull mix was hit by a car in the Bronx thee months ago.

A speeing car may have knocked Kirby off her paws but it wasn't enough to break the young dog's spirit.

"She's happy and she loves people," said local rescuer Doug Halsey of Kirby, a 2-year-old mutt that landed at the NYC Animal Care & Control's Manhattan shelter after being hit by a car in the Bronx in June.

The impact left Kirby unable to walk, a death sentence for most shelter animals since few rescue groups can help one with such a serious injury. But some big-hearted shelter volunteers fell in love with the pooch and sent out red-alert email pleas to save her.

"When we met her we could see they were right," said Halsey, who runs Ready for Rescue, a nonprofit group that saves cats and dogs that would otherwise be euthanized at the city shelter.

"Despite extraordinary pain, she was sweet and gentle," he said.

Halsey immediately committed to treating Kirby's injuries and finding her a home.

Doctors at NYC Veterinary Specialists, a 24-hour, 7-day-a-week hospital on W. 55th St., determined she had a fractured back. However, the dog was able to feel her legs, a neurological sign that she could benefit from surgery.

"If there are no reflexes, then prognosis isn't good," said Dr. Mark Levy, a board certified veterinary surgeon, who inserted a Lubra plate to stabilize Kirby's spine. "Every time she moved, it damaged her cord."

Unlike a metal plate, the Lubra plate is made from a plastic derivative and doesn't require screws.

Five days after surgery, Kirby moved her legs. She then started rehab at Water4Dogs, the city's only indoor pool for dogs, in Chelsea, where she swam and did hydrotherapy.

Today, she's is in no pain and walks well - with a bit of a funny gait - and remains in foster care while awaiting a new home.

While she's still on the mend, Kirby will require followup visits; however, she has no additional medical needs, and will make a loving companion in a calm home where she's not prone to rough play, Halsey said.

Some may question why one injured dog is worth saving when there are so many in need of rescue. After all, injuries like this are costly to treat.

Halsey, a Web designer by day, estimates he spent about $7,000, including CT scan, back surgery and hospitalization, plus boarding fees and rehabilitation.

And, like many of the city's grassroots rescuers who rely strictly on donations, Halsey paid for most of it out of his own pocket, with help from a hospital discount, a few private donations and $500 from the Mayor's Alliance for NYC's Animals' Picasso Fund.

Every year, about 43,000 cats and dogs land at the city shelter and about half are put down because of injury, lack of space or simply because there is no one to adopt them. A majority of the dogs that are euthanized are pit bulls.

"Rescuing animals from the shelter is an inexact process," Halsey said, and in this case, a lack of available foster homes meant a hospital stay helped fit into the logistics. "There are thousands that need saving, and different circumstances will influence what animal we are able to rescue at a given time."

To inquiry about adopting Kirby or make a donation, email dougmh13@yahoo.com or mail a check to: Ready For Rescue, 130 W. 16th St., No. 23, N.Y., N.Y. 10011.

For more info, go to ready4rescue.org.

The group shows adoptable animals at The Pet Health Store at 440 Amsterdam Ave. (at 81st St.) in Manhattan on Sundays from noon to 4 p.m.amy.sacks2@gmail.com

15 + 16 Miles in Michigan: They're Ggggggggreat!

2010-08-09T07:15:00.000-07:00

Andrew, the dogs and I just returned from 8 days in my home state of Michigan. My mother is from Poland and my dad is from Chicago, where they met, married then moved to where I was born and reared: Battle Creek, Michigan, which happens to be the cereal capital of the world (think: Kellogg's Cornflakes). Back in the early 1900's, John Harvey Kellogg spearheaded a major health and diet movement in Battle Creek, which promoted vegetarianism (yay!), exercise, (yay again!), abstinence (eh . . .), and daily multiple enemas (ummm . . .).

Breathing Exercises at the Battle Creek Sanitarium

The city has not carried on most of John Harvey Kellogg's practicing, but we still dominate when it comes to toasted corn floating in cow's milk. Here's something from my book about Michigan: http://www.cerisepress.com/02/04/adoption

I was super excited to get out of Brooklyn and had put together a very basic agenda for my time in Michigan: catch up with childhood friends, cook with my mom, veg out with my sister, hike with Andrew, let the dogs roam leash-free, look at stars and swim in the lake. But I was especially looking forward to accomplishing some major runs with my dad. According to our training schedule, we had both a 15 and a 16-miler to run during our 8 days together.

home.

My dad and I have always been joggers--he started when he was in college, and I started running with him when running became an activity, like something you set time aside to do, as opposed to being a method of fast transportation. We'd been on a lot of jogs together, but never more than a couple miles here and there--at most, four miles at once. Running fifteen miles sounded baffling (still does).

I remember the first "official" run we did together for our marathon training: it was in October, in Boston. I took a train from Brooklyn to visit him while he was attending a medical conference. We were scheduled to run 2, maybe 3 miles. We chatted in the hotel lobby, and drank a couple of glasses of wine, because I figured we'd be running in the morning. But after my 2nd glass of wine, Dad said, "ok! let's go find the exercise room!" And we did. So my first run was a buzzed one on a crappy treadmill on a Friday night in Boston. Warm red wine in your tummy on a treadmill? Not a good feeling.

That was also the weekend that Dad gave me an article from the NY Times about eating meat. It was an excerpt from Jonathan Safran Foer's book, "Eating Animals." Dad said that after reading a paragraph or two of the article, he realized that there was no justification for eating the tortured flesh of an animal, aside from a fleeting pleasure of the tastebuds. I could agree more, and that was when we both decided to go vegetarian. For life. And, for Life.

My very own fancy UK edition, signed and hand-delivered by the author himself!

So, the 15 miles.

I was nervous. I didn't want to do it. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to do it, and I was tense because I thought I'd have a hard time getting into a rhythm, or that I'd get irritated. My dad doesn't listen to music when he runs. I usually run listening to music--it keeps me going, distracted, or inspired. Unless I'm arguing, I usually don't like to talk during runs. I get cranky when I'm tired. Nonetheless, I ditched the ipod.

Our route was very basic: we'd run out 2 miles from our house on East Sylvan Drive to North Avenue, and then 2 miles back. At the gate to our house we had water and Goo chomps sitting in the mailbox, ready for us at the end of each 4 miles. And if we had to go to the bathroom, we wouldn't have to go in the woods or in a nasty port-o-potty like in Prospect Park--we could just go at home after 4 miles. We'd run each 4-mile trek 3 times, then cut it in half, then run all the way down the hill in our backyard after the 15th mile and jump in the lake.

As so we began: first 2 miles was great. After agreeing on a pace (Dad is long and leggy; I'm not and I'm slower), we jogged past the landmarks I grew up glancing at: The treehouse that Joey Kunitzer built next to his parent's garage (now almost fully decomposed); the curve in the road by the Lindow's old house where I spun my car in a 180 when I first learned to drive in the Michigan snow; the fountain where our late dalmation Chief once jumped in and couldn't get out (I had to climb in and push him out). As we ran, I felt both at home but also like Ebenezer Scrooge, and my dad was Jacob Marley, showing me all the ghosts of my youth. So many neighbors had moved out or died, so many houses were so different--delapidated or torn down, sold or refinished. I felt young and old at the same time. I also felt a lot of cramping.

What I had forgotten (or never realized) was how HILLY our neighborhood roads are. There was not one single mile that was flat: it was entirely steep uphills (I mean, steep) or downward slopes. These hills kicked my ASS. But my dad had been running up and down those ass-kickers for nearly 30 years. He was used to them. I was not. But we kept running.

Mira and Phil, Before 15 Miles

There's not to much I can say about what the 15-mile run felt like, because once I found a pace and stride for attacking the hills, it wasn't that bad. Also, I talked. The entire time. I had so much to say and talk about with my dad (he even noted that I talked about 80 percent of the time during our conversation) that the time and miles just flew by. It was fun! The sun was setting, there was a cool breeze brushing up against our legs and arms and necks. The scenery was surreal: sunset on a lake, wind racing through wheat fields, butterflies and scarlet cardinals.

We talked about a lot of things: my writing habits, possible new hires at his office, running shoes vs. bare feet. We argued a little bit: how to best train my boisterous hound; reasons why my sister and I argue so much . . . as the sky got dark and just as we were finishing our last lap (up a very steep hill, of course), my husband Andrew rode up on my mom's bike and escorted us to the gate of our home. The three of us ran down to the lake, like we'd planned, but quickly ran back up. Too many mosquitoes. We went inside.

Ten minutes later, I was strewn on the floor of our living room, moaning and groaning. I was in pain! Dad showed no signs of having just endured 15 miles of hilly hell and I was quite impressed. He is FIT! I could barely walk, let alone eat and he was as chipper as a spring chicken. After picking at a pasta dinner and sipping a beer (Andrew said I looked "crazed"), I took a cold shower and went to bed.

After 15 miles, this was all I could do: not a damn thing.

The next day, my mom, dad, sister, Andrew and the four dogs (Saba, Yolanda, Maybe and Huckleberry) and I drove north for a camping trip in the Manistee National Forest. It was right along Lake Michigan, which looks like the ocean but doesn't smell or taste like it. Once all the different personalities settled into a peaceful dynamic, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. It made me so happy to see my dogs outside, exploring the woods and smelling countless smells that were NOT man-made. One of my wishes was granted, too: to have the dogs fall asleep outside, and wake up outside. They never get to do that in Brooklyn. We peed in an outhouse, which was stinky but a great butt for our jokes, so to speak. We swam, ran in sand, hiked trails, grilled veggies in a fire pit. We gave stink-eyes to the campers who brought electric generators and mobile homes. We laughed, we argued, we read, we relaxed, we bonded. It was good for my heart to be with my family and to be outdoors.

Dad and I ran 6 miles during our camping trip, too. It was a perfect path: no cars on a paved street lined with forests and thin streams, blue sky, white clouds, ten different shades of green, moderate temperature fresh air. And no hills. It was bliss. I read in Runner's World magazine that when one runs out of breath, it is best to slow down. I like this tip. I have a tendency to run too fast too soon. Once I slow down and catch my breath, my pace eventually quickens and finds the right speed, where I'm not dry heaving, but still am moving steadily (but not toooooo slow). After three shower-free days camping in the Manistee National Forrest, ambivalently drove back to Battle Creek for a couple more days of vacation.

The day before we left Michigan for Brooklyn, Dad and Andrew and I hit the pavement again for a 16-mile run. Unlike the previous 15-mile jog, this one was torture. It was hot and humid. I was tired of the hills, I didn't want to talk, I was tired and couldn't figure out if I had to go to the bathroom or not. There were flies and mosquitoes, and again, the hills were relentless. After 8 miles, I was ready to stop. After 12 miles, Dad had to stop to go take my sister to the airport. Andrew and I kept running. At mile 13, I felt like shit and could barely focus on my breath. It was hot. The hills were evil. I was hyperventilating. But we had to keep going. I stopped a few times--each stop was at the top of a hill, and by the time we were heading home after mile 15, my feet were literally dragging. All I could do was keep going, one beat at a time. Hours later, we made it: 16 miles. That last stretch was wild: I could barely think or focus or listen to my breath. The only way I got there was by putting one floppy, worn out foot in front of the other.

"I won't be able to stop moving or talk," I said to Andrew as we approached the gate. He likes to high-five, kiss and congratulate after big runs. I usually can't talk and just want to keep moving. Which I did. Straight down to the lake and right into the water. Surprisingly, the 16-mile run was much more difficult that the run that was just one mile less, but I wasn't in pain or sore after it was finished. But I did acquire seven blisters.

The next day, Andrew and I packed up our dogs and suitcases, exchanged big hugs and kisses with my parents, and hit the pavement in our rental car. We had to head back to Brooklyn--there were bills to be paid and money to be made. Neither one of us wanted to leave (nor did the dogs). I felt like we weren't going home, but were leaving home to return to our jobs in the big city. Judging by the aching in my heart, I realize that I'm homesick now, I miss my home, my family, Michigan's green secrets, its peacefulness. No matter where I go or live, I'll always be a country girl at heart.

After we left home, Dad finished off the last of his 16-mile run. His knee is back to normal--somewhat miraculously healed--and he is kicking some serious ass. I hope to get an update from him via email so I can post it on the jog blog within the next day or two.

On tomorrow's menu: an easy 5-mile jog.

13 Miles = Superbad (in a good way)

2010-07-29T08:01:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-24T07:19:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-07-19T14:02:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-15T06:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-14T07:41:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-07-12T06:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-02T10:37:00.000-07:00

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

Coming soon!

2010-06-30T10:03:00.000-07:00

Our blog is still under construction and not entirely launched. Photos, updates and daily posts about our training coming soon! In the meantime, feel free to subscribe to our blog, and consider donating to our cause (see lower lefthand corner: Ready for Rescue, and The Nursing Clinic fundraisers).

Pax,

Mira and Phil