Monday Monster Mash Marathon Madness (in Color)

Time grows short … I keep reminding myself to take my passport (but will I remember when it’s important?) … it seems I won’t have a chance to write all I wanted about my LAST trip to Dublin—

Like how the hotel I booked mainly for its low price turned out to be fortuitously located, in spite of its distance from downtown Dublin. I found out after I arrived that it was only a short walk from a rec center, where I could keep up with my non-marathon daily exercise routine; it was next to a huge shopping center that included the Irish equivalent of a super-Walmart (convenient for groceries); and it was an easy commute from the LDS meetinghouse, where I attended Sunday services and met a few other visitors (English and American) in town for the marathon. Ah, the Ardmore: what MORE could I ask for?

And there’s the Canadian actress I met on my day tour into the countryside. What a great companion for a hike around the lake. And the American couple I shared a table with during the Musical Pub Crawl. They had come to cheer for their son in the marathon. Did you know Irish bagpipes are different from Scottish bagpipes? The pipes rest across the musician’s lap, and the pump goes under the armpit. It makes for a fun visual performance as well as some cool music!

And there’s … and there’s … uh, there’s my ride to the airport?

Check back next week for pictures and stories from Dublin!

Don’t Fear the Distance (Only the Spitting)

If I ever see an issue of the magazine “Runner’s World” in a waiting room, my eyes zero in and my hands want to follow. I could pick it up and read every story and never even notice my name being called for my appointment. But I don’t. I specifically restrain myself from reading “Runner’s World.” It’s too dangerous.

So it was kind of stupid of me to allow myself to watch almost all of the documentary film “Spirit of the Marathon” the other night. I should know better. Sure, it’s compelling, runners talking about running—amateur runners and elite runners, too, and all of them sounding eerily alike. Predictably, I ended up hearing something I should not have heard: a number. A weekly mileage. Now I have to remind myself, hold on, that was from one of the elite runners. I am not an elite runner! Repeat, I am not an elite runner! But one of the amateur runners talked about always wanting to achieve a new PR (that’s “personal record,” not “public relations”). I know the feeling. Maybe running just attracts obsessiveness and then amplifies it. All I know is I avoid reading “Runner’s World” because no matter how many miles per week I’m running at the time, it just never seems like enough.

It all becomes so serious. I get tunnel vision. There’s running, and there’s running, and there’s … not much else. And it’s ironic, because one of the things I love about running is the expansiveness, the freedom, the sense that I can suspend some of the usual rules of life in order to accomplish a meaningful goal. In regular life, I wouldn’t want someone spitting out bright red Powerade in my direction. In a marathon, hey, who cares? (Well, it’s not so good if it’s windy. But otherwise, at least the stuff is a pretty color!)

Earlier this year I had the opportunity to complete four marathons in a little over two months. I called it my “Marathon Blitz.” And I found that with each race, my anxiety decreased. The hurdle didn’t seem quite so high. I didn’t have to remind myself as often that although a marathon is long, it is also finite. Running in the spring chill of an April morning in Charlottesville, Virginia, I thought, “This is fun. This is the biggest party ever!” I guess it was appropriate that later in that same race I met a runner dressed up as Elvis who kept me company for the last six miles or so, in between singing a few bars for the cheering spectators along the route.

It’s so easy to build up expectations. I run and I push: faster, faster! OK, I feel awful, and maybe I’d feel better if I could just slow down … only I can’t, I can’t, because yesterday I went this fast.

In Dublin I won’t be wearing a watch. I won’t have a treadmill where I can enter my desired miles (or kilometers) per hour. If I end up with a good time, great. But the good time I really want, the good time that’s my most sincere goal, is the kind that means having fun.

There are going to be 14,000 runners, so—let Dublin be the biggest party ever!!

I Did See the Bayeux Tapestry

When I was in Ireland last time, I did not see the Book of Kells. What is the Book of Kells? I’m not sure. It’s something really old. I picture it being large. The guidebooks make much of it.

I don’t usually worry about seeing the big tourist sights. I figure the marathon itself and the attendant errands, e.g., finding the expo to pick up the race number, provide interesting views of the city I’m visiting. So I don’t feel guilty about not seeing the Book of Kells. Only then I think about the Bayeux Tapestry.

In college I studied French, and I spent a term in France with a group of other students. We took a bus trip through Normandy and Bretagne (I can’t call it Brittany) and stopped in the little town of Bayeux, which is most famous for its tapestry depicting the Norman invasion of England. The tapestry is long and narrow and runs along the wall in a dimmed room (to preserve it from the effects of strong light), and it wrapped me up in its tale from a thousand years ago. The tapestry itself is almost as old. It taught me that William the Conqueror was the legitimate heir to the English throne. I can still picture the image of the king of England on his deathbed. The people around him, who planned to go on living, weren’t keen on yielding to a French guy. It would be an adjustment. My sophomore English teacher explained that when William took over, the English people stopped sweating and began to perspire. Yes, perspiration is French; sweat is not.

I would not have wanted to miss the Bayeux Tapestry.

A friend once told me about some people he knew who had gone to Bayeux and had not seen the tapestry. What? They didn’t see the Bayeux Tapestry? They ran out of time. My friend and I both scoffed. We couldn’t believe they’d used their time so poorly.

So, I don’t know ... this time in Ireland, I may try to see the Book of Kells. Maybe.

Bring the Mizunos and Throw in Some Magic Jelly Beans

Saturday afternoon I’m waiting for a free sales associate in the specialty running store because buying a new pair of running shoes is on today’s must-do list … only I keep getting distracted. The store is maybe the busiest I’ve ever seen it. I drift around catching bits of conversations: one guy explaining that he’s jogging about three miles a day now, a couple discussing the carbohydrate information they’re reading off the packets of energy gels and caffeinated jelly beans. Finally the wife asks a passing salesperson, “Do you have anything that’s low glycemic?” I hear her apologetic “I know this may sound weird,” but I don’t hear the salesperson’s reply. I can’t help being drawn myself to the array of edible goods. It’s sort of like being in a candy store, only not the conventional kind—more like a Harry Potter version, with unexpected concoctions that many a runner hopes will prove magical two or three hours into a four-hour race.

If this were my first time in a running store, I probably wouldn’t wait around. The cheerful chaos and tight quarters would have intimidated me a few years ago, when I felt wobbly in my identity as a runner. I remember the guy who helped me select my first pair of high-quality shoes. I can still picture him, even though I’ve never been back to the same store. I remember the novelty of being sent out onto the sidewalk with unpurchased $100 shoes on my feet so that he could watch me run in them. Back then it was a whole new world opening up; it was me doing things I’d never believed I could do. Now I shift between annoyance and interest, but I stay firmly in my comfort zone as I eye the neon green dry-wicking shirt towards the back of the store, where the apparel beckons.

It is a milestone of sorts. Not as thrilling as the Thanksgiving weekend a few years back when I first ran two miles continuously, with no walking breaks (woohoo, I knew then I could someday earn one of those cool T-shirts they give to runners of 5Ks, and all other running events worth participating in). Still, it’s something, standing here in a crowd of runners and feeling I have nothing to prove. The atmosphere, the talk, the brand names are all familiar. I haven’t stumbled into this world by accident; I’m part of it.

And apparently I’m blending in too well. I’m going to have to stop floating around, put down the box of magic jelly beans, and flag down a sales associate. After all, my request can be filled quickly: I know exactly what I want. I’ve been wearing the same kind of shoes ever since I bought my first Mizunos at that first running specialty store I ever visited, the one I’ve never been back to. And I’m determined now to take a fresh pair on my trip to Ireland for the Dublin marathon next week—I’ve built up too much sweat and blood on my current pair to haul them overseas. They’d be a hazard on the plane.

I’ve been to Ireland before. I ran the Dublin marathon in 2007 as my first marathon outside the United States. Since then I’ve run marathons in Norway, Iceland, and the Netherlands, and I’m registered for the 2012 Stockholm marathon. But I have good memories of Dublin, and I got nostalgic sometime this spring when I was running on a treadmill watching CNN coverage of the Queen’s visit to Ireland. Her green suit really got to me. It clinched the deal somehow. Not that I have one like it to wear on my trip ... but I’m going to try for some green hair. No one ever thinks anything you do during a marathon is too weird. So I want to run with green and purple stripes in my hair. (Green for Ireland, purple for me: my favorite color.)

Finally a newly freed sales associate spots me and offers to help. I put in my order for Mizuno Wave Riders and tell him the size, and while he’s in the back retrieving the shoes, several other salespeople ask me if I’ve been helped.

When he returns with a shoe box, I insist I don’t need to try the shoes on. I’m ready to finish my errand. He gives me special treatment and rings me up right away, and it turns out I have good timing. The shoes are less expensive than usual because the next model of Wave Riders is on the verge of debuting. I must always remember to buy running shoes at the end of October.

Before he sends me off with my purchase, he takes the shoes out of the box to double check the size. That’s when I see the trim is pink this time. Here’s a trick-or-treat involved in buying Mizunos: they are always coming out with new colors of trim, but only one color scheme at a time. So you get what you get, but chances are it’s different from what you’ve had before. For sure I’ve never had pink. I’m not pleased this time. It seems too delicate and girly. I’m going to be scared to subject these shoes to the trauma of sweaty feet (oh, it sounds so much more noble to say “blood, sweat, and tears,” although the tears rarely get all the way down to the shoes).

Monday morning I don’t dare wear my new shoes. I slog through my morning run in my old, familiar ones. I tell a friend I can’t wear pink shoes. And she reminds me pink is for supporting breast cancer research and those affected by breast cancer. I didn’t think of that. I decide maybe I like the pink trim.

And she reminds me that Sharpie pens come in lots of colors. Hmm, I wonder if they can color hair?

On to Dublin!