Survival Shuffle

Getting through your next workout to get through life.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

The Outer Limits

I've reached my limit. For now.

I'm not running today because Monday's traipse through the rain worsened my cold. Since it's a rest week, I'm going to give it a few days off and get better, so that I can thoroughly kick it and run my remaining workouts for this training cycle with some quality. Most importantly, if I keep running through it, the cold is likely to linger on until race day, which will make the race pretty much miserable.

This is the second time an illness has taken me down at the peak of a marathon training cycle. Clearly, my body is trying to tell me it has limits.

I'm often in awe of people who push their limits to incredible extremes. This past weekend was the annual running of the Western States 100, one of the ultimate tests of human limits. Runners careen over terrain that forced the Donner Party to resort to cannibalism. They run for up to 30 hours straight, through snow fields and desert canyons, through hallucinations, vertigo, trenchfoot. They are allowed to lose up to 7% of their body weight (that's over 10 pounds for a 150 pound runner) during the race before automatic removal. Both hypothermia and heat stroke are listed among the risk factors of the run. Don't forget muscle necrosis.

On the Runner's World online trail running forum, I read the stories of some who finished the run, as well as some who started but were forced out. In awe of their accomplishments, I told them what an inspiration they were. To even stand on the starting line of a race that can push you beyond the outer limits of yourself is a lofty goal few can dare to commit to. A few responded that there's not really any difference between running 100 miles and taking a 3 mile walk in the woods. Every run is special.

I thought about this. I agree in theory. Each run does present its own challenges. But what I really think is an important distinction is that each runner must test his or her own limits. If that means running 100 miles or 3 miles, that is the goal of running. Of living. If you go out and run the same 3 mile route every day, and never look beyond that experience, are you really living? If you stick to the same routine every day of your life and never try (and fail) at anything new, is that living?

Certainly there are other reasons to run. The child-like joy of splashing through the rain. The meditative effects of breathing in and out. The opportunity to get together with friends. These are all reasons I have run. But for me, testing my limits is the driving force behind my running. It's what keeps me running, when yoga would serve the same purpose as communing with friends, nature, and meditating. Perhaps it's a flaw in my outlook on life. Perhaps I should learn to be more content. That's what the Survival Shuffle is all about, right? Slowing down to catch your breath, smell the roses?

But if you never learn where your limits are, can you say you've lived fully? The survival shuffle is what lets me test my limits. Instead of quitting after 10 miles, I can make it through 20. I can find where that upper limit lays. It lets me see outside the lines, and determine if I can go there. The Survival Shuffle is about pushing boundaries outward, not bringing them inward. I'll do whatever I can to reach beyond the new line I drew on my last run. Whatever I can to get through a tough new experience in life. When I've shuffled through, I have a new limit. I've reached the new world outside the old lines, and it is beautiful.

My favorite poem, The Land of Beyond, by Robert Service, is the best way to explain the beauty of that new world to someone who has never been there:

Have ever you heard of the Land of Beyond,
That dreams at the gates of the day?
Alluring it lies at the skirts of the skies,
And ever so far away;
Alluring it calls: O ye the yoke galls,
And ye of the trail overfond,
With saddle and pack, by paddle and track,
Let's go to the Land of Beyond!

Have ever you stood where the silences brood,
And vast the horizons begin,
At the dawn of the day to behold far away
The goal you would strive for and win?
Yet ah! in the night when you gain to the height,
With the vast pool of heaven star-spawned,
Afar and agleam, like a valley of dream,
Still mocks you a Land of Beyond.

Thank God! there is always a Land of Beyond
For us who are true to the trail;
A vision to seek, a beckoning peak,
A farness that never will fail;
A pride in our soul that mocks at a goal,
A manhood that irks at a bond,
And try how we will, unattainable still,
Behold it, our Land of Beyond!


I used to be afraid to take personal risks. I worked a steady job. I came home to a nice apartment and a cat every night. I was alone, because I pushed people away trying to avoid the hurt that comes with rejection.

Then I got married, and my husband was sent to Iraq. As I was forced to test my personal limits, I began testing my physical limits as well. I wanted to see what I was made of. I ran a marathon. I started my own business. I committed to my marriage.

I have failed at times. My body has let me down. I've made mistakes in business. But through that failure, I'm standing in a new world, and I can see a new horizon beckoning.

Testing your limits doesn't have to mean running 100 miles or running a marathon. If your limit is a 5K or a mile, so be it. But find that limit. Find the point where you can't put one foot in front of the other. Find the point where you fail. And look outward from that point and let the new horizon invite you to strive toward it. Do what you must to get there.

Start your own business. Raise a child. Jump out of a plane. Travel to Antarctica. Climb a mountain. Taste new foods. Love someone. Find your Land of Beyond.

Fail. Live.

Monday, June 26, 2006

The kinship of rain

I love the sun. Almost nothing makes me happier than spending a warm early summer day in the sun.

But sometimes, you just need to let the rain wash you of your cares.

When I was 20 and a senior in college, I took a trip to Seattle to interview for several jobs. I stayed with a friend and took the bus all over town. The week I was there, Seattle had record torrential rains, resulting in mudslides, floods, all kinds of catastrophe. I had my own catastrophe en route to my first job interview. I had to take the bus out to somewhere in suburban Seattle, transfer busses and ride the rest of the way to my destination. It was raining hard at the transfer and I had 30 minutes to kill, so I took refuge in a diner and ordered a sandwich. As I was paying the tab, I saw my bus pull up. I ran after it but missed it. If I waited for the next bus, I would miss my interview. This was in the days before cell phones, so I was not able to call and explain my predicament. I decided to walk to the interview, about 2 miles away. Lacking an umbrella, I got completely drenched. But I showed up on time, thinking I didn't look too bad. As I got escorted back to my interview, a girl in the office exclaimed "Oh my god! Look at your ankle!" I had developed a blister by walking in my nice shoes on the back of my ankle, and my nylons had wicked the blood into a 4-inch circle of gore on my ankle. It looked like someone had taken a knife to my achilles tendon. I was given the chance to go to the restroom and clean myself up, but I still looked pretty bad. The interview went ok, but I was sure I'd made a horrible impression. As I stood in the rain afterwards waiting for my return bus, I let it wash over me and let go of the day, thankful that it was over.

I did get the job, but decided I didn't want to live in Seattle with all that rain.

Today was a similar kind of day.

Over the weekend, I was supposed to do a 20 mile long run. I have two of these runs scheduled as part of my training for my July 29 marathon. I'll run one slow, just to get the feel of the miles, and attempt the second one slightly faster. Running this distance requires a rest week between efforts, to ensure both runs are as good as they can be. After the two runs, I have a 3 week taper scheduled to give my body a rest and store up speed for the marathon.

Which means I pretty much had to get the first run in this weekend.

But Saturday morning I woke up with a slight tickle in my throat. I'd been out to dinner the night before and had a rich meal, so I decided it wasn't the ideal day to run anyway. I'd try again Sunday. But by Sunday my cold had bloomed and it was pouring. There was no way I could run. I'd have to try for Monday, but that was the last possible day, as I'd have to work the rest of the week. I hoped my cold was not the result of pushing myself too hard in the hot weather on Thursday. I slept all day Sunday and by Monday felt pretty much normal.

I woke up Monday morning to the news of apocalyptic floods, and all of the trails I usually run on, which are near the Potomac, were underwater. More torrential rain was forecast all day. I spent a few hours distressing about what to do, and finally decided to drive the Mt. Vernon trail around 2 PM to see what it looked like.

Surprisingly, the trail looked clear except for a few downed trees, so I set out on my way. I started at Belle Haven Park on the Potomac. The park was completely underwater, but the trail bed is raised a few feet, so it snaked through the lake like a dam.

I started out and discovered I'd forgotten my watch, which was fine, as most gurus will explain there's no way to run these long runs too slowly. The idea is just to get in the miles and spend time on your feet.

Running without a watch in the rain, I was able to pay attention to the rest of my surroundings. I noticed the ducks swimming beside the trail in the raised water. I noticed the heightened babble of the creeks emptying into the Potomac under the trail's many bridges. I saw a great blue heron fishing, and a hawk with a mouse in its talons. A barge steamed down the Potomac, and I raced it. Clouds hung low over the hills of Mt. Vernon, and shrouded the Wilson bridge.

Through all of that, I was completely alone, except for just a few other souls. I saw maybe 6 people on this normally popular trail. We greeted each other as we passed, understanding the kinship of rain. The only other people out here on a day like today are people who understand the need to cleanse themselves through a run in the rain. They run faster than the typical weekend warriors out here. And they are quiet. No "good morning" or "hello" or "how long are you out for today" - just a nod, maybe a wave and a knowing smile. I wonder what they have on their minds right now. Are they trying to wash themselves of the day's trials, or just relishing the clean childish feel of running in a drenching rain?

I'm not running very fast, and stopping for frequent walk breaks. I feel run down from my cold and am not at 100%. But I'm just out here to get the miles in. I'm shuffling by mile 13. My back is tight, and my feet are feeling a little tender from running in sopping wet shoes. At the pace I think I'm running, I'll probably be on my feet for 4 hours - almost as long as it will take me to run the marathon and about 30 minutes longer than a typical 20 miler. But spending the time on my feet is good preparation. Even though I will never approach the 26.2 mile distance of the marathon in my training, I will approach the time it takes to run that distance - a fact almost as important. Its not the distance, per se, that wears a marathoner down, but the sheer number of minutes spent on your feet.

By 15 miles I'm not feeling great. I have a million little aches and pains, and I have developed the hiccups. This is a new one on me. I have to stop completely for a few minutes. I'm stopping for more frequent walk breaks to stretch my back and legs. This run is not going well, and I can't wait for it to be over. The pouring rain has started again and my clothes are clinging to me in ways that makes running difficult. At 15 miles I've turned back to run a 2 mile section of the trail again, to bring my total run up to 20 miles. This repetition is having a dragging psychological effect.

Finally, I reach the end. I walk back up to the park, refill my water bottles at the water fountain, and just sit down. Just relieved to be off my feet.

I sit on the bench at the water fountain, totally spent, flood waters rising around me, ducks swimming at my feet, letting the renewed torrent wash over me.

Washed thoroughly in the rain, I am just grateful that today is over.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Pace Yourself

Why haven't I learned this lesson yet?

The need to pace yourself hit me full in the face early this morning, as a family situation that's been on my mind for the last few months frustrated me yet again. My friends counselled patience and reminded me that wanting to have things settled yesterday is my biggest shortcoming.

The marathon is a race of patience. Not only must you be certain not to start the race too fast, but you must progress slowly in your training. In addition, each workout in training has a prescribed pace aimed at acheiving a specific goal, and going out too fast will almost always destroy the rest of the workout.

Many a time I have started out a long run at a comfortable jog, only to look at my watch 5 miles in to discover I'm running at marathon pace. And the survival shuffle is always implemented in those runs.

Tonight my workout was an 8-mile "lactate threshhold" run. If you want the science of this, visit the website of marathoner and physiologist Pete Pfitzinger. I'll give you the layman's explanation:

If you want to finish a marathon, you can do it. It may take you the time it takes to drive from Washington to Boston, but I promise, barring injury or other medical condition, by gradually working up your mileage over the course of a year or so, you can complete a marathon. But improving your time, or doing something such as qualifying for the Boston Marathon requires you to run relatively fast (in distance running terms) over a very long distance. When you run, your muscles require oxygen to burn fuel for energy. Obviously this is why you breathe hard when working out. But at a certain point (which is different for everyone) your heart can't pump enough oxygenated blood from your lungs to your legs, resulting in your muscles burining fuel without oxygen. Like a panicked scuba diver out of air, they try to breathe in what they can't use, and in doing so, produce something called lactic acid. The buildup of that lactic acid is what makes it feel as if you're running with cement shoes, and also what causes soreness after a workout.

But the funny thing is - if you run at exactly the pace where that lactic acid production begins, you can train your muscles to become more efficient in using available oxygen, and also train your heart to pump more oxygenated blood to your muscles. And you can lower the pace at which that lactic acid is produced, and "push back the wall."

For me right now, that point is a little under 9 minutes per mile. Since my run is a little longer tonight, I should go a little bit slower to ensure I can keep the pace. Say 9:15. But since its 90 degrees with 90 percent humidity today, I'll be working just as hard if I run slower. So I resolve to set out at 10 minutes per mile, and see how I feel.

Pace is vital to this workout. Run too slow and its like tying your scuba-diving muscles to an infinite air supply from the surface. You increase your ability to keep moving over time, but not your speed. Run too fast at the beginning and you drown your muscles in lactic acid too quickly, forcing them to come up for air later in the workout, and forcing you to slow to deliver that air.

No, the only way to push back the needle on the air supply gauge and get faster at the marathon is to pace yourself just right in these workouts.

But since my eyes are bigger than my hamstrings, I nearly always start these workouts too fast.

I start out tonight with the goal in mind to run a quick but comfortable pace for the first mile. Right at about marathon pace, since its so hot. I'm running on the Capital Crescent Trail from Georgetown, a good place for this workout because the trail is marked every half mile, allowing me to pace myself better.

As I run along, thinking I need to hit the first half mile in just under 5 minutes, I start looking for the marker around 4:45. Most of the lower 4 miles of this trail look pretty similar so I'm not sure where it is. At 5:10 I realize I've missed it.

At 8:17, the first mile marker surprises me. I've run almost a minute faster than goal pace for this workout on a good day, let alone a hot and sticky day like this one. I know I can't keep this up. I just hope I haven't done too much damage.

I start the second mile resolved to slow down. When my mind wanders, I bring it back to my cadence. Count steps. Breathe. Relax. Feel comfortable. Don't overdo it. At 4:30 I hit the next half mile. Better, but I still need to slow down. Mile 2 comes up - 9:05. Much better. But I still need to slow down.

It happens between mile 3.5 and 4. I feel like I'm dragging a Hummer. And not the little one either. My chin drops. I'm hitting shuffle-land. I allow it for just a few seconds. Then I lift my head and push on. Finally comes the next mile marker, several hundred feet down the trail from where I thought it was. 9:45. OK. Faster than it felt. I hope I can keep that up.

Here I allow myself a one minute rest. This is a mental break only. Like drowning swimmers, my muscles can take a fleeting gasp as they break the surface, but the next wave is ready to crash down on them. I'm letting them glimpse the life ring and giving them false hope. One minute is not enough time for the metabolic processes of drowning to stop.

I start the next mile. I'm hurting now, but there's a water fountain coming up at the end of this one, which I mentally strive for. 9:20. I'm back on track, but perhaps still too fast. I fill up my water bottle and soak down my shirt in about a minute, then turn back.

Keep the head up. I contemplate taking another minute at the next half mile. I don't know why I do that. Its like a suicidal thought. I know I can't do it, but its an out. I turn it over in my head a while. What would I do? What would it feel like to just stop? I could just end all the hurt right now.

But that half mile comes and I'm at 4:45 seconds, and I know the rewards of finishing this mile will be so much more than stopping. Focus forward. Not at your feet. Keep your head up. I can see the next mile marker. Push it a little. You can stop there. 9:37. Not bad.

I take a minute walk. I feel like a statue when I start again. I could just stay here on the trail as a monument to all the Marine Corps runners who will be training this trail beginning in the next few weeks. What does one leg up on the statue mean? The general died in battle?

But once I start it gets easier. I've never been able to figure out why that happens to me. I feel best at about 5 miles into a workout. While I'm sure there's a scientific reason, I wonder if it just takes that long for my brain to shut down. Neurons all over are perishing because my legs are stealing all the oxygen. I sure can't walk straight at this point when stop to take a quick drink. My ears are ringing.

Still, the last 3 miles come at pace: 9:34, 9:42, 9:45.

I walk up into Georgetown and buy myself a monster burrito from Chipotle.

Was it fast enough to work? I hope so. It was faster than the pace I originally estimated for such a hot day.

But I need to learn to pace myself. That workout probably would have ended without the ringing ears and staggering gate if I hadn't gone out so fast. And even though I completed it, I may have done enough damage to delay recovery for my planned 20-mile run this weekend.

I will pay for my impatience as I always do. I need to learn to know myself, recognize my flaws, and control them.

As Edmund Burke said: Our patience will achieve more than our force.

But part of me still will always see the other side of that coin: Patience has its limits. Take it too far, and it's cowardice. (George Jackson)

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Always Be Prepared

The marathon requires preparation. Unlike the 5K, 10K, or even the half-marathon, all of which can generally be completed by a runner in reasonably good shape without much forethought, just getting through the marathon requires substantial preparation, both physically and mentally. Any oversight, no matter how small, can subject a marathoner to not just a few minutes of discomfort, but 3, 4, 5 hours of pain, injury, and even a dreaded DNF.

As with anything, the goal with the marathon is to make mistakes in practice, so they don't happen when they count.

Learn what pace to run, learn what it feels like to go out too fast, learn what it feels like to have too much in the can at the end.

Figure out if your shorts ride up, if your water belt bugs you, if your shirt chafes, if your socks give you blisters, if your sports drink makes you sick.

I discovered the wisdom of this philosophy during last year's Marine Corps Marathon, when a juicy orange which looked so good at 8 miles, forced me behind a tree at 10 miles, resulting in a 5 minute loss and the destruction of National Park land. (By the way, "stomach upsets" are the secret peril of long-distance running no one talks about. There will be more about such things in this post. For the faint of heart, or those eating lunch, stop reading now.)

So today was my day to test all of those accoutrements which seem as if they are unimportant, but which can make every step of 26.2 miles a living nightmare.

This was a rest week for me - a week where mileage is stepped back to give the body a break. I had a short 15 miler for my long run today. A shorter run would be an ideal time to test the sports drink which will be served on the course July 29, as well as my new race outfit. Long enough for something to potentially go wrong, but not long enough to be an "important" workout which would be ruined by Murphy's Law.

First off - I'll admit it. I have Flo Jo aspirations. Maybe its my early life as a sprinter. But I love to have a new outfit for each important race. I like to look like one bad mother. I like my fingernails to match my outfit. I like my hair to be "unique." It makes me feel fast. I won't apologize for that.

So yesterday I headed to the local sports superstore to pick out my outfit. This particular chain carried Under Armour, a brand which I love for its attention to detail such as flat seams. In a marathon, even something as small as the construction of a seam can have a life-altering impact. Too rough and after 50,000 steps you'll find yourself with a stinging abrasion like a hot pan laid on your inner thigh or armpit.

I have two things to get today: A new "bad mother" top, and a pair of shorts to replace the pair I have been so loyal to that I've worn a hole in them. The top I pick out is a fitted v-neck tank top with a mesh back, which I figure will be very cooling during the summer marathon I'm running. The reason I choose it is that the side seams have been rotated around to the back, which means there is nothing for my inner arms to brush against. It's also day-glo orange, which means if I get lost in the woods on my first trail marathon, search and rescue will be able to find me. Unfortunately, I can't find the exact pair of shorts I'm looking for. I try on several other pairs but all have piping along the bottom hem which I know will lead to chafing or bunching, and after my recent weight gain I no longer feel comfortable going with the compression shorts Under Armour is known for. Clenching my butt for 26.2 miles will certainly slow me down.

My next stop is the local triathlon store, Bonzai Sports, which carries the brand of sports drink and gel that will be served in the marathon - HEED (High Energy Electrolyte Drink) and Hammer Gel, by Hammer Nutrition. I've never heard of this before but its apparently popular in multi-sport circles and trail racing. The copy on the website promises limited stomach upset, a problem I always have with Gatorade, so I am looking forward to trying it.

Sunday morning dawns and my alarm goes off at 6:00. I am loathe to get up so early on a weekend but the forecast high for today is 94 degrees, and I need to get going. My plan fails, and I don't get out the door until 8:00, which means I won't be running until 8:30, as I am driving to the Mt. Vernon Trail. Given about 2:30 to run 15 miles, I'll be running until 11:00, well into the heat of the day. Already I've made a mistake I've made many times before.

I hit the trail with my HEED, two packets of Hammer Gel, and my new shirt. Since it's a short day, I'd like to hit most miles at near marathon pace, around 10:00 per mile. Two miles into the run, and the heat forces me to slow to just above shuffle pace. I can't believe how hot it is this early. But I figure slowing's ok, as its a rest week anyway. I'll just put in the miles. But its yet another mistake to assume I could hit marathon pace in heat like today. If I'd been bullheaded and kept going at that pace I'd never complete the workout.

2 miles later, and I'm overcome by wicked lower abdominal cramps. I have to stop and walk. My first instinct is to blame the HEED, and I start trying to decide if I should give it another chance or come up with a strategy to carry enough of my own Gatorade on the marathon course. 50/50 solution of gatorade is all my stomach has proven able to handle in the past. Even Gatorade Endurance Formula makes me sick.

I'm also trying to decide if I should turn back towards the start and the bathroom, or keep going. The cramps have subsided after a couple of minutes of walking, so I decide to keep going. I start shuffling, and feel ok. I decide I'll go to the next water fountain a mile and a half away and see how I feel. I may never have quit a workout, but I always like to have an intermediate "see how you feel" goal. By the time I get there, I never feel as bad as I did when I was pondering quitting.

I get close to the water fountain and I am convinced I need to stop at a bathroom, but by now, I'm closer to the bathroom I'll pass at my turnaround point near Mt. Vernon than the bathroom in the park I started at. So I keep moving. I've picked up a little speed, but not too much, as going too fast will often literally run the **** right out of me. I'm drinking nothing but water now.

I get to the bathroom and wait for relief. None comes. This is the second time this has happened to me in two weeks. As soon as I stop moving, my gastrointestinal distress stops. Maybe I should take that as a sign.

I can't decide what to do. Do I throw an extra two miles into my run by going all the way to Mt. Vernon and back, hoping that those two miles will induce an emergency by the time I pass this bathroom again? Or do I just head back to the start? I decide to head back. There's always the woods.

Sure enough, a mile and half later, I'm in a bad way again. I start eyeing the trees but this stretch of the trail is right on the Potomac, so there's not much cover and its swampy besides. Plus I'm pretty sure if I keep leaving presents in national parks I'm going to get arrested at some point. I'm about a quarter mile from Ft. Hunt park at this point, and I figure there must be another bathroom there, although I've never seen one right on the trail. I get there and look at a map of the park. Sure enough, there's a bathroom just up a side road. I am relieved.

As I ponder this situation in the bathroom, I gradually come to the conclusion that it's not the HEED that's doing this to me, since I've had nothing but water since my first bout of cramps, and I'm still sick. It must have been the cheesy southwest spring rolls and apple martini I had a Ruby Tuesday before a movie last night. In fact, as I sat at dinner, I thought to myself "I hope this doesn't screw up my run tomorrow" but dismissed it since it was "only" a 15 mile run. I've made another mistake I had no reason to make. I committed the sin of pride. 15 miles? Old hat. Go ahead and have that junk.

I'm back out on the trail now, and have picked up the pace substantially. 4 miles to the next water fountain at typical long-run pace. The sun's hot, but my new shirt is doing an excellent job of keeping me cool. I've soaked it down with cold water from the fountain and feel refreshed.

I'm in the shaded section of the trail now, with 2 miles to go to home, when another rookie mistake comes back to haunt me. Last week, for my 18 miler, in a rush to get out the door, I put on cotton socks with a heavy seam. I ended up with a dime-sized blister on my pinky toe. Today, even though I'm wearing my double-layered poly Wright Socks turned inside-out so the seam will not rub my toes, plus a fresh Hello Kitty Band-Aid, the Band-Aid has come loose, and my toe forces me to stop. I remove the shoe and sock and try to reaffix the Band-Aid, but it will not stick as my feet are soaked and white with trenchfoot from the drenching they've gotten as I've splashed water on myself at the water stops. Its time to start duct-taping my feet.

I do finish the workout. But at a price much higher than the simple act of running for 15 miles. Marathoning is a sport of discipline, and I've lost that. Its time to turn the screws. No dairy. Cut the fiber. No alcohol. No sugar. Carbo-load and rest before the long-runs. Apply duct-tape liberally.

Running a marathon is like many things you face in life then. But if you prepare yourself this way, there's nothing you can't get through. Eat well, rest a lot, and use duct-tape to hold the rest together.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Just Get Through It

Stop.

Read no further if:

1. You've never survived anything (but I guess that precludes you from reading)
2. You've never needed an escape
3. You're happy sitting on your couch instead of living

On the other hand, if you need a way to get through life, if you have something you can use to keep your sanity, if you consider yourself an endurance athlete just for getting through the day, read on.

I'm a runner. After 30 years, that's how I've come to define myself. I say that because I need to run. A fact I've only discovered recently.

It started because my father ran the mile in high school. I signed up for track in junior high, and I ran the mile. I wasn't very good. But I loved being outside after school, bus trips with my friends, and the trophy cinders in my knees I won after falling at a meet.

I went to college and I continued to run. I never missed a practice. I had switched to the 400 meter hurdles by now, and I still wasn't very good. But I showed up. Every single day. I started running cross country for off-season training. I ran in the summer at home. Didn't feel like doing homework? It was time for a run!

Then I graduated and life got in the way. I didn't feel like running much. I got out of it. I gained 20 pounds. I ran a 5K here and there, never placing very high.

But the funny thing was I still told people I was a runner. I talked about running college track as if I'd been Flo Jo. When I won my age group in a 5K by virtue of being the only entrant, I hung my medal proudly on the wall at work. Calling myself a runner communicated in one word who I wanted to be:

Determined, Hard, Tough, Dedicated, Strong, Not-Someone-To-Mess-Around-With

I did my best to act that way. But the fact of the matter was I could barely complete 3 miles. I entered a 10K and walked most of the second half with an 80 year old man who outsprinted me at the end. I felt like a fraud.

In 2002, my husband, an Army Reservist was sent to the Middle East as the war in Iraq was gearing up. Most soldiers will disagree with me, but I almost would have rather been there at war than sitting home completely by myself in the dark winter wondering what was going on over there.

One November night, I decided I had enough sitting around. The inertia of depression is the most powerful force known to man, but I decided I couldn't bear the weight anymore. With the force required to bench-press your own body weight, I pulled myself up off the couch, laced up my shoes, and went for a run.

When I did that, I finally became a RUNNER. It didn't matter that I hadn't yet taken a step. Or that racing was the furthest thing from my mind. I went out and ran. In the rain. In the dark. Coming inside mud-caked, soaked to the bone, and shivering felt more alive than my dead house.

Every night from then on, when I returned home from work to my empty house where the silence was louder than a howitzer, I ran.

I listened to my breath. I counted my steps.

Some people like to think on a run. For me it became a meditation - a way to clear my mind. I eliminated all worry and terror - the viruses of anxiety and depression that will invade your soul with bile.

They always came back. But on a run, I was free for a few minutes.

My husband came home, but the problems didn't stop. If you think the familes who are reunited after Iraq have made it through their test and live happily ever after, you are very mistaken. Because its then that the test finally begins in earnest. Like the second 10 miles of a marathon, the following years were filled with introspection, self-analysis, self-flaggelation, and doubt that the end will ever come.

So I kept running. I signed up for the Army 10 miler in an effort to push myself from jogging once around our community lake (a distance of 2 miles). The farther I pushed, the more I started to wonder where my boundary actually lay. It didn't seem to be anywhere in sight.

I finished the Army Ten Miler, and decided to see what I could do. I tackled a marathon. And 16 miles into my first 20 mile training run, I had to implement the "Survival Shuffle."

The Survival Shuffle is a useful technique for getting through a run that my college cross-country coach taught me. I was out on my first run with the team. I'd never run longer than 10 minutes at a time. And here I was doing 45. At altitude in Colorado. I fell far behind, and the coach, running with us, turned back to get me. He told me to slow it down, barely picking my feet off the ground, just putting one foot in front of the other. It was more important to finish the workout than to go too fast and not complete it. He told me to "Just get through it" instead of worrying about being so far behind. He ran the rest of the course with me. He encouraged me to pick it up when I came out of hypoxia. He pushed me a little harder.

Every workout from then on, I got better. Eventually I kept up with everyone else. But whenever I felt like giving up on a long, tough day, I would say to myself "Survival Shuffle" and slow it down for a few steps, sometimes for the rest of the workout. Whatever it took to get through it.

I shuffled the last 2 miles of my first marathon, and the last mile of my second. Just this last weekend I shuffled the last mile of an 18 mile run. But I have never quit a race or a workout.

Six months ago I stopped running as often when life again started to get in the way, thinking my marathon days were over. 15 pounds and much unhappiness later, I realized that I need to run, or at least to shuffle. I'm now training for my third marathon. The family and job situation will dictate what exactly comes after that, but I know I'll never stop running again. But for now, I'm concentrating on getting through the last 6 weeks of training.

I decided to start this blog to share not only the training experiences and tips you can find in any number of places on the Web, but also to share how it affects my life.

And to remind us all to slow down and catch our breath.