Want to See My Medal?

I completed my first half marathon on March 22. That’s 13.1 miles.

We had an hour-long drive after the race and I'd ask the kids periodically, "Do you want to see my medal?" We'd stop at a gas station and I'd wonder aloud if the checkout clerk, or the person walking out of the store or the guy pumping gas would like to see my medal. As we drove along I'd announce, "Maybe those people in the car next to us would like to see my medal."

My family was very patient.

I started on this adventure more than six months ago. Jen, Katherine and I decided to run the Shamrock Half Marathon in Virgina Beach, Va. As Katherine said, we had plenty of time to train. Plenty. No problem.

And that's how I treated it for a while. For months, I ran three or four miles most days and finally looked into a training program in January. Then I got scared. The program involved running three or four times during the week, some speed-work and hill-work and then one "long" run on the weekend. The mileage increased with each week. I remember looking at the schedule, seeing that I had to eventually run 12 miles and thinking, "Who does this?!" I was having enough trouble doing three miles.

I followed the program with some modifications. When the mileage seemed too high for the week or my body was suffering, I'd dial it back in distance and intensity. If I felt stronger, I turned it up. Sometimes I did speedwork; most times I didn't. Ditto on strength training. I trained during some very cold months so it was a combo of treadmill training and long lonely (and cranky) outdoor runs in lots of layers.

Then Friday, March 20, I got on a plane with my family, then in a rental car and there I was in Virginia Beach with my friends Jen and Katherine.

Everything about the weekend was exceptional. We talked about running, our gear, our fears, our families. Jen and I obsessed over what we were going to wear race-day (and pretty much everything else) while the veteran runner Katherine reminded us that we had done the work and that we were ready for the race no matter what.

We cheered my parents, Artie, Teresa and Monte on Saturday during a very cold and breezy 8K. Then we hit the race expo, had a late lunch and obsessed some more.

Sunday morning finally arrived and we were at the starting line with nearly 6,000 other runners. It was 35 degrees (COLD!) but no wind. The sun was just beginning to come up. My husband (I could write a book on how wonderful he was during the weekend!) snapped one final shot of the three of us when the gun went off.

Jen and I ran together for the first few minutes then took off on our respective races with a "See you at the finish!" The crowd was great with their cheers and cowbells.

I knew from the start it was going to be a good race because I didn't feel tight or sore or tired. (This makes me see why rest is vital before a big race.) The first two miles were a breeze. I did intervals of 2 minutes of running with one minute of walking and I remembered what Tammy implored, "Take it easy on those first two miles and conserve your energy!" People full of excitement and energy were passing me left and right and the urge to go faster was strong but I stuck with my plan. My goal was to conserve my energy, gradually increase my speed as the race went along and finish strong and not feel completely spent.

Miles three through six were a little tough simply because the sun was blocked by trees. It was bitter cold, the water stop near mile 5 was not-to-be since the water had frozen in the tank. Likewise, my hands were frozen and I was lamenting how I had given my gloves to Mark at the start. This is when I saw people stopping to stretch, to bathroom break it in the woods, or to retie shoes and in one case, to retch.

But then we turned a corner and there was the sun, the ocean and a beautiful lighthouse - and a water stop where I could take my first Gu Gel. From that point on, the race turned from something to get through to something to enjoy. At mile seven I thought, "I am doing this and I am not tired!" This is when I slowly began to pass more and more people.

Miles seven through nine were pleasant. I wasn't tired, my legs felt strong. As I approached mile ten I thought, "Okay, this is when you start falling apart during your training runs." Usually, my legs get tired, my focus wanes and it becomes a battle of mind vs. body. Just after the ninth mile, I took my second and final Gu Gel.

Mile 10 was surprisingly easy. By that point, I was doing intervals of 4 or 5 minutes of running with one minute of walking. I was amazed that I felt so good and started to get emotional. I knew the finish was within my grasp. I was almost there! The crowd was back and since our names were displayed on our bibs, there were lots of people cheering, "You can do it Beverly!" and "Way to go, Beverly!" How often do you hear someone cheering your name?

At mile 11, I really started to pass a lot of people. I decided to run the final two miles with no walk breaks. There were points where there were so many competitors walking that I had to snake around them. I couldn't believe how great I felt, although I was ready for the race to be over.

At mile 12, I saw Katherine with her mylar blanket wrapped around her. She had already finished and was headed back to the hotel! We screamed at each other and it was the adrenaline push I needed to work a little harder to get to the finish.

I turned the final corner onto the boardwalk right along the ocean and saw the finish line. It seemed so far yet it was less than a half-mile away. The crowd was along the boardwalk cheering us along that final stretch. I could hear the announcer. I wanted this to be over, so I pushed it a little more.

I picked up my pace and was amazed at how natural it felt. Nothing hurt but I wanted to get to the finish line.

And then it was there. The finish line, the balloons, the music, the announcer, the cheering crowd, my husband, my parents, friends, Artie, Jen, Katherine, the months of training; everybody and everything was all there. I put my hands up in the air and yelled, "I did it!" I cannot begin to describe what an incredible feeling that was. I picked up my medal from the volunteers and promptly put it on. It was heavy, it was big and gaudy and IT FELT GOOD!

I made my way over to our post-race meeting spot and my husband gave me a big hug. He was truly proud and kept saying, "You did awesome!" My friend Artie gave me a big hug. Then we saw my parents who were so proud they could burst. And then I saw Jen and we hugged and cried and celebrated and kissed our medals. Then we met Katherine back at the hotel and celebrated some more.

I finished my first half-marathon in 2:39. It's not fast but I learned that this race wasn't about speed. (Perhaps that’s what the next one on September 20 will be about.) I think Jen put it best recently. It was about tenacity. For me, it was the ability to stick with a plan, modify it when needed and to finish strong. It was about meeting Jen and Katherine who virtually trained along with me. It was about celebrating my parents, friends and my Virginia roots. It was about each of us doing our own race but being able to celebrate our achievements together.

Want to see my medal?

I Bleed Therefore I am a Runner

In January 2008, I had a Forrest Gump-like epiphany. I put on a pair of running shoes, got on my treadmill and ran for 30 seconds. That's exactly how long it took me to realize I was a toad and that I needed to revise my fitness goals. (Forrest Gump had clearly put in some training miles before he stepped from his front door.)

I needed a realistic goal and a plan to get me there.

I signed up for a 5K and began working toward being able to run 3.1 miles. Over the months, I ran for a couple of minutes, walked for more than a couple of minutes and by April I was able to run for a half-hour without wishing the treadmill would spontaneously disintegrate or that a sudden May blizzard would cause the race to be canceled.

On a chilly May morning, I completed my first 5K in 35:56, a pretty respectable time for me.

For some insane reason (there goes Forrest Gump again) I next decided to set my sights on a half-marathon, 13.1 miles. From 3.1 to 13.1 miles in ten months? No problem. This was a different endeavor but not impossible, right? I'd had two babies; I knew what pain was. I knew what endurance meant. And more importantly, I had lots and lots of time to train for it.

This is what I've been telling myself for months now. "I've got lots and lots of time." As each month has passed I've been slowly adding miles and saying to myself, "I have lots and lots of time." Since I'm too scared to run with a group, I've been solo in my training efforts but diligently putting in the miles and comforting myself with the "I've got lots and lots of time" mantra. So far so good.

But today marks a new level in my training. With just 24 days until the half-marathon, I took my shoes off after my run this morning and one of my socks was red and bloody. Cool! I didn't fall. I didn't reopen an old wound. I spontaneously BLED!

I wanted to share my good news with somebody. This is when being part of a running group would have been of benefit since Daisy-the-Devil-Dog wanted to eat the sock and I had no idea whether I should be concerned about a painless bleeding toe.

But forget all that, I just completed a 30-mile week and the one really cool thing about it is that I had a bloody sock.

I am a runner.

I opened my email this morning to this bit of intriguing news. . .

"Sister Madonna Buder, 78, a Roman Catholic nun who resides in Spokane, WA will be this year's official starter and will also run the event. She began running at the age of 48 and throughout her career, she has completed over 200 triathlons and 13 Ironman Triathlons. At the 2006 Hawaii Ironman at the age of 76, she became the oldest woman to ever complete the race."

Last week I signed up for a 15K to take place this Saturday, February 7. I didn't think it through, just did it because I am training for a half-marathon and am due for a 9 miler this weekend. Shortly after I hit the final "submit" button, the doubts began to creep in one by one.

My first fear was freezing to death (I am a slow runner with southern-rooted DNA). My second was falling on an icy street and having a frozen body part like an ear, finger or foot break off. My third fear was crossing the finish line in last place long after everybody had packed up and gone home.

I went through all the therapy-ish self-talk, "What's the worst that can happen?" and "Is it likely to happen?" In the end, I concluded that I would be fine. I could handle last place.

But now I have a fourth fear: I am going to get my butt beat by a 78 year-old Roman Catholic nun, the official starter for my 15K on Saturday. Instant karma's gonna get me.

It doesn't matter how many times I take the adult high road and resolve to view Sister Madonna Buder as a role model. It doesn't matter that she is a woman of profound faith or that she clearly holds her health in high regard and wants to share her good news with others. It doesn't matter how many triathalons she's participated in or the fact that she started all this nonsense when she was 48 when I'm only 43. The object lessons are endless on this one!

What matters to me is that she's a nun, she's 78 and she's going to beat my butt. And now my good news is that - right or wrong - I think I have found the motivation to move up to second-to-last place.

Pray for me.

Baby, It's COLD Out There!

I grew up in southeastern Virginia. I remember a few significant snowfalls, one when my brother and I built an igloo with the neighborhood kids and another when we went sledding down the neighbor's hill into a semi-frozen Lucas Creek (don't tell my parents). Snow was an anomaly, not an expectation. It was a very rare and welcome respite from school that involved hot chocolate and snow cream. Those were the days.

Now I live in the Midwest where snow is a fact of life. From December until March (which often feels like December to December), snow covers the ground. It covers the ground because it's never warm enough to melt. Hence, winter on "the frozen tundra" becomes about boots and layers and endless car washes and - for me - where to go for spring break.

So in keeping with my annual February whine-fest, here's my list of things I find frightening about winter on the Frozen Tundra.

1. In spite of an annual snowfall of 50" (we'll double that this year), snow days are so rare here that kids wear their pajamas inside out and backwards in the hopes that they'll have at least one day off of school. It can snow 6" in 30 minutes and the plows have the roads cleared and salted by minute 31. (What is in that salt anyway?)

2. The meteorologists name the winter storms. They are given identities. In fact, here's this year's list: 1. Andrew 2. Brooke 3. Carter 4. Dawn 5. Eli 6. Faith 7. George 8. Hannah 9. Ian 10. Julia 11. Kyle 12. Lily. Lucky us, it looks like Hannah's headed our way next.

3. It can get so cold that it's not the snow that's the problem, it's the windchill (or rather, the possibility that one might lose a body part in less than four minutes because of the windchill.) This is the one and only way for kids to get a day off of school. We've already had two "windchill" days this year.

4. The push broom's sole purpose is to remove melted snow, salt and ice from the garage. This twice-weekly exercise is a big part of my upper body strength training program. I recently added an ice chipper to my strength repertoire.

5. My DNA does not belong here. I've been in the Midwest for 18 years and every January my mother sends me a photo of her first crocus. I cry.

6. See the above photo. The plows build a hill tall enough on our crescent that our house is not fully visible from the road. Hello, that's the second floor you're looking at!

7. Life goes on. People here love winter and don't tolerate whiners. The truth is that hill has provided countless hours of inspiration in the form of snow ball fights and fort and slide construction. So while I do hate the cold and yearn for somewhere warm and sunny, I am lucky my roots are where snow is viewed as a treasure. Every time it snows, I get a little excited about the prospect of hot chocolate, snow cream and a day off of school (even if it's never a reality).