Almost March = Almost Spring

I suffer annually from February blahs. Blah health, blah weather, blah motivation, blah runs. The good news: March arrives in two day's time.

My Saturday morning run was canceled this week because temps were "low" (still an Illinoisan at heart, 20 degrees does not a low temperature make) so I succumbed to a lazy day of sipping chai, playing cards, eating macaroni and cheese and then lying in bed wide awake until 1:30 a.m. while the caffeine from the chai I drank at 11 a.m. continued to course through my veins.

When my alarm clock went off at 6:15 this morning I found myself ill prepared for the 14 mile run I resigned myself to the evening before. And this week's run was to be just 12, but I missed a training run on Thursday when I finally took a long overdue sick day to try to kick a stubborn head cold I've had for a couple weeks. Incrementally this week, I want to make up the 9-10 miles I missed that day. So I made up two today. But it involved me running up and down the Springwater Corridor Trail two times. Turns out covering the same ground four times in one run is a little boring, even when on the otherwise beautiful stretch of the Willamette.

And I realized this afternoon, while I lazed in bed finishing Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge, I've lost some focus recently. My internal dialogue while training has really turned into "How fast am I or am I not running," and "How realistic is finishing in under four hours," and "I'm moving TOO SLOW! Move faster, Kristina! Why am I so fucking slow?" Running against the wind this morning, miles 7-10, I felt particularly discouraged. The wind was fierce, so I tried to not be too irritated by my 10 minute pace. Until I got lapped by a pair of runners who were both older and fatter than me. And my first thought was, "I will never finish in under four unless I can move like that against a headwind."

When did this turn into a personal quest for physical achievement and glory? Not that there is fault in wanting a good time, but I don't remember thinking about TNT's mission or my own family's recent experience with blood cancer a single time on my run this morning. That's why I am running this marathon on May 1st. Not because I have something to prove to anyone, or even to myself, but because I believe that there is the capacity for a cure in the minds and laboratories of this world, and funding for research is the key to unlocking that cure.

I determined this afternoon to refocus my attentions. When I find myself dwelling on feeling slow I can divert my attention to being thankful for my health. Regardless of how long it takes me, I am capable of running 26.2 miles.

What I've learned about running from an athletic standpoint recently is this: some people are slowed down by injury, some by boredom, some by physical limitations. I am a person slowed down by my mind. Maybe some truth exists in the myriad times I've been told I think too much. I get stuck in my own head and I begin to feel like I'm running through ankle-deep mud. The way I feel in dreams when trying to escape disaster. In my dreams I have developed the ability to rationalize with myself. "There is no mud, you're just letting your head get the better of you. Pick up your feet. Move faster. You'll be safe." I hope that skill is transferable to my waking life.

I also find myself incredulous that slowing down my pace on a long run to 10+ minutes will translate to 8:47 miles in a marathon. So then I add incredulity to the feelings of inadequacy and finish a 14 miler in almost 3 hours. Ouch.

But March is a new month. And the Shamrock happens on the 13th. And spring arrives on the 21st. And the daffodils are already blooming. And the temperatures will eventually rise and the wind will eventually die down. I'll refocus.

I find it interesting that I picked up Refuge when I did. My first introduction to Terry Tempest Williams was through Ken Burn's National Parks series. She is one of the interviewees throughout that documentary series and I found myself drawn to her. So I googled her. She's an author. A nature writer. I missed my calling in life, clearly. On break from jury duty a few weeks back I picked up Refuge at Powells. Nothing recommended that book to me more than any other by her, it just had the lowest price tag, so I snagged it. It chronicles the rise of Great Salt Lake between 1985 and 1989 and the ensuing devastation to critical wetland and marsh habitat for millions of migratory birds alongside her mother's fight with cancer and subsequent death. The parallels drawn between her devastation at witnessing the ravaged habitat for some of her favorite birds and that of watching her mother die a horrible and painful death left me crying and hugging an annoyed Sunny for comfort.

Snowy Egrets - lake level 4204.05'

"Cancer. The word has infinite power. It kills us with its name first, because we have allowed it to become synonymous with death.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines cancer as 'anything that frets, corrodes, corrupts or consumes slowly and secretly.'

A person who is told she has cancer faces a hideous recognition that something monstrous is happening within her own body.

Cancer becomes a disease of shame, one that encourages secrets and lies, to protect as well as to conceal.

And then suddenly, within the rooms of secrecy, patient, doctor and family find themselves engaged in war. Once again, medical language is loaded, this time with military metaphors: the fight, the battle, enemy infiltration and defense strategies. I wonder if this kind of aggression waged against our own bodies is counterproductive to healing? Can we be at war with ourselves and still find peace?

How can we rethink cancer?

It begins slowly and is largely hidden. One cell divides into two; two cells divide into four; four cells divide into sixteen . . . normal cells are consumed by abnormal ones. Over time they congeal, consolidate, make themselves known. Call it a mass, call it a tumor. It surfaces and demands our attention. We can surgically remove it. We can shrink it with radiation. We can poison it with drugs. Whatever we choose though, we view the tumor as foreign, something outside ourselves. It is however, our own creation. The creation we fear.

The cancer process is not unlike the creative process. Ideas emerge slowly, quietly, invisibly at first. They are most often abnormal thoughts, thoughts that disrupt the quotidian, the accustomed. They divide and multiply, become invasive. With time, they congeal, consolidate and make themselves conscious. An idea surfaces and demands total attention. I take it from my body and give it away."

She records all this while visiting the refuge and is so excited by the metaphor that she rushes home to share it with her mother, certain the symbolic relevance will be enough to guide her to curing herself. She feels betrayed when it fails to work.

I wish Uncle Jeff could've reached inside himself and grabbed hold of his cancer like a bad idea, tossing it aside. I'm glad I didn't think of this - it sounds like something I would've pinned a lot of hope on. I just have to remind myself that he had so many years added onto his life because of how far cancer research did come during his lifetime. Twenty years! Really, that is a success story. Not that I expect my aunt and cousins to look at it as such, but I know they too are grateful he lived as long as he did.

Two short months from now, I will be running the Eugene Marathon in his honor. Yikes.

Peril on the SWCT

I have neglected this blog for too long! Funny how once the fundraising part was accomplished I no longer felt the need to document my progress . . . But, YAY FOR ME! To date I have raised $1,695, or 116% of my established fundraising goal! (Ahem, not to say I would turn away any above and beyond donations.)

Team in Training has truly been everything I hoped it would be and more. I increasingly feel like part of a community, running with my teammates on Tuesdays and Saturdays since mid-December in all kinds of inclement weather. I am definitely the weakest link in my advanced group, but I actually prefer it that way. There's nobody to slow me down, only people to push me harder. Perfect. I continue to gain speed and strength and up my miles. A couple weeks ago I set a new personal record - the first time I kept a sub 8:40 mile for more than three miles. And I maintained it for 10. HUGE accomplishment for me. My goal of finishing in under 4 hours (yeah, I said it) seems more attainable each week.

A big, huge, hearty thanks to all who have donated to this amazing cause. I think about Uncle Jeff every time I run. Increasingly these are happy thoughts. My uncle wasn't a runner, but he was a very active guy and I think he would be pleased that I chose this way to honor him. I know he can't appreciate the gesture and I'm realizing increasingly that this whole process has been for me, to help me find closure and some sense of peace in the face of loss, but I also hope that my Aunt Linda and cousins Aleksandr and Anika sense how much I love them and wish to honor them and support them through their grief in this way.

I feel a few shout outs are in order. Some folks have really gone above and beyond to help me through this process.

1. My mom, Willis (Okay, that's not her real name, but go with it. I've called her that for years.) She is my cheerleader. My life coach, if you will. She listens to my effusions about running bliss patiently and even chimes in enthusiastically from time to time. She worries and praises in perfect proportions. This is a gift that only mothers possess.

2. My sister Bekah. She is the wall against which I bounce all my boring stats. She gets a full report on every mile I run and where, my splits, my aches and pains, my milestones. She also keeps me honest on my cross-training days and regularly fills me up with desserts and other indulgences when I trek down to Sellwood to do a run or watch a game or laugh through a workout video in her basement.

3. Eric, my good friend and Nike employee who shared with me a companion pass and drove me out to the Nike campus on a weekend to stock up on all kinds of fancy schwag for the road. I came away with probably $500 worth of gear for less than half the cost and am now running much more comfortably and stylishly. Nike drifit = amazing.

I look something like this in my new 'fits:

Okay, okay. I exaggerate. But suffice it to say, I am now dressed for success on the road.

4. Coach Mike. He is a loud mouth and a little crazy but an awesome source of support in this process. When I sheepishly shared my goal of finishing Eugene in under four at the third Saturday team run he didn't laugh. He looked me straight in the face and said, "You can do it. And now that I know you want it, I'm going to push you a LOT harder." He's kept up his end of the bargain and since this process started, with his help, I have shaved almost 2 minutes off my mile.

Moving on. Because there is a title to this post that I haven't even addressed yet. One thing I love about running is how relatively simple it is. You can run practically any where, at anytime, in any conditions. Right? So thought I when I started. I tended to push my weekday runs off into the evenings which is kind of a pain in the ass but not quite the pain of waking up at the crack of Christ and subjecting oneself to the cold, wet, harsh realities of Portland in the winter. My go to place has become the Springwater Corridor Trail that runs along the east bank of the river from about the Hawthorne Bridge down into Sellwood and all the way to the SE burbs and beyond. In all I think this trail goes for over 40 continuous miles. Paved the whole way. And while it doesn't pose the challenge that the Mt Tabor run does, or really any other non-river run in Portland would, it involves a lot less waiting around at lights (none, in fact) and virtually no paranoia as to the state of the running surface (sidewalks in my otherwise very nice neighborhood are totally treacherous!). But the paranoia has seeped into other aspects, thanks to my two day stint on a criminal jury last week. (Cue horror movie music)



In a nutshell, shit went down like so [with fun little embellishments in brackets]:

[Almost 40 year old, shaved head and goatee sporting, denim shirt tucked into blue jeans at his trial wearing] Guy gets in a fight with his mom [With whom he lives. At almost 40]. He leaves her house somewhere between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. [Really, PPD? You can't narrow this down for us any more?], heading down the Springwater Corridor trail to a [former convicted felon for armed robbery] buddy's place. Seeing as he and this buddy are planning a hunting trip in the morning, he carries with him a rifle case filled with: a rifle, rifle shells, a 9mm pistol, full clip, extra ammo and a large knife.

Just shy of the intersection at 122nd he sits down [in the pitch black] on the side of the trail and begins texting with his mother. Down this same section of trail comes two [homeless, methamphetamine addicted] men on bikes [without lights]. They live in a camp on the side of the trail about a mile or two away and are on their way "home" [after a night of debauchery and video poker but no drugs, allegedly]. They nearly hit guy #1 who is sitting on the edge of the trail. They are "concerned for his safety" [and/or pissed off and shit faced, looking for trouble] and so circle back to "check" on him. He wants to be left alone and so asks them politely to leave him [the fuck] alone. Guy #3 takes off at his friend's urging. Friend/guy #2 [Convicted felon: possession of drugs, lying to police, warrant evasion, etc. And addicted to drugs] does not leave. He thinks guy #1 may hurt himself or at the very least cause an accident on the side of the trail. Guy #1, "Leave, leave, leave." Guy #2, "No, no, no."

And this is where it gets weird. Because guy #2 ends up calling 9-1-1 reporting that he's had a gun pulled on him on the Springwater Corridor Trail between Foster and 122nd. He reports [in three separate phone calls, because his phone battery keeps dying but he happens to have extras in his pocket] that the suspect is white [true], wearing dark clothing [true], about 5'6" [not even close, the guy is over 6' tall, but may have been seated the entire time] and on a mountain bike [just plain false]. The police show up and arrest guy #1. They find the pistol along with the rifle and all the ammo locked in the gun case [but who knows how long it's been since the call was made, or how long after the incident the call was made to begin with].

Guilty or not? The charge was "intentionally attempting to use a deadly weapon (a firearm) against the victim or intending to use said deadly weapon (a firearm) against the victim." I found the distinction a little ridiculous, but the charge was perplexing.

Much to our collective chagrin, we had to find this guy not guilty. The only evidence was the testimony of a cracked out homeless man and some other circumstantial things, like the fact that there actually was a guy on the trail with a gun. Needless to say, despite our verdict it shattered any illusions I had about the safety of running on this trail in the evening. It's not as if I run all the way out at 122nd between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m., but in theory I'd like to be able to do so and not worry that I'm going to come across some neo-Nazi looking creeper sitting on the side of the trail brandishing a pistol.

I was kind of hoping for an opportunity to soap box and give a personal witness as to the loss of innocence thanks to this whole scenario. Really? I mean, who am I to tell you not to go hunting, or not to use the SWCT as a way of getting from here to there, or even not to sit on the side of the trail, cloaked in complete darkness, or not to shave your head but leave your facial hair. But the combination of these elements is a recipe for nightmares.

The silver lining is this: I sucked it up and set my alarm clock for 6 a.m. for my run on Tuesday morning. I walked out my front door, immediately looked up and saw a shooting star. First thing. I made my way to the [arguably safer part of the] SWCT and headed off down the trail. Three and a half miles I ran in darkness with the sound of gently lapping water and bullfrogs and the vague silhouettes of barges on the river. At my turnaround point the sun peaked over the eastern ridge and turned the entire western sky a beautiful pinkish hue. The rest of my run was spent admiring sunshine gleaming off the river on my left and the wildlife sanctuary ponds on my right. Once joined by a few early morning bike commuters and the dedicated few in running tights, I didn't give much thought to guys #1-3.

If there had been a soundtrack to my Tuesday morning run it would've sounded something like this:



Also, high on my wishlist, if anyone is looking to make a meaningful donation to this cause that will ultimately benefit me and not really do much for cancer patients anywhere - the Garmin Forerunner 110. $199.99. But really priceless when you think about all the good it will do to have a way to track my splits.













But if you want to donate to the actual cause, you can do so here:
http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani