That happened to me recently. My latest word is “Bittersweet”. During a recent run when I was talking out loud to myself (I’ve been doing that a lot lately… it’s a sign that I’m incredibly old and eccentric) I finally threw up my hands and said “FINE. You want to be in my head? Let’s talk about Bittersweet. You win. Bring it on.”

I love the singular words that make up this simple compound word. When I was a kid I hated the word bittersweet because it was associated with chocolate that didn’t taste good.  Eventually I didn’t shudder at the thought of something bittersweet and even came to like the dark chocolate and the complex flavors of something more pure and unsweetened.  Dark chocolate was raw, nuanced and substanative.  It had heft and form and my more informed palate didn’t crave sugar; it craved real taste and flavor.  And sometimes there was a slight bitterness to it that told my mouth that not everything is sunlight and sugar.

My musical palate was growing too.  By the time I was a freshman in college Big Head Todd came out with a song titled “Bittersweet”.  I worked the show at the event center as a stagehand at the University of Northern Colorado.

“I said I know we don’t talk about it.
We don’t tell each other…
All the little things that we need.
We work our way around each other
As we tremble and we… as we tremble and bleed.
As we tremble and we… as we tremble and bleed.”
- Big Head Todd and the Monsters

I didn’t really understand the lyrics too much, other than it was a beautiful song that was incredibly sad. At the tender age of 18, how could I possibly understand the bittersweet sting of being in love and still being lonely?

Fast-forward twenty years to 2011 and my 38th birthday. My husband gave me the camera that I had coveted for years. It was a bittersweet moment because we had already decided to separate; he would be moving out three days later. This would be my last gift.

I read the instruction manual and a few hours later we walked to downtown Louisville to take some pictures. While looking for interesting textures to use as backdrops, I saw a word painted on the wall in the alley:

The Bittersweet Cafe

It was a word of sadness, transition and possibility… how apropos of the moment.  A new coffee house had opened in Louisville called the Bittersweet Cafe, just a half mile from my house.  I couldn’t bring myself to even walk through the door until three full seasons had passed.

During those months I frequented a lot of coffee shops in the Boulder area where I met with clients. I drank gallons of coffee and eventually noticed that I gravitated to specific shops. If I wanted a cup of drip coffee I would only buy it from one or two places; the rest of the coffee houses served junk that always tasted burned. If I met with a client at a place that had lousy coffee I would spring for a more expensive drink like a latté or a dirty chai; anything to keep me from having to drink the dark, bitter swill.  Some of the coffee houses felt inviting and cozy; others existed to serve beverage to people on the run.  I had a few I liked a lot, but no “favorite” hangout.

My broken heart alternated between bitter and sweet, sweet and bitter. Some days I rode a high on happiness and possibility, and other days I crashed into the depths of melancholy and despair. Through it all I caffeinated and kept coming back for more.

And then one bright, sweltering day in the midst of summer a friend introduced me to “Bitter Sweet Symphony”. I liked it; I liked it a lot. The melody was good, the lyrics caught my attention, and I found myself running to the beat of the lyrics many mornings thereafter.

“I am here in my mold
But I’m a million different people
From one day to the next
I can’t change my mold
No, no, no, no, no.”
- The Verve

“I’m a million different people, from one day to the next, I can’t change my mold…” What a bittersweet thing to say, and feel. We all have so many incarnations, so many roles to fill and hats to wear. It’s a bittersweet life that we are so many things to so many, and yet there are times when we can’t master the one or two incarnations that are required.

I woke up today feeling fragile. The weather forecast called for a massive snowstorm to dump crap from the sky this evening. The grey of the clouds felt ominous and pinpricks of my own tears were close to the surface.

I got my kids ready for school and helped pack backpacks with homework assignments that need to be worked on over the weekend; they’ll spend the next three days with their dad. We drove to a coffee shop where they exited my car, jumped into their dad’s car, and left for school. He doesn’t come to my house to pick them up anymore; the wounds of divorce are still healing and boundaries are firmly in place.

Afterwards I headed to the Bittersweet coffee shop to meet a friend for breakfast. We started talking music, one thing led to another and I found myself confessing my preoccupation with the word “Bittersweet”. With a knowing look in his eye he directed me to iTunes and I downloaded my third Bittersweet song, from an album released in 1985.

“We’ve grown and times change
When we meet now it feels so strange
Well I hold you like a sword
And you won’t cut me, cut me like you did before.”
- Hoodoo Gurus

After a yummy breakfast my friend left for work. I got a free refill on my coffee and while standing at the station adding a little cream to my cup I chatted with the owner of the shop. The first thing I told him was how much I like his coffee house. He asked me the next obvious question; Why?

And because I didn’t feel like making up any b.s., I told him the truth. The place feels good. The colors on the walls are beautiful and I love the way the light comes in the windows. The layout of the place flows, the tables are comfortable, the bathrooms are rustic without being pretentious, and the people that work there are people that I would engage in conversation any day of the week. I’ve daydreamed about getting to work there just so I could be in this beautiful place that acts as a salve to my heart.

It may be named Bittersweet, but it feels more sweet than bitter and this image is burned in my mind:

Welcome... to the Bittersweet

At the beginning of the letting-go process, I had a ton of wild, unfiltered, crazy energy.  I ran hard… so hard.  And FAST.  And LONG.  I couldn’t help it.  It didn’t even feel like me, really.  It felt like I was watching a version of myself move through emotions that were sometimes viscous, sometimes fluid, and always raging.  As my heart processed emotions, so did my body.  Everything was working in tandem to release toxic heartbreak.  I felt like a big piece of cheesecloth; everything ran through me and out the other side.

The next phase was a slowing-down process.  I stopped moving so fast, hard, and long.  The many weeks of sleep deprivation was catching up to me.  I still ran, but more sporadically.  It still felt good to move, but many mornings I turned over in bed after a fitful night’s rest, or drank a second cup of Chai instead.

This past Sunday morning I entered the next phase.  It’s time to address my fitful sleeping, running and random eating times.  The weight gain around my tummy and butt is stretching my shorts tight, and I’m ready to get my head back in the game.  Time to drink more water, cut back on the vodka-fruit juice cocktails, and see what the summer holds.

I promised myself I would run, bike or MOVE somehow, even if it’s jump-roping and playing on the pogo stick with my kids.  The more I move the better I sleep, which makes me feel like moving more… a beautiful, healthy vicious cycle, one that I can totally live with.

As I lay in bed last night reading the chapter on “Grief” in my Divorce Recovery book “Rebuilding; When Your Relationship Ends”, I thought about running in the morning.  I had a two-hour block of time to get some exercise, and I decided to ride my bike to Bobolink, run a 10k, and ride home.  As long as I didn’t dawdle too much, I should make it home in time for a 10am phone call.

I read more about the different stages of grief, and considered each one carefully.

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Letting Go
5. Acceptance

Where do I fall within each one?

I fell asleep thinking about the stages of grief and putting my life back together.  Each has its own time.  Being the multi-tasking girl that I am, I usually do more than one thing at a time, weaving and layering and processing and planning and doing and watching and sitting… it’s all part of the same thing.  When I do something, I do it full-tilt.

I woke at 5:15 and dozed in and out until my alarm went off at 7.  I spent the next hour getting my kiddos fed and packed up to spend the weekend with their Dad.  At 8am I kissed them goodbye and ran upstairs to change into my running clothes and slather on the sunscreen.  Time to hit the road.

Not a single cloud in the sky and the air was warming up quickly.  I wore my Nathan hydration vest, Garmin, iPod and sunglasses.  The plan was to bike from Louisville to the Bobolink trailhead on Cherryvale and Baseline, run the out-and-back 10k, then bike my tired self back up the brutal hill into Louisville where I would coast down the eastern side and return home slightly before 10am.

This is not a difficult distance, don’t get me wrong; thousands of athletes do what’s called a Brick every day.  I just don’t happen to be one of them.  This sounded like a hoot though; I wanted to ride my bike, run for a while, and ride some more.  That’s all.

The ride from Louisville to Bobolink went smoothly.  My iPod was low enough that I heard all the traffic and the geese honking and I probably got bugs in my teeth from the big smile plastered all over my face.  The wind was absolute nirvana and I gave serious thought to never going inside a house ever again if it meant I could feel the sun shine on my shoulders until the end of time.

The Garmin clocked the ride at 18:36 for an average pace of 16.9 mph.  To all you serious cyclists out there- I don’t care that I’m slow.  I had a ton of fun.

I quickly locked my bike and headed onto the trail.  As is wont to happen after a ride, the legs felt heavy and it took a half mile of trudging to loosen up the hip flexors and quads.  I sucked on my water tube and took in the sights, just happy to be moving.

As I moved along the trail I stopped a few times to take pictures with my iPhone.  The sheer brilliance of the day was astounding to me, and I wanted to record visual images of the sensations coursing through this ol’ body.

Bobolink Trail

Front Range view from Bobolink Trail

I wasn’t running fast, just fast enough to feel good.  I didn’t bother looking at my watch to check pace or time.  Whatever data the watch collected would be there when I was home again at my computer.  I was firmly grounded in the moment, and loving every second of being alive on this bright late-spring morning.

The water is high!

Runner Girl!!

I turned around a little ahead of the gate and headed back.  I don’t usually run in mid-morning on sunny days because it gets so warm, but today I just didn’t care.  I had plenty of water and I was completely content.  People were passing me, my shoes made this cool noise as I crunched the gravel underfoot, and I liked the way my shadow moved down the trail.

Back at the trailhead I checked the time on my Garmin: 9:32am.  Enough time to get home before 10am, not enough time to shower before the phone would ring.  Enough time to pour some Emergen-C in a glass and fill up on electrolytes, not enough time to towel off my sweaty back.  I said a big, fat “Oh Well!” and headed up the road.

My legs were tired now, though the spinning on the bike felt good.  The first ten minutes were a gradual climb, and then things got serious.  The next ten minutes I put the bike in an easier gear and concentrated on getting to the top of South Boulder Road.  Once there, I switched into the lowest gear on the bike and pushed it hard on the flat, gaining speed until finally the east side of the hill showed its face and I pedaled with everything I had, getting up to a max speed of 31mph as I flew home.

Walking in the house I checked the time: 9:55.  I made it.  I peeled off my gear, soaked my head in the kitchen sink, dried my face and hydrated with an Emergen-C and another glass of water before the phone rang.

It was so much fun, I’m thinking of doing another Brick tomorrow!

Massage on Tuesday; check.

Stellar run on Wednesday; check.

Could it be that my body is finally back in balance?  Is it possible that the plantar fasciitis, knotty hamstring and aching calves are resolving themselves?  Can I dare to hope that running will FINALLY be enjoyable again?

If today’s run was any indication, the answer to all three questions is a resounding YES.  There was a small 4-mile recovery run on the schedule for today, but I was itching to go.  Let me loose, I want to run!  I was 80% tempted to turn today’s run into a barn-burning tempo run and hold pace at 7:15-7:30.  I resisted.

Instead, I allowed myself to hit a moderate tempo pace, more of what my Marathon Pace should have been: 8:26/mile.  It’s one month to the day after my first marathon and I have done zero speed work.  It’s coming though; I have a whole 12-week program set to get me to a new P.R. in the Half Marathon distance on March 27.  This is week 1 of training and I’ll get to the speed work in due time; namely, on Tuesday.  But today… oh glorious day, what a run.

It was a full 30 degrees warmer today than it was at the same time yesterday morning when I met Dailymiler’s David and Leo at the Boulder Reservoir for a quick 6-miler.  Yesterday it was 5 degrees outside and the front of our hats were covered in frost after 2 minutes.  A few minutes later they laughed at the frost that turns my black eyebrows into fuzzy white caterpillars that perch on my face.  Fast-forward 24 hours to today, when it was a balmy 35 degrees outside and I didn’t even wear gloves!

I stuck to the concrete bike path that loops through the subdivisions of Louisville.  The streets are still icy in places, but the paths are completely clear due to the heavy usage they get from walkers, runners, bicyclists, strollers and dogs.   The little Bobcat snowplows are usually clearing the paths before the street snowplows have a chance to come through and dig us out… tells you a lot about the active lifestyle of the area.

I’ve had the idea for a week now that if I work at it, I could possibly hit a 1:35 Half Marathon.  That’s about 7:15/mile.  My current PR is 1:42 (7:44/mile).  Coming off a marathon and utilizing the base that I gained over the past 5 months, I think it just might be possible to do it.  Maybe.

But that’s neither here nor there; not today.  Today was a welcome relief from the single-digit temps of the past week, and I felt like nature was goosing my butt.  Jumping up and down, jiggling with excitement and readiness as I waited for the Garmin to sync, and then GO.  But not too fast.  This wasn’t a race.

Exiting the path to the street where I had to cross over, I slowed to a walk and eased my way across the ice before resuming my running pace on the path.  That first patch of ice clinched the route in my mind; I would do an out-and-back on the path and not the full 4.5-mile loop that winds through graveled patches.  The concrete would be clear; the gravel would not.  Since I was hell-bent on hitting a tempo pace I wasn’t about ready to slow down for half-mile chunks of snow and ice.

The first mile zoomed by at a moderate warm-up pace, and I got a mental laugh at the mile split: 8:44.  That was the average pace of my marathon.  No wonder it felt comfortable!

I picked up the pace a hair, then adjusted again a minute later when I saw that I had kicked it up too much; 8:10/mile was too fast.  Keep it steady, Lara.  Rein it in.  “On your left,” I called out to two women and their leashed dogs.  A minute later I called out again to a trio of dog walkers.  The cute dogs looked so happy to be out that I had a pang of guilt thinking about my own sweet Kirby, snoozing on the warm carpet at home… then I let it go.  This was MY run.

The Garmin beeped at Mile 2: 8:34/mile.  I did a quick internal check; breath was good, feet felt FABULOUS, hammies were firing… all was well.  Time to turn around and head home.

The pace felt so easy.  I could hold this pace for several hours at least.  This was the pace I was trying to hit a month ago at CIM in Sacramento, and missed by a hair.  Now it felt like a joy ride, like a breath of fresh air on lungs that hadn’t had a deep breath in far too long.  Home.  I was home again.

Mile 3: 8:25/mile.  I was dropping just a hair, but not enough to worry about.  Things were still steady.  I crossed Pine Street and headed up the slight incline.  Leo has a habit of really kicking in the speed on hills, and I took a page from his book and didn’t let my pace slip.  My torso leaned forward ever so slightly to lean into the hill and I fixed my attention on my feet to feel how they adjusted to the hill.  I was running more on the ball of my foot now; good.  That’s how it’s supposed to be.

At the end of the path I crossed the last street and looked at the Garmin.  Mile 4: 8:30/mile.  Then I hit the last downhill section.  My entire body screamed to pick up the pace and when there’s that much agreement you just have to do it and not think about it and just RUN, and I flew home, dropping a full minute off my pace for the last .4 mile of the run.  Fly, Lara, fly.  You’re home.

Had Saturday fallen on a day other than November 21, I would have run at 7 AM with the ladies.  However, November 21 happens to be my daughter’s birthday, and this year it was her 10^th.  No way, no how, could I miss seeing her jump out of bed and attack her presents while Bill, Connor and I watched, bleary-eyed.  (She is currently obsessed with American Girl dolls, and her birthday list consisted entirely of items from the catalogue.  Bill and I bought her the main item, a Just Like Me doll, and parsed out the rest to relatives.  Thus, she received almost everything on the list and we didn’t go broke.)

The alarm was set for 5:30 so I could sneak in a short, 30 minute run before the birthday festivities.  As it happened though, Sophie couldn’t sleep; she snuck into the closet as I was pulling on my running tights and almost scared the pee out of me when I turned around.  I whispered that I was going out for a QUICK run, it was still too early to wake everyone else up, and to hang out in her room until I got back.  Being newly 10 years old, her shoulders drooped but she nodded anyway.

 It was just after 6:00 when I headed out.  I headed up the little hill of Lincoln to Hutchinson where I went left, circled Community Park twice, then returned home via Main Street, Lafayette Avenue and Griffith.  The Garmin had weak signal for a good ten minutes (that I was aware of), though the timer kept going.  Luckily I knew the mileage of the route and after plugging in the distance (3.6 miles) and the time (25 minutes), DailyMile.com (find me @smzrunner) figured out the pace (6:56/mile).  I was surprised by the pace, as I felt sluggish the entire run, but pleased just the same.

Sunday was my last long run before the Las Vegas Half on December 6.  I was concerned about the route because the recent snow hadn’t melted fully from the trails and I wanted to run the Coal Creek Trail for the last 3.5-4 miles of the run.  After unsuccessfully mapping my route on RunningMap.com, I decided to wing it, figuring that after 10 miles I would see where I was and decide on the fly how to finish the last 3-4 miles.

With that much of a plan, I headed out Sunday morning at 7:20 AM, already feeling rushed.  I was meeting a friend at 10 AM in Boulder for brunch and knew that I was pushing the clock if I wanted to get 13-15 miles in AND enjoy a shower, too.

I started from the house and headed up to Davidson Mesa, totaling 3 miles in the first leg.  According to the Garmin, the splits for the first three miles were 8:30, 8:01 and 8:19. 

Davidson Mesa is a flat loop on open space.  Unfortunately the ground was frozen in ridges from the recent snow and melt, so some sections were a little dicey.  Since it was flatter than the route UP to the Mesa, miles 4-6 were a little faster:  8:08, 7:48, 7:30.

From here I headed down the hill into Louisville.  I cut across the greenbelts to Cherry Street, jumped onto the Coal Creek Trail and hoped that the trail across Highway 42 would be manageable.  For these 4 miles the splits were relatively even: 7:34, 7:41, 7:23, 7:25.

At this point it was apparent that I couldn’t run on the Coal Creek Trail after it crossed over Hwy 42.  There was still ice on the frozen ridges of the trail, and I wasn’t interested in turning an ankle or slowing pace to finish the run with a loop.  I decided to turn back, retrace my steps around the large greenbelt, and return home via Lincoln Avenue near the Louisville Elementary School.  The last three miles looked like this:  7:47, 7:34, 7:41.

The Garmin says the average pace was 7:41/mile.

Here’s a map of the route.  You’ll notice some retracing of steps (off the Davidson Mesa on the left of the map, and at the bottom, where I had to come back from the Coal Creek Trail. 

 I really tried to maintain a fast pace, though I was confused when I looked at my Garmin because on Saturday I accidentally hit a button so that instead of showing minute-per-mile pace, I saw a mile-per-hour pace.  Not being able to quickly translate the new numbers in my head or fix the read-out, I instead tried to keep the miles-per-hour pace between 7.5 and 8.0, always trying for the upper number but acknowledging that on the hills, I might creep down to the 7.5 mark.  After I got home and Bill fixed my read-out I was totally surprised to see that I did this training run a full 5 minutes faster than my race pace for the Colorado Half Marathon in May (where I finished in 1:45:47, a pace of 8:04/mile).

I didn’t take water on this run because a) I hate carrying a bottle in my hand and b) I was worried water would freeze in the line of my camelbak, rendering it useless.  I completely forgot that I own a water bottle holder that clips around my waist.  Duh.  I was a little thirsty on the run, but the lower temps kept me from falling apart.  I drank two large glasses of water when I got home, and then drank tons for the rest of the day.  My face was pretty red for about an hour afterwards, though my muscles felt alright and I never sank into utter exhaustion.

When I was gearing up for the Colorado Half Marathon I kept track of my average paces and figured that I could probably hold an 8:00 pace for the duration.  I was so excited that I had read my fitness level correctly.  For this race, my second Half-Marathon, I originally wanted to finish in a sub- 1:40.  Given that I just did 1:40 on a training run in Louisville (at altitude and on hills), it’s probably feasible that on a flat course at a lower altitude I can shave another 0:15 seconds from my per-mile pace.

Church is in the eyes of the beholder.  Or ears, for that matter.

 While listening to my iPod and running on this beautiful August Sunday morning, Michael Jackson’s “Will You Be There” single lifted me up and hit that sweet spot where you know you’ve been witness to the divine.  Let me explain.

For the first time in weeks, I woke with energy and an eagerness for a run around the town.

My iPod was clipped to my shorts and set on random.  There’s a new set of music loaded on the device and I’m still getting used to some of the songs.  It’s been a nice change from the favorites that have become over-played the past several months.

There’s always a sense of anticipation before a run because my eternal hope is that between the beginning and end of the run, something will assail my senses, permeate my brain and convince me there’s more to being human than the mundane repetition of my life.  Sometimes that “something” is emotional; I’ll run with someone and find that perfect connection where we’re exactly in tune with each other.  Sometimes that “something” is physical; the repetitive movements of running will have allowed me to release some stress and I’ll find solace in the strength of my body.  Sometimes it’s visual; I’ll look up and find that I’m bearing witness to a tiny miracle of this earth, and I’ll feel blessed that I was there at the right place and time to see it.  And sometimes, that “something” is auditory. 

I had been running for forty five minutes already.  There were so many people out on the trails enjoying the beautiful morning; solo runners, pairs of walkers, people with their dogs.  A little boy on the Coal Creek Trail was followed by his mother and dog as they casually rode along the gravel. 

Pounding over the shady Coal Creek Trail, I was surprised when the strains of this particular song began.  Quiet, melodic piano chords wisped through my ear-buds for a few measures, then the orchestra joined in and Michael Jackson’s high tenor touched my soul.

“Hold me
Like the river Jordan
And I will then say to Thee
You are my friend

Carry me
Like you are my brother
Love me like a mother
Would you be there…”

The first two verses were quiet and meditative as I crossed over Bella Vista Avenue and made my way around Community Park.  Suddenly, the next stanza started and I got chills.

“Weary
Tell me will you hold me
When wrong, will you scold me
When lost will you find me?

But they told me
A man should be faithful
And walk when not able
And fight till the end
But I’m only human…”

My legs picked up speed and my cadence matched the rhythm of the music.  Yes, he’s only human.  I’m only human too.  What does being human mean? 

“Everyone’s taking control of me
Seems that the world’s
Got a role for me
I’m so confused
Will you show to me
You’ll be there for me
And care enough to bear me…”

The music began to crescendo and Michael’s voice became increasingly passionate.  I shivered again and felt the power of his longing, his never-ending quest to find the higher power that would elevate him, allowing him to revel in his mortality instead of humbly accepting that he can’t be better because “I’m only human”.

There’s a strong parallel between Michael Jackson’s search for a higher power in his tabloid life, and publicly singing about wanting to connect with a being that will help lift him up and be a better person. I was transported into a spiritual place where I made that intimate connection to the highest power, that innate wisdom that allows the pulsing energy of earth, our humanness, and whatever greater consciousness there is, into my own life.

I hit “repeat” on my iPod each time the song ended and listened to it three times through.  Each time, the swell of the music and the passion in Michael’s voice gave me chills.  I waited with excited anticipation for the gospel choir and joined in to the chorus, adding my voice and singing for all I was worth to God.

Sometimes “church” is a place to go.  Sometimes it’s a message that is delivered, or received.  Today, for me, “church” was being outside in nature, moving my body, and listening to the gospel choir in Michael Jackson’s song about finding God, or a friend, to be there with him on his journey through life.  It’s a universal message and one worthy of church on a Sunday morning.

As soon as my feet hit the icy path I thought about postponing for a few hours.  There was just a slight dusting of snow on the sidewalks and street, under which there was a very fine layer of slick ice that had frozen where the wind had deposited blowing snow the night before.  Listening to the first strains of “Bat Out of Hell”, I decided that if I kept my feet on the snow and took it easy, I should be okay.  I’ve never fallen on ice in the three years I’ve been running and was impatient to get up to Davidson Mesa to witness the first strains of dawn.

I did some quick calculations and decided that I would shoot for an easy 9:00/mile average, what with the snow and ice.  This would put me at finishing the ten mile run in about an hour and a half.  Realistically I would probably finish it closer to an hour and twenty minutes, but I wanted to add in some cushion for the unknown conditions up ahead.

I navigated the pockets of ice on the trail, and the first three miles melted away.  Just before crossing McCaslin to the Davidson Mesa trailhead I spotted the first runner of the morning coming toward me.  I gave him a wave and he pumped his fist in the air and grunted “Wooo, woooo, wooo” in greeting, clearly a sign of solidarity amongst us crazy runners who get up to run at the crack of dawn on icy mornings because of our faulty internal wiring.

Davidson Mesa was spectacular.  Only a few pairs of human feet had traversed the trails in the preceding days, and the snow was interspersed with rabbit and coyote tracks skittering off into the fields.  The sparkly snow was still dry enough to stay stuck to the trail instead of the treads of my shoes, and for that I was grateful.  The picturesque Foothills, the iconic backdrop of the Boulder Valley, were stunning with snow clinging to every surface and early morning rays of sun chasing the shadows from the crevices.  The landscape looked eerily false, like an ecological diorama that had powdered sugar ground through a sifter onto the landscape.  I felt about one inch tall and reeled from the sudden change in perspective.

It was so much easier to run on the Mesa.  My body relaxed and I realized how tense my muscles were from running on the icy sidewalks and streets.  Three more miles melted away.

As I headed off the Mesa and back onto the sidewalks I kept my eyes on the concrete in front of me and dodged around patches of ice.  Snow was disappearing from the ice patches and areas of dry sidewalk were beginning emerging.  Retracing my footsteps, I headed down behind the Louisville Rec Center and checked my watch; one hour exactly, with seven miles behind me and three to go.  I figured that with the rest of the run being pretty flat, I could expect to walk in my front door in approximately twenty two minutes, give or take a little on either end.

And then things went suddenly wrong.  I ran onto a patch of ice that had until that moment been completely hidden from view.  My right foot flew out from under me and I landed with a THUD on my right butt cheek.  A split second later my right elbow hit the pavement and my hat and sunglasses were airborne.  I lay there for a moment and took a few breaths. Gingerly I sat up and while I waited for my heart to stop pounding, I took stock.  Nothing broken… didn’t hit my head… might be a bit sore tomorrow… ouch.

Looking up from my vantage point on the ice I recognized a person walking with two dogs.  “Oh, hey Simon,” I called out. My Master’s swim coach was soaking in the fresh air, albeit from a standing position.  I felt better right away; nothing like a fellow athlete to see you in a spot of trouble, as we’ve all been there before.  He didn’t moan or get excited about seeing me sitting on the ice, just asked in a calm voice if I was okay and suggested that we walk on top of the crest above the trail to stay off the ice.

We walked a little way together and he told me about the dogs he was walking.  I in turn told him how I was supposed to take Sophie and Kirby running when I got home and how I was rethinking my plan.  I was grateful for the company of a friend after my little spill.  Any face is welcome after falling, but so see a friend show up at my exact time of need was a true gift.

We said goodbye and I resumed my run.  I needed to know if I COULD run, or if there was a deeper injury that would prevent me from bouncing my buns along.  I checked my watch a few times and saw that indeed, I was not only running but was running at my former pace.  My hiney was a little sore, but nothing that a few days’ rest wouldn’t cure.  The whole incident added about ten minutes to the total time; I walked in my front door ninety minutes after starting out. 

A few takeaways from this experience:

1.  Athletes don’t care how you look when you’re pushing yourself hard, or how you look when you fail.  They’ll still be there to help you along.

2.  I hit the ground REALLY HARD.  If I wasn’t an athlete I think the fall would have been worse.  Because I’m strong and flexible I could hold my head so it wouldn’t smack the ground.

2.  If I can run ten miles and waste ten minutes on a fall and recovery and STILL come in at my goal time, then I haven’t set the bar high enough.

This Saturday I ran alone. Sophie had a basketball game at 8 AM and there was no way I could run and still make it to the YMCA to see her run up and down the court with the other 9-year-olds. After the game Bill and the kids took the car to the mechanic, leaving me to roam the streets and open space of Louisville.

I started slowly from my house, listening to the croon of Ray Charles. My legs felt like lead. I was cold in the twenty degree weather and didn’t think I would ever warm up, though didn’t go overboard with the layers of clothing. The eternal optimist; hopeful that blood would flow though doubting it would really happen. I felt dull and stupid in the cold grayness of the morning, and excruciatingly tired even though I just awoke from a hard nine hours of sleep.

I cruised up Lafayette Street to Via Appia and headed to the Rec Center. Crossing the street at the crosswalk, I jogged up the hill and wound my way from Arapaho Street to McCaslin, where I headed out onto the open space of Davidson Mesa. My legs were heavy, tired, and my brain was busy. I recently uncovered some stories I wrote in 6th and 7th grade, and the memories of that long, traumatic time were coming hard and fast. My body wanted to lie down and sleep, to run away from the energy that was swirling in my head. Sleep wasn’t the answer though, as I had learned from the previous night. The only thing that I wanted- craved really- was movement, even though the movement was slow and completely devoid of the usual excitement that accompanied these runs. At least I was moving.

I took the long way around the Mesa. The frozen dirt crunched under my feet and the dusting of snow made the red dirt bunch up into the treads of my sneakers. The music from my iPod was a refreshing mix of instrumental songs that don’t get nearly enough playtime. The sound was low enough that it was background noise to my thoughts that roamed and cavorted through my senses. Red energy, the color of anger, swirled and danced from my thoughts into the pit of my stomach where I felt a familiar tightening in response. Fear, silence, loneliness and confusion joined to form a combination that assaulted the senses in a way that rivaled Cirque du Soleil’s rich tapestry of movement and color.

I circled the Mesa and headed north. The mountains stood tall and protective over the Front Range, resting. The movement along the path, the steady drumbeat of my feet pounding the cold dirt and snow, and a cry started welling up in the back of my throat. Something shifted from the background noise of my head into absolute consciousness, and I visualized myself responding to the emotion. I wanted to yell and scream and roar my anger. I wanted to be heard. My back started tingling and energy coursed through my spine, indeed, my entire nervous system. All my attention was focused on the energy that was moving faster and faster, up through the deep nerve centers of my being. The energy was akin to the raging of a river in flood, coursing over unseen hazards underneath the surface, swirling, dipping, gaining momentum. My breathing intensified and I felt compelled to blow it out hard, and harder, and harder still. I couldn’t stop it, I didn’t WANT to stop it. This was pure power, a connection to my soul and the abuses laid to it so many years before. This was healing power to the highest degree, my own personal connection with the most powerful, most sacred energy forces this Universe has to offer.

This was what labor pains felt like, without the contractions. The noises started coming out of my mouth, animal moans that matched cadence with my breath and heartbeat. Each breath was a new chance to bring the force closer and closer to the surface. My body was expelling the ache, the pain, the scar tissue of old wounds. The energy coursed, the breathing increased, and with one final yell I pushed it out.

The tingling subsided and my head cleared. The fog inside my head was gone. I looked up from where I had been focusing blindly on the trail in front of me to notice that I was half way around the Mesa. I was still moving; I never stopped. The steady rhythm of my drumming legs had helped create a safe haven for the movement in the depths of my soul, akin to the ancient drumming of indigenous tribes. The air was warmer, my hands were now as warm as if they had been held in front of a fire, and my legs were like little wings. They were so light I could barely feel them. The weight of the world had been lifted and I was free.

I looped back to McCaslin and headed into the subdivisions, where I picked up the path behind Fireside Elementary. I had been running for almost an hour, though it felt like I had been through hell and back. My body felt so good now that I didn’t want to stop. At the fork in the road I chose to extend the run another three miles on the Coal Creek Trail.

I passed all of three people on the run. It was cold and grey and miserable, with a chill that could permeate a bulky coat and settle into the bones. If I weren’t running, I wouldn’t be out here either.

My legs were moving faster and faster. At the start of the run I was at a solid 9:30 pace; I couldn’t move any faster. Once I was on the flat Mesa three miles later, I noticed the pace had picked up to 8:30 per mile. Now that I was off the Mesa and I had a new lease on life, my tempo was a steady 7:12. I had been meditating for nine miles and had descended into utter darkness. I went in tired, achy, and sad. I came out the other end a virtual Kali; fierce, alive, passionate, wild and free.

Rounding the corner to my house, I slowed to a walk and stopped the timer on my GPS. Just then Dusty Springfield started singing “Son of a Preacher Man” and I laughed out loud. I hadn’t been able to laugh all day, and the ability to find joy in the lyrics of the song pleased me to no end. I walked around the neighborhood, singing in my off-key soprano voice, bopping my head and snapping my fingers in time to the music. Finding the energy of the Universe and allowing it to course through the veins is one thing; finding the joy humans create and allowing that to heal the aches is real too. Today, I am grateful for the energy found in the world, and acknowledge the fathomless depth of the spiritual in even the simple act of running.

The meeting place is the old Louisville Post Office on Front Street and Pine. It’s almost a mile from my house; I leave ten minutes early and keep my pace at a super-easy 9:26 pace. This is pure warm-up to the P.O. and I don’t want to get too warm.

Susan is running down from her house too, and the rest of the group is gathering on the side street. Cherry is back after being at the Arizona Ironman two weeks ago and her subsequent recovery from a head cold. Zina is bouncing around in the cold and Bernadette looks cold in her Capri’s and sneakers with the no-show socks.

Over half the women in the group have never been on this trail, so they’re pleased about the prospect of a new run. I’ve run this trail so many times in the past two years that all novelty is lost to me. Not sure how many more times I’ll tolerate it either; today’s run is only due to the group and I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Caryn, Rita, Savannah, Mary and A.J. are looking forward to this run. I mention to Mary that I’ve run this trail so many times I’ve lost count, and can point out every single turn-around point I’ve ever done. “This one is where I turn around for a five-miler, this is the five and a half point, this is the six mile point…” and so on. She astutely sums it up to perspective; this trail is not exciting to me because I’ve run it ad nauseum; yet to many others it’s a nice change from the severe trail runs we usually do.

We jump onto the trail across from the Community Park. The snow is about an inch deep and packed in most places. There’s a little ice here and there, but no mud and nothing deep that prevents a good long run. In previous winters I’ve had to turn around at certain sections because of the ice or deep snow that becomes treacherous for a slight person and unadorned feet (read: no Yaktrax).

Cherry and I settle into a pace. I tell her about my new part-time job with 5430 Sports. She’s familiar with the organization and in fact encouraged me to contact them. She listens to me describe the two distinct aspects of the job (expo sales, sustainability development and consulting) and agrees that the latter will be my passion. She knows me and the owners of 5430 Sports; from her perspective, this will be a good working partnership.

Cherry detours to the trees for a pee-break and Mary joins me as a running partner. I’ve never talked with her during a run before; she’s usually in the middle section of the group while I’m out in the lead. Today I’m more interested in holding pace for a long run instead of using this as a tempo training run, which is what the trail runs usually morph into for this amateur athlete. I see the run and the group members in a different light when I’m not trying to squeeze in a tempo run or concentrate on how far and fast I can physically push my body while still having energy to get through the rest of the day.

Bernadette, Susan and A.J. are waiting at the turn-around. Bernadette is messing with her socks which have inched their way down her foot and are now solidly stuck under the heel of her foot. I can’t imagine not wearing the right socks for the right activity and look at her in disbelief as she flatly refuses our attempts to talk her into wearing ankle socks. She likes what she likes and won’t be talked into doing things differently, even though she sees that those of us wearing socks that cover the entire foot aren’t stopping after three miles to unroll the material and put it back in place.

The group has mostly assembled at the turn-around, so we head back. Cherry has caught up with the group after her impromptu trip into the trees, and is smiling as she ducks to the side again. “I’m just glad to be out running again,” she says to me as we start down the trail.

The conversation turns to the Arizona Ironman. She was there with her husband, Mark, who works for Ironman. Clare was there cheering on a friend, and Barry, my new boss, was there participating while his wife, Jodee, cheered him on. Clare is pumped to do another Ironman after being a spectator this year. Apparently she’s trying to talk Cherry into doing it with her. “Nope, don’t have any interest in doing another Ironman,” Cherry declares. “I like how my body feels when I’m exercising a certain amount and I don’t need to push it farther than that.”

She has the benefit of being able to look at a race like the Ironman from multiple angles. She’s been a competitive racer in her “younger days”, she’s helped set up many races, and she’s been there to cheer on friends and help them train. Her perspective is based on a lot of information and is firmly based in doing what is right for her body.

I’m thinking about doing a half-marathon in March. Susan mentioned it to me a few months ago and I’ve had the idea tucked away ever since. I’d like to do a half, as the farthest I’ve raced is a 10K. I’m sure I could do it; thirteen miles doesn’t seem insurmountable. Cherry does a “runner’s blow” to the side of the trail and gives me another dose of reality. “You talk about doing a half marathon like it’s feasible, and I’m sitting here thinking that it sounds about as far away as the moon. I’ve been sick and haven’t done anything in two weeks. What you can accomplish has everything to do with attitude and perspective.”

Ain’t that the God’s honest truth. There have been points in my life when I didn’t think I could get out of bed; to do that was the high point in my day. On the flip side, there have been times in my life when I ran up mountains and lived to tell the story. Everything I do is couched with perspective on where I’ve been and where I’m at right now, this very minute. And attitude? A good attitude is that little thing that makes it all worth doing, over and over again.