Tag Archives: racing

Broken.

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On April 28 2013 I broke my foot during the Nike All Women’s half marathon in Washington DC. It’s been almost two weeks. The foot is healing, it’s in a boot, I’m on crutches, and I feel like my best friends are going on a vacation without me.  

It was going to be a great race, I could feel it. The energy at the start line was high and strong.

Buzzing start line

At the half mile mark I ran through a tunnel crowded with thousands of other runners. One of them stepped on my left foot. I fell, got up, and fell again.

Roar.
I finished the race, and I ran 12 miles on a broken foot. But now I can’t run for at least another 10 weeks.

urgent care leg

I may swim in 4 weeks, and maybe get on a bike trainer. I do the math every day–when I can run again, when I can train for my races this year. But I’m not racing in a fun Mother’s Day triathlon with my best lady friends this Sunday. Deep breath.

My 2013 race schedule  included my first marathon. I had a plan damn it. Later this year, I was going to meet Other Me. Super woman me, in super woman shape, who attacked all these races. Roar!

Head strong.
My Ironman brother tells me injuries like this are part of racing and training. And that it had to happen to me sooner or later. And he’s right. He’s nursed many injuries himself, and he’s come back strong each time. Think Ironman. He also is so Zen when faced with crap like injuries. I always aspire to be like him, and not just when I race. He once told me that when I decide to race the longer distances, I better have answers to all the questions my head will be asking me when I’m struggling in the last 10 miles. I better get started.

The new training plan.
My plan was to get my body in super strong shape this year. Muscles, roaring, leaping over tall buildings, that kind of thing. It’s too early to tell if in August, I will be able to swim in beautiful Lake Arrowhead and run up those crazy steps to T1 at Luray. Or if in September, I will rack my bike in the biggest triathlon transition area in the country. And it’s hard to admit that I simply may not be able to run my first marathon this October.  Deep breath.

So the running and racing goddesses are taking me on a detour. Their plan for me in 2013 is to put my head in training, not my body. My head needs to be in super strong shape this year. It has to be strong enough to believe that whatever happens in the healing process this year, I can and will come back stronger. That’s the Other Me I hope to meet later this year.

And when I do race again, I will remember to pack my health insurance card in my race bag.

Overflow.

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I’ve deliberately avoided putting my fingers to the keyboard for months. Any and all threateningly powerful emotions have been very neatly put away in a box. I’m experiencing an overflow. And they are all demanding attention. Kabanga. Newtown. Boston.

Boston. Running has taken me on a journey I never knew I could or would want to take. Running allows me to be free from whatever I choose. I meditate when I run. Running taught me about pain and the meaning of being strong. Racing is when I get to be with thousands who share my joy and my pain. It’s a time to celebrate our collective journey. It is a time to contemplate and enjoy where we are, how we got there, and hopefully where we will be going next. I can’t imagine running this weekend’s race or any other race without thinking about Boston. I can’t imagine what my journey will be like this year when I run in my first marathon in October. I’ve lost something—like dropping a glove in the throng of runners at the start line. I can’t retrieve it.

Newtown. When children are killed, they become my own. And those other children who witnessed the massacre? They were mine too. For a long time I was a grieving parent mourning the loss of my child. I was a parent shielding my child from the scarring images that forever will burn in her head. Saleha said to me the night of Newtown, “Mama, please don’t imagine you were a parent of one of those kids.” I told her I couldn’t help it. She said she couldn’t help it either.

Kabanga. When I arrived, it was so different, yet so… familiar. It took me a few days to realize that I felt like I was home. The landscape, the small kampung-like houses, and the people’s wonderful hospitality and generosity. But every day at the school I was with children with bleak futures. We all did as much as we could, realizing that each evening when we left the children to go back to our safe and clean house, many would sleep in rooms filled with stench from an overflowing sewer. And wake up to armed guards, not hugs from moms and dads… But each day, we did give hugs and love. As much as we could. But. How dare we complained about a missing toilet seat in our bathroom. How dare we complained about that smell that permeated everything we wore. How dare we complained about not having anything to do. How dare we complained about ANYTHING.

Sometimes, there just aren’t answers to the sadness. Okay. Back in the box. For now.