Smell the Lilacs, Tie the Shoe

Cape Cod Ragnar.  Three simple words that have caused me a ton of anxiety, palpitations at times and at others down right fear. Ragnar was brought to me two years ago, by our amazing team captain right after I broke my hip.  This 200 mile 12 man running relay seemed so insurmountable for me at that time.  I had two issues.  I was on crutches fresh off a hip repair, and oh wait....I had never run more than two miles in my entire life, and at the one time I did do that, I did it poorly.  In fact, I only reluctantly agreed this year because I had taken our captain to a Spartan Race, so fair is fair.  So, last Friday, as we of Van 1 of Team 1DOS hit the start line it seemed almost surreal.  The sun was shining over the bay, the music upbeat, and the announcer buzzing with excitement.  We would send our runner off with the cheers of our mighty shark shiver and then take off to meet her at the first check point.  Oh shit.  The first check point, five miles from the start, that's where the first hand off would be, as in when runner two would take their first leg.  Oh wait.  I was Runner 2.  I would be running the next 4.9 miles.  My first leg of a race two years in the making.

I would take the slap bracelet hand off, adjust the music and go.  At first, all of the technical things I had learned were running through my head.  Breathe.  Relax.  Check your pace, 10:40, yep, let's keep it here.  One foot in front of the other.  There was a hill with a curve on a busy street without a sidewalk.  What do I know about a hill?  Oh yeah.  Channel your trainer. She always says,"lean into the hill, pump your arms and breathe", thanks Katie, yep, still hovering at 10:40, but was breathing hard from the hill.  Recover.  Flat road.  Fifteen seconds.  A voice of another coach, "it takes fifteen seconds to settle in and recover",  12, 13, 14,  ok , I am ok.  Keep going.  One foot in front of the other.

Around mile two, I would find my intense focus on technique would suddenly be interrupted with the overwhelming scent of lilacs.  There it was, a six foot lilac bush in full bloom.  When I was growing up I spent a lot of time at my grandmother's house in Clinton, Iowa.  She had big bushes like this too.  As my brain was flooded with memories of her, Lady Gaga's "Born This Way" came on.  "My Mama told me when I was young, we're all born superstars...." as my mind shifted gears to memories of my mom I realized how much I would have loved to have both my mom and grandmother here to see me do just this.  Neither of them really got the chance to see me healthy. They had both, instead, had a front row seat to decades of obesity.  They had dried my tears and made me feel loved when I was not so sure some days.  Yes, it would be amazing to have them here.   However, with the thick scent of lilacs, a beautiful clear day, and the perfect lyrics, somehow I think they were watching.  I would finish that leg with "Paradise City" blasting in my ears, and my team rallying around me and the belief that my mom and grandmother were cheering just as loudly.

Leg two proved to be a bit more harrowing.   This was my night run.  Probably the time to truly grasp the reality that I had never run at night with a headlamp on uncommon ground, was not five minutes before I set out to do just that.  My teammate who does this routinely sent me off with the advice to "keep an eye on the three feet ahead of you."  The first few hundred yards were me trying to figure out how to focus the headlamp, watch the ground, and still look ahead to where I was going.  I kinda felt like a baby giraffe learning to walk.  I was downright anxious and all over the place, until halfway up a hill into the second mile I would cross an intersection.  Amanda Street.  I have a friend Amanda.  She always seems to be the voice of reason and encouragement for me.  She has a way of squashing my doubts and manages to keep me grounded a lot of the time.  OK Amanda.  I got this.  Lean into the hill.  Pump my arms.  Breathe.  Point the headlamp three feet ahead.  Check pace.  10:24.  Wait, what? That's quick for me, but I feel fine.  Keep going.  I finally passed the three mile mark onto another hill.  This one had a van parked on the side.  Two men were getting out and crossing the street to where I was running.  They seemed to want something.  Wait.  It's dark.  I looked around and realized, there were no other runners here.  In fact there was nobody here but these people and me and my headlamp.  Well, they looked like a Ragnar team.  I was suddenly wishing I had thought to bring pepper spray.  If these were not ax murderers and truly were the Ragnar folk they appeared to be, maybe I was lost.  Did I miss a sign?  Was I off course? Crap.  I am ahead of my  pace and doing fine.  Yet now I am lost.  I finally took my ear bud out as they were just 3 feet away,"am I ok?"  It was then the man would say, barely above a whisper,"great job runner."

I would later learn, Ragnar etiquette is to keep from disrupting the neighborhoods at night. So, honking and yelling to encourage runners was not really acceptable.  So, this creepy whispery form of odd encouragement was the trade off.  I would also later learn this encourager was famous for this sort of thing.  Later, this phrase would somehow take hold in our sleep deprived van causing us to insert it wherever appropriate into conversation many times over the days that followed, each time meeting with fits of laughter.  In fact, we now have developed a hash tag I can't look at without giggling (#greatjobrunner).  Nonetheless, I would finish that 3.2 mile leg, ironically again to "Paradise City", faster than even my team thought, as they casually stood at the hand off chatting, not even realizing I had finished,"HEY!"  I would shout.  They laughed,"oh sorry you got done quick!"  I would look at my watch and realize I really had.  Fast for even me.  Perhaps it was the fear of the dark or the desire to quickly put some distance between me and the "great job runner"guy.


Our van would finish all of our second legs at a cool 2:00 am, only to find a quick shower and a couple of fitful hours of rest on a cold gym floor before we would take on the third and final legs.  Grateful for my jet propelled Starbucks latte before I began mine on day two, I would start my final 4.6 miles on a cloudy, cold and even a bit rainy day. I gave myself all of my running instructions as I plodded along just as I had before.  Before long I would find myself four miles in, realizing I had done it.  Two years of fear.  Two years of training. Learning how to run with control and even conquer the hills without losing pace. I would cross the street and into the park where I knew the handoff was.  Yes I had this.  I was like a freaking superhero.....  until.,,  Wait.  Shit.  My left shoe feels lose.  No.  No!  The laces started smacking me in the ankle.  NO!  I am making a badass triumphant photo finish.  My shoe is untied.  I should say screw it and keep going.  Well, I had 2/10's of a mile to go.  Then again, I do not have a history of extreme grace.  I have a history of being clutzy.  Like when I broke my ankle rolling it on a Lego.  Hm.  There are other runners around.  I will look like an idiot stopping to tie my shoe so close to then.  I then had to think about what I would look like as my teammate said,"faceplanting four feet from the finish."

As I argued with myself, I began to think about how many times we set big goals and look so hard at the glory of the finish that we fail to see the things that can ultimately cause us to face plant before we get there.  There are the unexpected curve balls life throws at us like an illness or injury we didn't plan on, or a bad diet day and suddenly the super hero sensation of crossing the finish line goes away and we find ourselves face down and done.  Maybe instead the thing to do is face the obstacle. Stop.  Retie the shoe, take a deep breath and make the finish great.  As for me?  Yes.  I stopped and tied the shoe, and went on to dominate the finish line with my third round of "Paradise City", amazed that the shuffle feature on my itunes seemed to always come back to this.  I had hugs from my team and fresh tears, making that little pause well worth it as I remained firmly upright.

Since the race, I have had three more runs, only this time with double knotted shoes and now at that 10:24 pace.   I even sanctioned off a very special corner of my flower beds to plant my new lilac bush, proving to myself, I have amazing people in my life who's voices are slowly drowning out the voices of self doubt that used to play loudly in my head.  I also am beginning to see I am probably capable of more than I ever thought, and that even though my mom and grandmother are no longer here, their spirit is strong.  The best is truly yet to come.

Being More Like Marvin the Martian, Three Year Reflections

When I was a school aged child in the late 70's, I can remember how important Saturday morning was. It held two coveted things, no school and Saturday morning cartoons.  There was Hong Kong Phooey, Grape Ape, Roadrunner and even Marvin the Martian, one of my personal favorites.  He had that clever quiet sinister style to him which made outwitting his foes appear flawless.  Not to mention that he did it wearing a Roman style helmet and Chuck Taylors.  In my teen years I would go on to own Chucks in yellow, pink and even classic canvas.  Nonetheless, Marvin was cool and at that time pretty much all I knew about Mars. 

I would later come to learn that Mars was thought to have once been full of beautiful lakes and oceans, with many seasonal changes.  This week, I was reflecting the start of  my 85 pound weight loss journey that began with a single OrangeTheory workout exactly three years ago.   I Googled what else could be achieved in 3 years just for fun, and the answer was to travel to Mars and back.  How cool is that?   I can honestly say, in my 48 years I have never been able to stick with a weight loss plan or fitness schedule like I have this one.  I have lost the weight and begun to inspire others to do the same, and in the same amount of time I could have gone to find Marvin.  Seems like a stark raving success right?  Well maybe so, but by declaring that, we really have not really read the fine print of the full story.

First of all, to get to Mars and back is not really a three year journey.  It's six months there, wait two years for the Earth and Mars to be as close as they can be, then six months back.  So, essentially you have to camp out on Mars for a while.  To be honest, this is exactly how it felt.  The first six months, was the gung ho excitement of huge weight loss, big gains and trying new things.  However, once I hit six months,  I would find, just as scientists found on Mars, there are so many seasons on this journey, each one with new challenges of it's own. 

There was initially the notion that if gains came with working out, then clearly I needed to work out more.  If one hour of OTF a day was good, two were better.  My hip hurts?  No problem.  Keep going.  I slipped and can't walk?  Crutch it into the gym and try to bike anyway.  Push, push, push, six months into my journey until I woke up in a hospital bed on a dilaudid pump realizing overexercising had broken the largest bone in my body and I now was the proud owner of a hip full of titanium, and furthermore I was pretty sure my journey was over.

Fighting through  that crushing defeat, the rehab season followed.  I was smarter then.  One hour was enough, and stay true to eating clean.  There was yoga to ease the sore muscles and begin to tame the anxiety of working out less.  Later, there was the first Spartan Race at Fenway Park.  I would arrive there, and although I looked healthy, in my mind, I wondered what it was I was doing there among these people who appeared to be serious athletes.  I had essentially been the fat non athlete most of my life.  I would find myself self conscious at the start line, and nearly paralyzed with fear at the top of the 15 foot cargo net second guessing what it was I was doing.  I would go on to finish and stand on the first baseline of Fenway with my first medal around my neck crying my eyes out with my poor son trying to provide the comfort and support as he always has on my journey.  I would go on to race in five more races, even completing the trifecta of a Spartan Sprint, Super and Beast in 2017.  The insecurity seems to be becoming less each time.  I would love to say it has totally passed, but don't suppose it ever will.  In my last two races, I have had the honor of taking newbies to their first races and watch them learn as I have, that what we think we are capable of is probably not even close to reality.

In the last six months, I have taken on endurance running.  The anxiety producing task that brought back pace slowing memories of being ridiculed in gym class.  I long convinced myself I was not an endurance runner.  Yes, I ran Spartans, even a 20 mile beast, but Spartans were different.  There running was simply a way to get from one obstacle to the next, not sustained distance running.  However, I was roped into the skull crushing 12 man 200 mile relay known as Ragnar.  Fair is fair, I had taken the captain to her first Spartan Race, so I felt obligated to commit to this.  With the Cape Cod Ragnar only 7 days away at this point, and six months of training for it behind me, I have to say that running for endurance has taught me to exert energy with control and in doing it fairly well now, I have found it surprisingly empowering.  Me.  The non distance runner. Empowered by running, suddenly thinking the Disney Marathon in January is an excellent idea. 

Now that I have settled into running for endurance, though, it became simple to convince myself that running with speed was not a thing.  I blamed my hip.  My age.  My acid reflux.  No, its not those things either.  It's mental.  The notion that the fat girl has nothing.  The fat girl who needed a designated runner in softball because there was no way she was stealing bases, and was most certainly going to be last when it came to running the Cooper (1.5 miles) in junior high. So as I take this on as my next big thing, by applying an adage from a training friend,"some days you say fuck it.  You go hard and if you puke you puke."   Much to my surprise today, I did just that and found myself at a sprint of 6"56' pace for a short period of time suddenly realizing just maybe speed could be a thing.


When we look at the history of Mars, the current thought is that there once were rivers and lakes and life.  I think prior to the last three years, I settled for a life that I thought was just fine.  My own, what I felt were beautiful, lakes and rivers, but in reality, I think in a lot of ways I was simply drowning.  I was unable to believe I could no longer be morbidly obese,  and instead be healthy and, given enough time and training, could accomplish any physical challenge.  Considering motivating others to do the same was not even on the radar.  The reality is, though, at this point modern Mars is dry and uninhabitable.  I suppose that is what my three year journey has been about, six months in, start life on a planet I have no understanding of, with two years of various seasons of changes until the old life of doubt and "I can't" no longer threaten to pull me under.  I have come to learn that my old life was is simply no longer inhabitable, and it is time to go back and make things all new.  Only this time, realizing I have the power to make it any way I want to.   

So, here I go.  Setting out on year four of my health journey.  As I get busy with the scary task of goal setting, I think I will take a page out of Marvin's book.  Strap on the Chuck Taylors, show up with quiet confidence and outwit the competition, even if the competition is the old me. 

Conquering the Change Up Strike Out

I played a lot of ball growing up.  I was raised with brothers and a strong affinity for Cubs baseball.  I joined my first team at the age of 7 when I played on the ever famous Glen Ellyn Northerns T ball team in the western suburbs of Chicago.  I can remember the opposing coach bringing the infield in when I came up to bat, well at first anyway.  I was the chubby kid and I was a girl, in fact,the only girl on the team.  I think the perception carried further when they realized my dad was actually the coach.  In hindsight, it was the late70's, and I think they probably felt my dad coaching was the only way one of two girls in the league could play.   It took a couple of at bats for them to realize I could hit the ball like the boys and moving in was probably not necessary.  From there, I would go on to play softball for the next ten years.  Although my childhood obesity would keep me from being the stolen base queen, certainly learning to get my weight behind the ball would lead to the nickname my brothers gave me in junior high,"Big Tomahawk."  To this day, I can almost feel the aluminum bat in my hands as the bat meets the ball in the sweet spot with the perfect ping sending a line drive out to center field.  It was the perfect swing, with the perfect strike and the sweetest reward.

Over time, the pitches would get faster and faster, making that sweet reward a little tougher to come by, but oh when it did.....I suppose that begins to explain my desperation at times to toss my Dad's age old advice,"Amy, stop swinging for the fences."  He was forever telling me to slow down, swing clean, not jerky and take the ball for a ride.  It was this very struggle that often times in high school I would routinely find myself with an 0 and 2 count against one of our league's only 70 mile an hour pitcher.  In my desperation to hit the hardest pitcher in the league, I would find myself swinging for the fences as the ball came hurdling toward me two pitches in a row.  Not to worry.  I was ready for pitch 3.  Square up, elbow up, half swing and focus.  I would watch the pitchers arm fly around fast pitch style under hand, release, and swing.  Wait a minute.  Where was the ball?  It was not even half way to the plate yet.  What the hell just happened?  The change up.  That's what.  A seemingly lightning fast pitch watching the release, but in reality was all smoke and mirrors as the pitch actually was floating in at slow pitch speed perfectly placed over the plate for that third strike long after my swing was over.  It was in these moments where I found myself confused and frustrated with my inability to see it coming and knowing that if I had, and been a wee bit patient I could once again hit the sweet spot and taken that ball deep into the outfield.  Instead, I found myself slinking away from the plate with absolute defeat. 

I suppose as an adult this is what happens with the multifaceted trials of life.  We suddenly see life hurdling at us faster than it ever has before and we spend our time  swinging at it with such ineffective vengeance that we find ourselves on the verge of complete strike out.  Just as we reach that point, another wrinkle, another change, something we were completely unprepared for.  Admittedly, the last 10 months have been like that for me, between the sudden death of my mother and unexpected serious illnesses among the people I love.  Not to mention, I was branching out from Spartan Racing to other actual flat out distance running events this year and somehow could not seem to master endurance running with any sort of proficiency.  I was out of gas quickly, and could not run the speed I thought I should be able to no matter how hard I tried.

With so many challenges all at once, I began to realize that really I spent a lot of time desperately swinging for the fences when the challenges, despite their volume, were no hurdling fast pitches, they were really one large change up that really required something different entirely.  They required extended quiet reflection and patience as I allowed them to change the way I look at things and develop a new normal. 

As I slowed my mind and tried to deal with the issues at hand, I was also advised by a trainer to slow my running paces down.  Although it seemed like such a step backwards, I did it anyway because clearly what I was doing was getting me exactly nowhere.  Plus she is a distance runner and seemed to be reasonably sure I could be one too, at that point in December I was just glad someone was.  Since that time, I have slowly learned how to maneuver my life again and yes, even the running has gotten so much better.  Today, I found myself doing three separate distance challenges.  A ten minute, a five minute and a 2.5 minute.  I found myself calculating from the minute the 3,2,1 countdown began for the first one.  What pace I would start at, when I would increase and what I would end up at.  Little by little I chipped away at each distance.  I did not have any of my usual workout crew there, so I had no need to worry about anyone else.  Just me versus me.

When I finished I realized something.  I had run with patience and control and conquered so much distance at speeds that even surprised me.  I didn't cough or wheeze like I did when I was in junior high as the hecklers laughed.  I didn't walk because I had tried to reach the speed my pride felt I should be at and gone too hard out of the gate. 

I had finally seen the change up life had lobbed at me for what it was, a long trial initially disguised as a 70 mph fast ball, that did not require a swing for the fences hack, instead a simple quiet focus so that I could finally hit the sweet spot, hear the ping and send it for a ride.  Today was finally the day I got to set aside my insecurities about childhood gym class bullying, or my adult insecurities about not being the fastest, and take my 2.2 mile run in those blocks and wear it with pride as it was done with  patience and control, two things I had lost while I was busy swinging for the fences.  I suppose now I better stop referring to myself as a "Spartan Racing Non Distance Runner" and revel in the things I am learning as I progress in endurance running.

I must say, at 85 years old, my dad is still my dad, full of the wisdom only dads have,  and I am thankful for the lessons he has taught me even if sometimes I need a little reminder.  Thanks Dad for always being there to remind me that no matter what life tosses at me, the best is yet to come.

Fighting off Fake Spring, Tulip Style

Well, it is official.  I have been home from vacation for one week today.  Some people like to say,"back to reality."  The truth is,  life's trials did not go away in Florida, they somehow just seemed better under the shade of the palm trees in my favorite pair of flip flops.  I suppose my return to upstate NY was made that much worse when nobody informed the weather that it was, in fact, spring.  In the seven days since I have been home, the kids have needed snow boots, hats and scarves and I don't think the sun actually shines in this area anymore.  Most nights have called for a fire in the fireplace and a pair of Ugg mocassins.  Add in some late shifts, lack of sleep and now I feel reasonably certain any amount of rest I got last week has completely worn off.

I trudged through last week, annoyed every day that I woke up and was no longer at the beach.  Morning after morning I found myself bundling up kids in their winter best much like the scene in "A Christmas Story" where in fact, they may not have been able to totally put their arms down.  All this,  just to get them down the driveway to the bus.  Around the second day of this, I found myself standing at the end of my breezeway looking at the front flower bed waiting for the bus with my 8 year old, when suddenly she said  "Look Mommy.  What is that?"   

There it was.  Thick green leaves poking through the spotty snow.  My tulips.  Here's the thing about me and gardening.  I am not a gardener.  I don't seem to have time to plant, prune, weed or fertilize, and I admittedly know very little about decorative plants.  So, years ago I developed an affinity for bulbs.  Year after year, with my absolute neglect, they rise and look beautiful anyway.  Not this year though.  Looks like our "spring"  may threaten even my low maintenance flower bed plan.  Freaking fantastic.   Yes, this was life away from the beach.  

Since the day I noticed the tulips coming, I have been waiting for them to appear dead.  Punishing snow, wind, freezing temperatures, yet every day they are a little bit bigger.  It is as if the tulip had decided it really didn't matter what was going on around it that should have made it nearly impossible to thrive, it was going to stand tall, show spring who is boss, and not take any crap from mother nature.

It makes me think of how many times we halt our own growth due to things completely out of our control, allowing the chaos of the trials of life to completely stand in our way.  We tend to wait for circumstances to change or for other people to prune us, pick the weeds around us, and spread the proverbial manure in the hopes that these will be the things that make us strong and propel us forward.  The reality is, by immersing ourselves in the chaos, we miss out on the fact that the ability to thrive truly comes from within. By missing this, we miss the amazing opportunity to learn what our potential actually is.  We always have the ability to grow more, be more beautiful and thrive despite what life may throw at us.  We just may forget this from time to time.

Today, it was pouring rain.  I am not at the beach.  I have traded in my flip flops for a down North Face, but every day I can see my emerging tulips not giving up their fight against fake spring and realize sometimes we just need to stop allowing the trials of life's crap to hold us back, and stand tall and grow, because, eventually the pay off will be the beautiful colorful bloom that will accent the entire yard.  Oh, and of further note, as of today, it would appear that the lilies in the other flower bed appear to be just as badass as the tulips.  

Life Lessons from a Very Brazen Turtle

For 20 years, I have been travelling to south Florida this time of year.  Originally, it was because my mom had left chilly Chicago for a much warmer climate and spring break was the time to go for a visit.  She would go on to make another move back to Chicago for a few years and another move back to Florida last year.  Nonetheless, every spring break, no matter where she lived, she managed to meet me where I sit in this moment, on the gulf side of southern Florida.  We had our traditions, eating blackened grouper at the Lazy Flamingo on Sanibel Island, taking a trip to Vanderbilt Beach in Naples where we could eat lunch in our bathing suits at the Ritz Carlton's beachside restaurant,  the obligatory spoiling of the grandchildren and long conversations between her and I where sentences did not need to be finished and probably to an outsider it would seem we were speaking a foreign language.  It is just who we were, her and I. 

I suppose that is why this  year I was not so sure I wanted to come.  Mom died suddenly the last day of  June and I was not certain what being here would be like.  I was unsure if seeing her around every corner would spark grief or comfort.  It turns out it is simply a little bit of both.  One thing of particular significance to her, though, was the plight of the Florida turtles.  You had to know my mom.  She liked to, just like her mother before her, clip articles from the newspaper and carefully scotch tape them together if they appeared on different pages, and fold them neatly into an envelope and mail them to me.  Yes, I realize these are all online and a link could have been sent to me in seconds, and despite being reasonably tech savvy, she preferred to as she said,"see the newsprint on her fingers."  Over the years she sent me all kinds of articles, however since moving back to southern Florida, all the articles she sent were about turtles.  Dozens of articles about regulations and nesting and their protection by the government. Imagine her surprise when a turtle laid eggs in the mulch of her lanai last year.  I do think she felt as though she won the lottery. 

I guess I didn't really understand the fascination.  It's a turtle for God's sake.  It moves slow, it has no personality and hides away from interaction.  Here in Florida there are rules about artificial lights at night, and forbidden retaining walls in nesting areas, and a long laundry list of things that truly made me think they were more of a pain in the ass rather than some noble creature,but it was my mom, and she was always so excited, so I humored her and listened to her stories like any dutiful daughter. 

Fast forward to Monday.  I had taken my two youngest kids to Vanderbilt Beach.  A bitter sweet arrival as this was the last place I visited before catching my plane home in the days after her death last summer.  The beach is different this time of year.  Instead of the quiet crashing of mild gulf waves and the solitude I experienced in the beginning of July, it was crawling with spring breakers.  Hundreds of people towel to towel, umbrella to umbrella.  To be honest, it annoyed me.  I was really hoping for a little solitude and the chance to feel close to my mom in one of her favorite places on earth. 

As the kids and I squeezed into the only available spot we could find I was suddenly face to face with of all things, a turtle.  Not a small turtle either.  What was happening right now?  I have never seen a turtle here before.  Not in 20 years.  He was boldly walking among the sea of humanity as if he owned the place.  Children would touch his shell and he did not retreat.  He clearly had a mission to complete and he was going to do it. 

Suddenly, I began to think about the many times in my life I was bullied.  The many times I was scared. I considered the many times I retreated from life and settled for failure because the fear of the sea of humanity was far greater than my will to overcome it all.  These were the times my mom would find me all safely in my shell and remind me that none of that really mattered.  All I really needed to do is let go of the perceptions, stop giving the power to my fears, and hold my head up and do the scary things even if it meant facing the things I was most afraid of.  Just like this brazen turtle. All at once, the appearance of the turtle on this beach seemed to be a little more than just a coincidence. 

I would go back to Vanderbilt Beach again yesterday.  There was the same turtle, that now one of my children has named "Mikey".  I would smile as they followed him around realizing why the turtles mattered so much to her.  They symbolized who she was and who she believed I could be.  Mom marched to the beat of her own drum and often did the unexpected.  Perhaps she was on to something.....  it is entirely possible, that instead of the introverted, frightened slow poke everyone perceives the turtle to be perhaps they are something different entirely.  I don't think I will ever think about turtles in the same way, but one thing is for sure, this little reminder once again helps me to believe that despite the loss of my Mom, the best is yet to come. 

Slip, Scream, Repeat - Spartan Sprint Greek Peak Reflections

As I walked sure footed through the house just over two years ago, with armloads of Christmas gifts that I was transporting from my car to the indoor hiding spot of the front hall closet, I would not see the blanket on the hard wood floor that I would slip on forcing my left leg out so quickly that the stress fracture, that was unbeknownst to me, would come apart snapping the top of my femur.  The surgery and long recovery, including 6 weeks on crutches in the winter, that followed would leave me with a brand new habit.  It is the screeching type of scream that lasts only a second, but seems to arise from the depths of my toes the minute I find myself slipping in any situation.  It can be ice on the driveway, or something as benign as a melted ice cube on the kitchen floor.  Nonetheless, it is there.  Every single time, it is there.

Saturday, I found myself taking on my first Spartan Race of the year.  It was the Winter Sprint at Greek Peak in Cortland, New York.  I had done this race last year.  I had it all under control.  Last year, it was three miles and brutally cold.  It was 12 when we started and 16 when we finished.  So, this year I kept saying I wasn't worried.  I had another year of training under my belt, and this was to be my fifth Spartan Race.  It would be warmer, a mere 32, and it would likely snow, but it wasn't 12, so I was pretty confident I had it handled.  What I didn't anticipate, was the change in weather, would dramatically change the race.  This year, in true Spartan style, the length was completely different.  At the finish our GPS read 5.39 miles, dramatically longer.  The winds proved to be a bit more punishing than last year, as the snow pelted our faces. 

Typically, anyone that races with me will tell you, I generally have one rule and that is when it comes to the experience, what happens on the course stays on the course.  This way, we feel a bit freer to voice our fears at the top of an obstacle, ok, that generally involves mostly me and my insane fear of heights.  The tapestry of four letter words that may exit our mouths can stay just where we left it, as a hovering cloud over the burpee station.  However, this race I will be bold enough to rat myself out.  What I did not plan on, in this race, were the abundance of two things.  First, there was mud.  Slushy wet deep mud that even the greatest of obstacle shoe could not necessarily grip onto.  Second, there was ice.  Much of the course by early afternoon was slick.  So, the continued slipping and sliding for miles allowed that scream I mentioned to come flying out of my mouth many times.  Foot slip, scream, repeat.  I will say this,  I was extremely fortunate to have an amazing team that patiently reminded me over and over that I was OK. 

Ultimately, I would find myself getting frustrated.  The screams were embarrassing, yet I could not seem to stop. At different points in the race, I would find myself stopped on one of  the declines simply hugging a tree wondering if I would ever be able to finish, stop screaming, and find sure footing again.  I began to think about an escape plan.  I would look around wondering if there was a way out.  The reality was, deep in the treeline four miles in, the only escape was through, one foot slip, one scream at a time.  I would see other racers who were so much bolder than I was in these moments, shimmying down the hill with the only vocal sound being a laugh or some sort of celebration of their conquering of the slippery slope. 

In the end, my team of six and I would jump the fire, get our medals and fight the ice the rest of the way down the mountain to the lodge.  In my five previous races, I had always been overcome at the finish line with emotion.  The joy of a hard fought battle, well rewarded with an awesome medal.  Not this time.  I was still living off the overwhelming uneasiness only fear can provide.


The next day, I would find myself in my obligatory Spartan Finisher's Shirt standing on the balcony of my room at the lodge, staring out over the mountain.  As I looked at the steep peaks that took so much out of me the day before, I was reminded of the multiple times in the past, a life challenge would suddenly nearly double in enormity and I would find myself hugging that proverbial tree on an icy mountain paralyzed with inactivity because things suddenly seemed so overwhelming.  However, I learned some things about hugging the actual tree on Saturday.  It's cold, it isn't any less icy and does not get me to the finish line any faster.  I realize now, the screams of fear along the way were really only my natural reflexes reminding me of a bad incident two years prior that is now a part of me just as much as the titanium screw in my hip.

I can honestly say, I have done five Spartan Races and each race has taught me something new.  This race reminds me that sometimes life is twice as hard as you plan it to be, with twists you do not count on and reactions you wish you didn't have.  However, through it all, the goal is to let go of the tree on the icy mountain, take on the slippery slope even if it means you might fall, or end up sliding down on your butt, because truly all trials come to an end and the satisfaction from overcoming the paralysis of inactivity will make it all worth doing.  My faithful sidekick racer, my son, and I have been talking a lot about repeating this particular race for a third time next year.  As the blister on my right heel heals, and the windburn on my cheeks goes away, my initial reaction of,"no, not again" may change as I just may have to challenge myself to take a page out the more experienced racers' book and become less frustrated with those parts of myself I cannot totally control, and enjoy the ride down.  Today, as I place the medal on the rack for a fifth time, I can honestly say, I believe the best is yet to come.

  

You're in the Jungle Baby

About 7 years ago, I was working as a nurse practitioner in a Level 1 Trauma Center in Charleston, West Virginia.  On the night shift, there was a young physician who would call for a pause in the provider area when she arrived.  We would gather around a tiny speaker as she ceremoniously would put her phone on a small speaker as we listened to,"Welcome to the Jungle" in its entirety prior to commencing our shift.  Somehow we needed to hear out loud,"do you know where you are?  You're in the jungle baby."  We would end the song mentally prepared for our night of high speed motor vehicle accidents, snake bites, local drug seekers and the occasional victim of the portable meth lab explosion.  The perfect song for the perfect circumstance. 

I guess that habit stuck as there are still times I find myself with this playing into my headphones as I walk from my car to the current emergency room in New York that I work in.  Meth is not really a local favorite in Albany, and the trauma center is down the street, but where I am now, the patients are sick.  The volume is high and the waiting room full.  At any given moment, to an outsider it would appear loud and chaotic.  There are monitors beeping, phones ringing, other equipment alarming and people racing around to try to manage it all.  I suppose any ER is its own jungle to a certain degree. 

I would suspect that after 7 years of practicing this type of medicine on the heels of practicing neurosurgery for 10 years, my senses have dulled a bit to the noise that seems to exist in my own head when it comes to dealing with the rest of life.  The commitments of my home life, running two companies, two clinical positions, kids, family, race training....  perhaps I truly did not leave the chopping down the deep brush with a machete to be able to see the jungle creatures coming at me only at work.  In fact, I was pretty sure I generally live in the jungle routinely.

This brings me to a simple question posed by a client recently.  She put up a post wanting to know simply what it was other clients were working on.  A simple question meant to garner support for our collective goals.  As I read through the posts, I saw physical challenges of running a mile, conquering a race, or committing to a number of minutes of cardio each week.  There were diet challenges for things like giving up fast food or increasing vegetable intake.  These were all commendable things.  My clients setting goals and moving forward.  However, I read through all of this, post 60 hour work week in the ER, and even though I was home, I could still hear the noise of the ER despite being in my own living room as brain tried to prioritize all of the things in my life that had been placed on the back burner as I was at work all those hours. 

It was then that I realized I had plenty of physical goals and a clear path to reach them complete with schedule.  What I didn't have was quiet.  How often did I take a little time to just be still?  Much as I love yoga, work and endurance training for my next race has taken that over to a degree as of late.  How about an evening of doing nothing?  Well, work commitments have put a damper on that as well.  No, I think I was way more in the jungle than I would have realized.  So, I took the leap and committed to one simple thing.  Silence.  Ten minutes a day I would be silent.  No music, no phone calls, texts or social media.  I would take to time to attend to the silence and see what happened.  Although this seems like a little thing, simple enough, the jungle way of thinking is such a part of me, it actually has become more of a challenge than running a Spartan Race.

Since making the commitment for silence, I have had to schedule it like my workouts.  Some days this exists in my commute to work, some days, like yesterday, it exists sitting at my desk at home watching the snow as it falls into the pine trees in my back yard.  Today, the snow is thick.  The flakes were huge and my poor pine tree now has branches dragging on the ground due to the weight of 10 inches of fresh snow.  Yet, it is quiet.  It makes no sound.  There are no roaring lions, howling monkeys swinging from tree to tree, or boa constrictors hanging off the branches, yet at the same time it is powerful enough to take down a 25 foot pine.  As the silence allows me to toss out needless noise from my life in ten minute increments I begin to realize, that all along I had been ignoring the final phrase of the iconic Guns 'N Roses song, yes, you're in the jungle baby....and you're gonna die.  Needless chaos and noise had overtaken the power of silence.  Concerns over things I had no control over, or wasting the energy on the disappointment of a less than perfect workout,  or worrying about one too many macros today.  I was missing out on all the great things, like, wait...I worked 62 hours and didn't miss a workout, or maybe my macros were not perfect... but three years ago I was 85 pounds heavier and the only thing I counted was how many snacks were left in the kitchenette by the big TV.  I had missed the celebrating the success by simply attending to the noise.

Now I am beginning to see that the silence is just as necessary as the badass heavy metal mental preparation that was my norm.  I am finding it provides a new sense of recentering required to take on the day.  Yes, I still exit my car at work, headphones on and play,,"Welcome to the Jungle" as that is the environment I am entering, and I am a creature of habit.  The difference now is the ability to enter the jungle more prepared due to the power of the silence that came before it, and learning to shut it off at times so as the song goes, I'm not... gonna die.   Instead, I believe it is time to treat the silence like I do my cardio....and up my goals and see what else I can discover.  I have a feeling it is like I always say, I will find the best is yet to come.