The inner spectator, discovered

As part of life's latest lessons in humility and self-discovery, this weekend had me resigned to sitting on the sidelines of the Madrid Marathon. My marathon. The one that wasn't meant to be.

I had hoped to camp out and break out the pompoms down around kilometer 32 ... the make or break point for the marathon newbies who, like me, risk throwing in the towel right about then without having a little extra moral support.

As life would have it, though, we instead ended up parked in the grass with the sun in our eyes and the marching band in our ears right at kilometer 39...perfectly placed to cheer on the runners that are apparently perceived to be the ones who no longer need cheering on..

Marcel and I were a superhuman cheering section of 2 amid a vast and empty pavement void of any spectators showing signs of life. We hooted, we hollered, we clapped...we tried to make up for the hundreds of fans that were suddenly MIA. And guess what? I actually enjoyed it.

That's right, me, the one who wouldn't be caught dead watching a sport if I can play it. I loved trying to figure out just the right thing to say to put a smile on a couple runners' face and take their minds of those last 3 uphill kilometers.

We screamed the names of the few that wore them on their shirts.

We whooped and hollered at all 20 of the iconic women who ran (conscientiously or not) as models of female perseverance and strength in a clearly male-dominated (Spanish) domain.

We kindly reminded them they could rest tomorrow, but that now was not the time.

We sharpened their minds to the cool beer waiting for them at the finish, and that a little bodily pain is all part of the fun and the game.

We screamed at them not to worry, it was "just your body, nothing a little pain killer can't fix."

We told them they had it, that the end was but two steps away.

We yelled for them to stop looking at their watches, that their times were great, that they were almost there.

We called them campeones.

For their part, well, they grunted, they smiled, they nodded, they barked in reply.

They said thanks.

In the end, though, I'm pretty sure that I'm the one that should be saying thanks--for helping me to discover my inner spectator. Who knew being a cheerleader could be so much fun?? I may just have to consider a career change and drop the whole running thing altogether.

I can almost see it now, headlining in a small town paper near you: "Wanna Be Runner-turned-Wanna Be Cheerleader becomes Marathon World's Most Coveted Race Volunteer." No? Ah, well, it was worth a shot. Perhaps as a retirement back-up; it was a heck of a lot'o'fun.

PS Does it take a magnifying glass to figure out why this picture pretty much figures among my top 3 personal absolute fav race pictures??

All in, all done

There comes a time in every woman's life when you just gotta throw yer hands up in the air and say, "that's it, you win." And, considering that it's now T minus 4 til the big race, that time would be, well, right about now.

On a stubbornness scale of 1 to 10, I'd likely fall at about 20.

Did I stop running when things weren't feeling so hot? No, I popped a few pills (so not my style!) and kept on.... twenty odd K on.

Did I stick with the crutches for the prescribed 2 weeks? No, I threw 'em out the window after one (ok, so I still don't regret that decision).

Did I seriously consider having to withdraw from Madrid? No. I might'a gone a heck of a lot slower, but I figured I'd finish.

Did I ever imagine a VOLCANO might erupt and paralyze air traffic all across Europe? Not in a million years. Insert raised arms here.

THIS is about the time when you just gotta say, ok, I got it, it's comin' through loud and clear. Madrid Marathon 2010, you were just not meant to be.

Am I bummed? Yeah. But after nearly a month of playing sloth in "repos complet" mode, I can't say I'm entirely disappointed--I wouldn't have run well.

So instead, my friends, bring on the calamares, the embutidos, the croquetas, the beer and let the good times roll... maybe it'll drown out the pain of all this physio (therapy).

Meet Peroneous Brevis

They say that the the greatest challenge of the marathon is not finishing the race but making it to the starting line uninjured and rested.

In 2006, I tossed my Paris marathon registration under a debilitating cough I couldn't shake--never made it to the starting line.

In 2008, I threw in the towel at kilometer 33 of the Madrid marathon having been stupid enough to go into it entirely untrained.

In 2010, I am going into the Madrid marathon yet again, but this time with hundreds of solid miles under the belt, new half marathon PRs, a dedicated fan club, a bitter resolve to 'finish what I started' ... and a peroneus brevis strain six weeks before the big game.

One swollen-foot-the-size-of-a-plump-papaya, six x-rays, four nurses and three hours in the waiting room later, I am now staring down 60 painkiller/anti-inflammatory pills and two weeks worth of ridiculously awkward crutches while chanting loudly "I think I can", "I think I can", "I think I can" ... still finish the marathon, that is.

The all-important twenty(plus)-milers planned for this weekend and next are clearly a bit, um, out of the picture for the moment, but good ol' Running Planet is providing the all important glimmer of hope that perhaps all is not lost. Yet.

So, Mr. Peroneous. The next two weeks are dedicated fully to you.

Two weeks of sitting on my bum, two weeks of blogging, catching up on heaps of emails, scrapbooks and studying ... interchanged with two weeks of (re)discovering what an absolute klutz I am on crutches, how (in)accessible Europe is for the physically challenged and how very, very much we take our general spryness for granted.

Just please let me have my (active) life back after?

Man in the Moon

Put me in a dark cave for a month, and I can tell you with 99.9999% accuracy when it's a full moon.

We lovely ladies of 600 N. State always got a chuckle over the proven fact that the crazies came out at WallyMart on full moon nights, but I kid you not--the Man in the Moon has a physiological effect on me. (And no, I am not one of the WallyMart full moon crazies.)

Every month, right on schedule, the Man in the Moon generously endows me with the most vivid, lucid, all-out bizarre dreams...and very little restful sleep.

Last night it was all about running. I had a big race, but suddenly couldn't find my shoes. Enter hyperventilating anxiety attack. Then I found them ... in the tidal beds by an island. With big waves and the tide coming in fast.

Mom and our old dog were with me as I frantically pulled them out of the water, only to find that they had already become home to all kinds of sea creatures: barnacles, urchins, mussels, sea snails ....

I pulled and scratched, but I couldn't get those suckers out (it would help if I could ever stop biting my nails, of course). Then Lucky ripped my shoe out of my hand ... and started eating it. I gave up. It was a loss. No shoes, no race, no way to run. 'Til he kindly regurgitated my shoe ... with all sea creatures removed.

Never mind the rest; I don't remember it now anyhow, but I'll be darned if I didn't wake up a full hour before my (real) 6AM alarm so anxious to run now that I had my shoes (!) that I actually DID get out of bed. And run. At 5:30AM. In the dark. (Crazy? Who said crazy?)

T.G.F.M.W.I.O. (Thank goodness full moon week is over). I need some sleep.

Competitive edge

You know how it goes. You hit the gym at the same time every day, and you are always amid the same familiar (though nameless) gym buddies. Though a word is rarely ever spoken between you, you know their gym routine, the colors of each of their five workout outfits, what TV channel they watch ... and whether or not they 'remember' to disinfect the machine behind them.

Take, for example, Miss Elliptical. She's ridiculously pretty, seemingly super friendly, dedicated to her gym routines and always perfectly put together. (Yes, I'm slightly jealous). Miss Elliptical does the elliptical, stair stepper and weight machines. Miss Elliptical does not use the treadmill.

So imagine my surprise today when I walk in and find her sprinting away on the one next to mine. Miss Elliptical on the treadmill? You have got to be kidding.

I've learned to keep my competitive edge in check these days, mostly because I can generally laugh in the face of the speedsters who race all out and are spent after the first 10 minutes. But Miss Elliptical didn't quit after 10 minutes, she kept sprinting away.

I tried to pretend that I didn't care. Never mind that I painfully forgot my ipod and had nothing better to do for 5 endlessly boring miles than try to sneak inconspicuous peeks at her odometer. I was cool, I was carefree, I was minding my own. Or not. All I could think about was how cute Miss Elliptical was kicking my butt.

Fast forward an hour, and I suddenly look up from my locker to hear Miss Elliptical asking if I speak English. Great, I'm thinking, she's not only just kicked my butt, now she's surely going to give me pointers on how to sweat less and smell like roses.

Miss Elliptical: "I was just wondering, do you run marathons or something? I was hoping you might be able to give me some pointers. I'm not a runner at all, but I have a bet with my family to finish my first half marathon, and I don't have a clue what I'm doing ..."

I almost burst out laughing. Me give the woman pointers? And all this time I thought she was the pro. (Come to find out, the front desk had helpfully suggested that "the best way to train is to run as fast as you can for as long as you can".) Talk about competitive edge.

Following a big slice of humble pie, Miss Elliptical and I are now on a whole new level of gym buddies now--we exchanged names.

Numb (nuts?)

Today was one of those glorious Sunday mornings where you wake up, warm sun with the promise of Spring shining brightly in your eyes and you think ... "Holy crap. Either I've been hit by a truck, or I've suddenly aged 50 years".

The new weight machine at the gym on Friday has rendered all upper body movement excruciatingly painful, the one pathetic tumble on the powdery slopes is begging to be remembered in the form of a painful butt bruise.

The rest of the day's snowboarding has led to the new-found lower back muscles and quads, and some kind of awkward sleeping position has made it next to impossible to make any quick turns of the head, let alone turn to face anything happening over there yonder on the left side of the world.

Add to that newly found obliques carved out after more than two full weeks of whooping cough-like hacking and, well, I woke up feeling like a star.

And yet, that little (addict's?) voice in the back of my head just wouldn't shut up. You know, the one that says, "I don't care how the heck you feel, get your sorry little hiney out of bed and RUN."

And I did. I may be nuts, but I did... fully expecting to turn around after the first 15 minutes.

But somewhere between my door and the road, all the aches and pains disappeared; the coughing stopped, the lungs cleared out. Just me, rocking out to my own little world of music, with the sun in face and the wind in my hair. For 20-odd kilometers, nothing, not a care in the world, not a single hacking cough.

Two seconds back in the door, and the 'numbness' wore off, the hacking began, the snowboard muscles rebelled, the bruises throbbed and, once again, I feel like an arthritic woman who's been hit by a truck. I don't know where that little burst of numb nuts came from, but I'm spending the rest of the day curled up in bed where the only movement required is a calculated reach for the Vicks.

Dear runner

Dear runner in the red shirt, black hat and yellow Asics:

You don't know me, but you made my day today. I've been, well, let's say slacking "slightly" in the running department as of late, but my new-found flab and the infamous Geneva winds finally got me out the door today. Notice I say "out the door" and not "out on a stellar run".

Fifteen minutes on the go and four ridiculously overplayed songs later, I was ready to call it quits. Half hour later, I was sweating buckets, turning purple as a prune and heaving like ... well, I don't even know a metaphor that compares.

But then I found you.

Calm, cool, collected and clearly no amateur, you reminded me of the lessons running once taught me - before I seem to have gone into running hibernation and forgotten them all.

You reminded me that life (and runs) are journeys to be savoured - not sped through. You reminded me that your own rythym is the only one that ever really matters. As I counted the beat of your steps and mine, you reminded me that all we really have to do is put one foot in front of the other. As we hit the one hour mark, you reminded me that running - like life - is 95% psychological, 5% physical. You reminded me of the power of running.

Maybe you knew I was behind you, and knew the favour you were doing me by serving as my pacer as I silently marked my pace in perfect synchronization with yours just 15 feet behind. Maybe,you were lost in your own runner's world where all of the day's problems are solved and never even noticed I was there.

Either way, dear runner, thanks. I'll be thinking of you ... most likely when I discover muscles I never knew I had and am repeating to myself "one foot in front of the other" as I attempt to climb the stairs tomorrow...

Hitting The Psychological Wall

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I keep saying that I'm going to run a full marathon ... all 42-point something kilometers, all 26-point something miles ... and I never do it. The year that I was actually trained for it, I got sick. The year I wasn't trained but felt like running I quit at 27 kilometers - and wanted to curl up and die. This year, despite grand intentions, I didn't finish either. I hit The Wall.

I really wanted to run the Madrid marathon for two reasons: A) the city has a personal sentiment ... it's the city where I first started "really" running and thus seemed fitting for a first marathon finish and B) I wanted to finish my first marathon with a friend who had become my "personal trainer" while I was living in Barcelona but who, as it happens, doesn't have papers to legally live in Europe and thus can't travel outside of Spain for (even greater) risk of being caught. Thus, Madrid it was.

Then, Geneva happened. Cheese and chocolate in abundance, a sedentary desk job and not exaclty the warmest, sunniest climate to train in, my training plan failed miserabley. And then, when I did manage to talk myself into running in the dark cold, I tripped over my own two feet, resulting in an ankle the size of a grapefruit and rendering me useless for much self-transportation that required my feet. Murphy's law, when it was just about healed up 'real good, "oops I did it again" and was back in the ankle-the-size-of-grapefruit gimpy club.

Needless to say, come marathon time, I had ZERO expectations of getting to the finish line. In fact, even half was semi dreaming. Add in the sun and heat factors that I'm no longer accostomed to and that my running buddy was down for the count with injuries of his own, and expectations were low. Again, keeping in mind that I'm back in Madrid with beer, wine, tapas, friends and fiestas galore, it's no suprise that I tossed all caution to the wind the night before the race ... after all, I wasn't in shape anyhow.

Here we should pause for an honoring of my roof-over-my-head hosts, personal marathon cheerleaders and photographers, Sylvie, Hector and Dani. And honored also for their bravery in attempting the day-before marathoners pasta party ... they nearly did better than I in getting the pasta paste down. Spaghetti may be difficult to screw up, but these chefs certainly succeeded. THE most disgusting pasta you can imagine ... though Hector took a liking to it for sentimental reasons, saying it reminded him of elementary school lunches. Mmmm. Did I mention our forks stood straight up in it?

Anyhow, back to the race. Quick summary:

1) Almost missed the start waiting in the dang bathroom lines. Again, some things never change.

2) Get to 11km where Sylvie and Hector are cheering and photographing from atop the concrete barriers. We're in the ugly part of town and I'm ready to keel over. I tell them I'll be done shortly.

3) Reach the 15km mark, passing through Sol, the center of Madrid, which was JAM packed with manaiacally screeming fans, bands and clapping hands ... suddenly feel inspired, if not to say emotional, and begin imagining myself unexpectedly eating up the 42+km

4) Totally zoned in at the 20km mark, don't even see/hear my personal fans screaming at me (my deaf obliviousness is documented on video), Hector jumps over the spectators and runs several meters with me before blending back into the fans

5) Fly by 22km - the half marathon point - in grand form and hardly even noticing. Time: 2:14. Not bad for not being anything close to in shape.

6) Kilometers 24 - 29 psychological hell. Half the runners quit at the half marathon point, those of us who are left are entirely spread out, many start to walk and due to the fact that we were now traversing a difficultly-accessed natural park, ZERO fans cheering us on. My feet are numb.

7) Kilometer 29. I claim to be bored. Physically I'm doing quite well (thank you Red Cross roller bladers for the consistent muscles sprays throughout the race), though I am now quite grouchy about the fact that the race organizer's "earth friendly recycling plan" has cut out any food/fruit distribution during the race, as well as drink lids that would otherwise allow you to carry your bottle with you. Send SMS to my fan club who was waiting eagerly at km 33 - I'm psychologically beat. I quit.

8. Head to the finish line by metro, sneak into runners area to claim "free" food. Low and behold, it's the first race I've ever seen that offers beer boths rather than PowerAid. Paramedic mayheim, collapsing runners found in all parts, being run around on stretchers, ambulances running over separation gates.

9) Go for FOOD. Contemplate the surely pending days of utter stiffness. Wonder in curious realization that marathons really are 90% psychological and a 30km in 3 hours untrained personal best!

10) Find out that the "psychological hell stretch" is notoriously known for being the most difficult section of the Madrid marathon because of the sense of isolation. Discover that the 30km mark in any marathon is lovingly known as "The Wall" for being the psychologically most difficult point ... if you can get past 30km you're good to go.

Next time, I'll be bringing my wall climbing shoes.

Running with a twist - meet the Hash House Harriers

(HHH Shield, complete with bottle opener, eating eagle runner and the "So What" mantra)

As many well know, I have gathered a great affinity for running in the last couple of years and thought that perhaps joining up with a Geneva running club would be a brilliant idea for combining the sports passion with a similar minded social group. Per recommendations from random people meetings in Tokyo this past summer, I thus sought out the Geneva based Hash House Harriers club ... with the promise of many a good laugh along the running trails.

And indeed, many a good laugh there have been ... I know not where to begin. Let's see, first of all, everyone goes by nick-names such as Frog Chopper, Hover Crap, Cats & Dogs, Sexposure, Tightass, Sputnik or Forest Dump, just to name a few ... the rookies are Virgin 1, Virgin 2 etc, until appropriate names can be determined. Club officers? Forget such drab and boring positions such as President and Treasurer, the Hash House Harriers are kept in line by a Beermeister, Grand Mattress, Hash Habber Dabber, Songmeister, Hash Cash, Geek and Trail Master. Ahhh ha. Geneva now requires not only a pocket atlas for identifying "weird" countries of origin of your collegues, a dictionary of the billion-and-one organization acryonyms, but ALSO an guide to understanding Hash House Harrier lingo.

Following group "stretching" (a phenomenon that must look something like the hokey-pokey performed by drunkards) sung to the song "Father Abraham had many sons", a debriefing is offered on the signs of the evening. You see, the Hashing is more than just running ... it's entails running getting lost, finding your way and getting lost once again as you attempt to decifer the codified course along forest trails throughout the greater Geneva area, which the "Hare" has marked with a series of different chalk and/or flour symbols that can lead to false trails, turn arounds, group meet-up points, etc. Essentially it's a fast-paced orienteering ... in the dark and in the FREAKING cold of what they tell me is Fall, but really feels much more like an Artic Winter.

Of course, the Beermeister officer is not there for nothing ... one of the symbols along the trail is the coveted "BS", shorthand for Beer Stop, where a car miraculously appears with ice chests full of beer and other munchy nummies. "Shots" of beer are poured - and chugged - by anyone who happens to look the wrong direction ... and more songs are sung, including "Why were they born so beautiful?" or the "Wild Rover". Did I mention there is actually a song book? Ah yes, that would be the responsability of the Songmeister ... running/orienteering club-cum-choir. When the BS has been closed with the appropriate songs, a short trotting brings the entire club of slightly off their (our??) rocker expats to the "On-on", ie designated dinner location of the evening.

As I apparently have yet to do/say something stupid enough pass through the coming of age rites, I remain "Virgin 1" and come home laughing to myself as I wonder how in the world I have ended up in the crazy mix of 90% British expat beer and sport lovers ... nearly all of whom are about 40 years my elder. (Indeed, we celebrated Cats & Dogs' 66th birthday last night) Crazy comes as crazy goes, I suppose ... I've yet to come upon a more entertaining crowd!

If you're bored and looking for a good chuckle or two, check out their website ... it will explain the whole Hashers phenomenon far better than I've been able to; I'll be waiting to see who starts a new club in their corner of the world :-)

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