I Guess I Shouldn’t Be Surprised: Marion Jones Joins the Heartbreaker Club

I hate this shit.

I just want to get it out there.   I really do.

I hate sticking my neck out every day and trying to convince people that competitive sports provide this amazing opportunity and outlet.  I hate the little Pollyanna optimist in my gut that keeps getting kicked in the teeth every time another athlete gets nailed or finally admits to doping.

Dogs Really Can Smile: A Running Moment

I’d never noticed the house before.

Small house. West side of 37th street.

I might never have noticed it, but I was flying down the street at full speed having just escaped my house for a much-needed nighttime run. I was flying down my street and the pavement was wet and shiny underneath shoes that probably need replacing.

I noticed the house because of the dog.

Gear Friday: Socks That Will Change Your Life

Welcome to the first-ever edition of Gear Friday – my weekly dish on all the gadgets, gizmos, and gear that are currently rocking my world (and should be rocking yours, too).

In 2003, I played just over 100 softball games. I was on 5 league teams and a tournament team that played 1-2 times per month. It was heaven. It was the best softball year in history. It was amazing.

But about halfway into the season, the arch of my left foot started to ache. I went to a podiatrist who told me I had plantar-fascitis. He injected cortisone into the ball of my foot (OUCH!), ordered me some orthotics and then told me I’d likely have to just play through some pain.

My Hangup With the Word “Fitness”

I’m an athlete. I play sports. I compete.

First and foremost, that’s how I define myself. That’s where I find value in physical activity. My heart believes that it (the activity) should serve a purpose as a means to end toward a greater goal.

For years I considered myself a purist in this respect. I scoffed at the idea of a gym. I scoffed at the idea of diets and nutrition and exercise tapes and dumbbells and workout “aids”. I actually scoffed at the very idea of a “workout” insofar as I defined it as an isolated set of activities designed only for the purpose of achieving a certain level of fitness driven solely by vanity.

Not for me, I thought. I’m an athlete.

Sure. Sure you are.

Slippery Slope.

When I start to get really stressed out I often have the uncontrollable urge to retreat. Shut and lock the door. Erect social walls. Stop taking phone calls. Cease with all the endless emailing.

I stay in the bathtub longer than I should reading the New Yorker, ZoeTropes All-Story, The Sun Magazine, The Tin House and Bicycling magazine. National Geographic even. Anything to feed the mind while the body takes a vacation, submerged in warm, bubbly comfort.

I know I can’t live my life from the bathtub – even with this newfound freelancey-freedom that I have recently come across. The quieter I get, the more my emotions start to congeal. The more they congeal, the murkier and messier they get. I’m a person who can go really deep – I wade into the murky depths and it can be a valuable exercise. I frequently write from that place and most of my best material comes from those excursions. But I have to be careful not to stay very long because it can be heavy and hard and dark and the further I go, the harder it is to get back out.

With all the hard emotional bullshit that his happening for me right now, I’ve found it really hard to get myself to boot camp these past three days. During these times I absolutely rely on the presence of accountability to get me through. Quite honestly, the only thing that has gotten me there has been the idea that people are waiting for me – that people might miss me if I didn’t turn up.

Seven Minutes.

Boot Camp ended this week and I wanted to run my timed mile in under 7 minutes. That was my goal. I got a chest cold on Thursday morning, the day before the run, but I figured I could still pull it off. I also wanted 60 pushups in the push-up test. I did 40 on the intake test and ran a 7:39 mile in 18 degree weather.

I figured these were challenging but still reasonable goals for improvement. I worked my ass off in camp, posted a perfect attendance record, and ate reasonably well. I wanted to see the results.

By the time I hit Friday morning I had already worked about 55 hours that week. My immune system was beleaguered from the stress and long hours. I woke up at 4:30am and put on all my favorite cold-weather running clothes: sugoi tights, high-school running bra (still my favorite), wife beater, long-sleeve, loose-fitting running shirt, pearlizumi headband. I threw Sam’s North Face flight-series anorak over the top for good luck and added stripey, stretch gloves for hand warmth. Downstairs I found my water bottle, apple and ipod mini just where I’d set them out. The mini was already set to play Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” at full blast on repeat.

I was nervous [but on the surface I looked calm and ready].

I was quiet and focused during warm-up until the start of the run. I kept reminding myself to cut slack, take off some of the pressure. “This is what you do.” I told myself. “This is what you’re good at. Relax.”

Euphoria

Dear Boot Camp Diary,

I spent about 75 seconds On Tuesday in a full gymnastic bridge, with my forehead on the ground, back arched, hips high, feet flat on the ground. I have been working into the position slowly. The world was throbbing and bright when I righted myself. Pulsing and vibrant.

Heroin! Crack! What is this drug?! Acid.

Everything so pretty, every cell so alive, head reeling. Can this be the same world I was in 90 seconds ago? Impossible!

Daniel chimed in and explained that those of us who’d been in a full bridge (as opposed to partial) might be feeling kind of funny.

Funny?

I am high. I am so happy! What is the meaning of this?!

What a Morning

I forgot.

I had forgotten how much I love running hills. I mean – I love running hills. Steep, long, whatever. Give them to me. I love them.

We ran a couple today in Boot Camp and my body perked up and said, “Hey. We know what this is…”

In San Francisco I used to run hill intervals up in Potrero until I yakked in the jasmine bushes at the top of Rhode Island Street. That’s when I knew I was done – screw heart rate monitors. That hill had a grade that would make you weep just looking at it. I would start on 18th avenue and shoot up to 21st. By the top I was in full distress, literally gasping for air, muscles failing.

It’s a way to push yourself to that edge without too many implications if you have to accidentally teeter straight over it. On longer runs I’m always conservative. Bonking means being stranded somewhere and being stranded sucks. On hills you can always tip over and pass out on the sidewalk and someone will find you eventually. Probably.

The hill presents a real, certifiable, challenge that you can point at and name. No matter how slow you go up it (especially on Rhode Island Street in San Francisco) you are going to hurt. It’s a guarantee. Put me on a track and tell me to go fast and, well, besides being bored out of my freaking mind, I will be able to cheat. You have to really concentrate on making a quarter interval hurt – and that’s a good kind of conditioning too – but I prefer the outright, in-your-face, undeniable guarantee of pain. No cheating. The grade will keep you honest.

Rain Run

It continues to rain.

I may eat my words later (and I promise to own it when I do) but I love this weather. Riding home in the rain is fucking religious. Little drops accumulating on my face, the dark, cloudy night sky above me. My michelin tires spraying through puddles that I have purposefully ridden into. On Wednesday morning I wasn’t feeling well and Sam said to me, “You should take the car to work.”

“Are you insane?” I said. “This ride is my favorite part of every day!”

It was overcast and pouring. An angry, wet, cold November day. I pulled on my ridiculous knee-high wool socks and put booties over the top. Then I rode to work… smiling.

Later that afternoon the rain battered my office window fantastically. It was 4:00pm and I was planning to run around 5:30 or 6:00. The downpour was torrential. Rain in sheets. Huge, huge, amazing, pounding rain. I put on running knickers and a technical long-sleeve shirt and headed out early. Screw waiting for the weekday to end. You couldn’t pay me to miss this storm.

The cold air outside felt good in my lungs and I set my nano to shuffle-all and started running. There was only one way to get warm – run.

Fast.

So I flew. I lengthened my stride and let my smile carry me through the deluge. As I merged onto the Esplanade path two men were running slightly behind me. I determined not to get caught and bounded off toward the bridge, detouring at every opportunity to veer my route directly through a mud puddle. All of the detours meant I had to run even faster to keep the chase group at bay.

On the Hawthorne Bridge I opened my eyes to so many glowing lights. The city was bunkered down under the driving rain, the streetlights shone defiantly.

Omygod, I thought. This is who I am. I am this crazy girl who loves to run in the rain. Right in this moment – I am most me.

Like standing in center field during a close game in the bottom of the 7th.

I was soaked through and flying. When the downpour let up just a little bit I started running through bushes and jumping up to tug on branches so that I would continue to get wet. I wanted water all over me. I wanted to be soaked to the bone.

I kept running and got my wish. The chase group never caught me .

Back on the west side of the river I veered off into the grass and took a diagonal line back to my office.

I felt new.

I am my father’s daughter. There’s no rain yet today but I’m holding out hope. Maybe it’s because there is a large slice of me that is wickedly anti-social. When the rain drives the pansies indoors, more of the world is mine. I have more room to stretch and run. When the water pounds down onto the streets and rivers it drowns out the sound of so much mindless, social din.

Sam says, “Will this rain ever stop?”
“Not until March.”

I don’t even try to hide my elation.

*

Therapy. Cubed.

Last night I left work at 5:30pm and ran the Esplanade. I ran fast. As fast as I could.

And it felt good.

I haven’t run in a while and I have no idea why. I expected to be slow, bogged down, pathetic, in pain. But I cranked “Lose Yourself” and found myself in flight. How I love my body in motion in running tights and a wife beater with my shmancy – technical – long – sleeved – wicking – fabric – everything – you – ever – wanted – in – a – running – shirt – shirt tied haphazardly around my waste. I don’t need that technical fabric! What are these long sleeves!?

Jockey wife beaters (in three packs!) may very well be the solution to all of life’s problems. Only time will tell.

I ran back to the office, changed into soft and stretchy yoga pants and cruised up into the Northwest for an hours worth of breathing and stretching and sweating like a madwoman. The sweat literally POURS off my body as I’m doing yoga. I have to put down a full-sized towel to prevent me from slipping off the mat. I have no idea what would happen if I actually tried the “hot” version. I fear permanent liquification.

Wouldn’t that suck?

“Wow, what finally did that crazy bitch in?”
“It was the yoga. She just dissolved and that was that.”