The Pink Shoes

It’s early in the Dublin marathon, and I am running through Phoenix Park in my pink-trimmed shoes (see Bring the Mizunos and Throw in Some Magic Jelly Beans). I feel the pavement beneath my feet. Rain has stained the road dark and left shallow puddles. I feel the breeze on my face, and a few stray raindrops. I see the still-green trees and rolling meadows. I focus on a runner ahead of me, a young woman. Her shoes kick up a fine spray. I think about my shoes, still fairly pristine. All around me are runners, thousands in front of me and behind me on the course. I realize this is what my shoes are for.

Later, they get indiscriminately soaked as I walk back to the hotel through a postrace downpour. In my room, I peel one sock gingerly away from my heel, which is caked with blood. My mother notices the red stain spread across the back of my shoe. “Oh, on your new shoes!” she says.

I smile and reply, “They’ve been christened.”

Event Recap in Long

I was going to name this entry “Event Recap in Brief,” but then I decided to let it all out. After all, I’m not forcing anyone to read this. (Although I ought to offer chocolate to everyone who finishes!) So here’s the story, not so briefly.



Notice the slogan



First, it’s always hard coming off a marathon. I don’t often deal with sore muscles anymore, but lots of other sore parts. I always have a bad headache and general body aches the next day. It doesn’t hurt worse when I move or bend; it feels more like the beginning stages of a cold. And the initial glory of finishing the race fades quickly, leaving an emptiness in its place, a restlessness, a nagging “what are you going to do next?” That’s the worst soreness. I once told a friend that the really addicting part of marathon running happens within about 10 minutes of crossing the finish line, so it’s a lot of work for a short (but intense!!) reward. She pointed out that scrapbooking and other types of crafting provide much longer payoffs—and I’m not going to argue with that.



On the plane from Dublin, ready to give up the ghost

So, you finish, you taste the glory, and then what? Since I was in Ireland, what I did the next day was go out on a bus tour of the countryside south of Dublin. And the day after that I flew home. But I’m still restless and out of place. It’s hard to return to the daily routine. Fortunately, this time, I have another race coming up soon. Unfortunately, the next one is not in Europe!



Dun Laoghaire (“Dun Leary”)



Now, let’s backtrack a little. I arrived in Ireland with two pressing missions: (1) get to the race expo at the RDS in Ballsbridge, Dublin 4 (which turns out to be the Royal Dublin Society convention hall south of downtown Dublin), to pick up my race number with the timing chip and my final instructions, and (2) find something (preferably hairspray, but I was ready to be creative) to put some colored streaks in my hair for race day. I checked in at the hotel so I could dump my backpack, and then I set out, afraid that if I stopped to rest I’d have trouble getting up again. I had mapped out the route from the hotel to the expo beforehand. It would be about 3.5 miles roundtrip, so I decided to walk it rather than untangle the complexities of the bus system.

It developed into an interesting journey. Most of my photos come either from this walk or from the bus tour. I never took a picture on the day of the marathon. Within a block of the hotel, I found a promising convenience store and stopped in to check out the food supply and inquire about the hours. Yay, it was open late and early … so I was going to be able to eat. I continued on, cycling between a sense of urgency (night was coming, the expo would be closing, and heck, I had to remember that I was running a marathon the next day) and irresistible engagement in my surroundings. So much to see! Dublin, I missed you! I had a guidebook in my purse, but I navigated from my memory of the maps I had already studied and my previous visit to the city. I had a good sense of where I was headed. I almost couldn’t believe how familiar it all seemed, and I wondered how I had forgotten what a great city Dublin is … how could it have taken me four years to come back?



On the way to the expo



For a while, I pushed away the urge to zip out my camera. Once I get started with that toy, I can’t seem to put it away. I keep seeing new images that absolutely must be captured on film. I finally took it out to photograph an ad on the side of a bus. The ad promoted an American movie, and I found something about the wording amusing. But I can’t remember what, and I can’t refer to the picture, because after trying to get exactly the right angle and zoom and then racing against the movement of the bus as it began to pull away from the curb, I managed to take a shot I felt satisfied with. I browsed through my pictures to delete the failed attempts and accidentally deleted the good one, too. Oh, well. That should have taught me to put my camera away and get on with my errand. But I kept popping it out now and then.

 

Miraculously, I managed to make it all the way to the expo. I realized I was getting close when I started seeing clusters of people carrying bags with the marathon logo. I arrived at the convention center without consulting my map—and once inside the expo, I found I still needed my navigation skills.

As usual for such events, the layout required me to skirt an impressive collection of vendor booths offering running-related products, from apparel to training tips. I found my way to the second level to pick up my race number and then descended the stairs on the other side of the hall, ending up right in front of the sales area for official marathon merchandise. Now, you always get a T-shirt for running; it’s a given. So why would you need more marathon paraphernalia, at an extra cost? Last time I ran in Dublin, in 2007, I got drawn in and splurged on a marathon sweatshirt and a hat. I had buyer’s remorse as I figured the cost in dollars, but the sweatshirt soon became a treasured possession as I learned I hadn’t packed warm enough clothes on that trip! This time, I had packed better and I resisted all the alluring shirts and hats. It may have helped that I overheard one of the sales representatives telling a potential customer that they had already sold out nearly everything. No—I’m sure it was my willpower at work.

On the way back to the hotel, I tried to focus on my second mission, finding something to streak my hair purple and green. Sadly, I had no luck, although in the next two days, after the race, I passed several shops offering Halloween costumes. That’s Murphy’s law at work in its native land.

Back at the hotel, I passed the evening in a blur. I woke up to sunlight at 7:30 a.m. Ireland time, 3:30 a.m. my time. I got dressed and ate breakfast while I watched a morning news show on the BBC. I saw the weather report a few times without the details ever sinking in. I did notice that the forecaster kept mentioning something about a band of showers.

With 14,000 runners registered, the marathon would start in three waves. I had been assigned to wave 2 based on previous marathon finish times, and my wave was scheduled to be let loose at 9:55. I crossed the starting line about 8 minutes after the elite runners.

And what a crowd! Even with the staggered start times, the course was choked. (Here’s a link to some video showing the pack at mile 5: http://mysports.tv/default2.asp?e=DM11M&n=ESPLIN+AMBER&r=4139&nt_s1=&ct_s1=&nt_s2=00:50:26&ct_s2=10:45:34&nt_s3=02:02:23&ct_s3=11:57:31&nt_s4=02:50:45&ct_s4=12:45:53&nt_s5=&ct_s5=&nt_s6=&ct_s6=&nt_s7=&ct_s7=&nt_s8=&ct_s8=&nt_s9=&ct_s9=&nt_s10=&ct_s10=&nt_s11=&ct_s11=&nt_s12=&ct_s12=&nt_s13=&ct_s13=&nt_s14=&ct_s14=&nt_s15=&ct_s15=&nt_s16=&ct_s16=&nt_s17=&ct_s17=&nt_s18=&ct_s18=&nt_s19=&ct_s19=&nt_s20=&ct_s20=&nt_s21=&ct_s21=&nt_s22=&ct_s22=&nt_s23=&ct_s23=&nt_s24=&ct_s24=&nt_s25=&ct_s25=&nt_s26=&ct_s26=&nt_s27. The truth is, it looks a little scary from on high … worse that it did from my perspective!) I let the crowd provide me with an excuse to stay slow and easy as we ran through my favorite part of the course, a several-mile stretch through Phoenix Park northwest of the city. At mile 11, I was feeling good and relaxed; in fact, it occurred to me around that mile marker that I had achieved a state of Nirvana, which felt wonderful and was, unfortunately, not going to do much for my finish time. After I passed the big clock at the halfway point, I convinced myself to speed up and push a bit. I adopted a new approach: boxed in I may be, but I couldn’t run frustrated. Have you ever found yourself driving down the interstate on a road trip listening to some good music and enjoying the ride, only to realize you are following a driver going 45 mph? Feeling relaxed is great, but you’re trying to get somewhere, and you have to wake up and pass! I decided I had to keep finding the gap to pass runners going at a slower pace than I wanted to maintain. It’s hard for me to pass in a crowded field because I’m a lifelong klutz. But I kept to my goal of not running frustrated, and I knocked only a few people down … OK, I didn’t knock anyone down (!), and I bumped only a few arms; I hope the wind didn’t whip away my instinctive exclamations of “Sorry!”

The field remained crowded all the way to the end, and the spectator support stayed consistent as well. This race had no long, lonely stretches on country roads or forested bike trails where it’s a struggle to keep some other runners in sight. Spectators lined most of the 26.2-mile course and shouted their encouragement. In Ireland, cheering comes out in phrases like “Well done, lads,” and “Brilliant—you’re running brilliantly!” (Is the latter a reference to the mental strain or to a marathon glow perhaps related to a sheen of sweat?) But I also heard the typical (and usually false) assertion that we were “almost there” and the call to “finish strong.” In the last couple of miles, the shouts of “almost there” made me wonder if I had missed a mile marker; I seemed to have been “almost there” for a long time without ever getting “there.” I owe extra gratitude to one spectator standing across from the 25-mile marker who kept his arm up to point out the sign to passing runners (it was turned sideways, and in the midst of the crowd, it was hard to spot).

As long as they may seem, marathons are finite; the last two miles may feel like four, but eventually you reach the finish line, and suddenly, so suddenly you can’t really believe it, it’s all over. I had enough of my intellect intact to smile during the last few yards in hopes of getting a good finish photo, and then I was approaching two young female volunteers handing out medals. The girl who gave me my medal actually placed the ribbon around my neck, a special gesture as it brings to mind an Olympian achievement. Next, another volunteer directed me farther into the finish chute to pick up my T-shirt, and bless her, she recommended an extra small. I collected my goody bag from a grandfatherly man wearing a court jester’s hat complete with bells on the ends of the multicolored prongs. I smiled and told him I liked his hat, and he gave me a hug and wished me a happy Halloween.

So I got to enjoy some postmarathon glory before the downpour started. I was making my way out of the narrow gate at the end of the finish chute when the rain stopped playing around and grew earnest. Outside the finish chute, the crowd was pressing toward the stream of exiting runners, searching for their family members and friends. I tried to slip through the tangle of people so I could orient myself, but when I found a sign pointing the way back across the River Liffey, which I had to cross to return to my hotel, I found my route blocked by the marathon course. I worked my way down, paralleling the course and the river, but I feared losing myself in the rain and my postrace frenzy; I didn’t know how long I’d need to walk in that direction before I could get around the street closures and turn north to reach one of the river bridges. And in that chilly rain, I didn’t want to take a single step or spend a single moment that wasn’t moving me toward my new finish line: the front door of my hotel. After about 40 minutes of walking, I stepped onto the hotel porch and met a couple coming out through the front doors. One of them held a door open for me and congratulated me with a “Well done!” I was wearing my race number and my medal, so it was easy to spot me as a marathon runner, but I still think the hardest part of what I did that day was making it back to the hotel. The congratulatory phrase wasn’t specific to my accomplishment, but it was specific to me, so I guess I get to take the kudos any way I want. Anyway, I needed a little encouragement then; that kind stranger couldn’t have any idea how much.

Back in my hotel room, I broke down in sobs while my mom tried to offer comfort. Could she help me get some of my wet clothes off? Had the whole marathon been miserable? She must have thought I was pretty squirrely. I couldn’t express anything coherent until after I’d spent some quality time in a hot shower. After that, I put on a rain jacket and a hood over dry clothes, and we went out to get some postrace food (thank goodness for the close convenience stores, with their wares of fruit, yogurt, sandwiches, and my ultimate lifesaver, diet soda). The rain had let up some, but the skies stayed thick with crowds and the approach of dusk. Another marathon over; a great medal; a T-shirt I hadn’t really looked at yet … and it was time to reflect. I finished in 3:50:08, not bad, not great, not Boston qualifying, about halfway between my best and worst times ever. Well, a little closer to my best time, so that’s something. (Results are available at http://dublinmarathon.ie/results.php; my race number was 4139.)

Before the downpour had shut off all thoughts but those of reaching the hotel, I had overheard some runners talking about their finish times. One of them lamented that he never managed to run the marathon quite as quickly as he hoped. “And this time I did everything right,” he explained. He slept right, he ate right; he couldn’t have been better prepared. I’m skeptical about whether there’s a right way to go into a marathon. Certainly, there are lots of wrong ways. It helps to get some sleep, if not the night before, at least in the nights leading up to the race. It helps to get some food in before the run, and it’s tricky figuring out what works in your body, what gives you some energy without causing digestive problems along the route, once your intestines have been shaken around for a good spell. (Thank goodness for port-a-potties.) But what’s the right way? I don’t know. I haven’t solved that puzzle yet, and maybe this runner hasn’t either. I just know that crossing the finish line feels good, so good it’s addictive, and when you cross and you can’t believe the finish clock because there’s no way you thought you could ever run that fast, well, that feels amazing. But being close to your goal is addictive, too, maybe like sitting at a slot machine in Vegas. Oh, I’ve almost got it—that jackpot is just around the corner! It’s a reason to keep running, to put your body through the stress another time. Because who knows, a new PR (“personal record”) could be there in your future, if only you keep putting one foot in front of the other.

The tote bag my T-shirt came in is bright red. The Spar convenience store logo covers the bottom, and above that, a big smiley face tops the words “I’m glad I got out and ran!” I don’t think I could sum it up any better.

Dublin Calling

It seemed night was always coming on, the sky turning overcast by four, near dark by five, promising the approach of winter.

The weather swung between dampness, downpour, chill wind, and mildness (“I can’t believe how warm it is,” exclaimed one of the runners early in the marathon—before the atmosphere shifted again). Rapid contrasts mirrored a city of contrasts: brooding clouds low over the gray stone of Trinity College and the sad columns of the Bank of Ireland; blue lights strung through trees standing soft and dark just off a main road; students, tourists, revelers coursing through the neighborhoods, spilling in and out of the erratic streets of Temple Bar; Georgian mansions with bright yellow or red doors; cathedral spires rising above Spar convenience stores and Burger Kings; green fireworks for Halloween; green lights under a bridge across the River Liffey, just because.

Bright and dark, graceful and pushy, cheerful and tragic, hedonistic and soulful. Familiar and still disorienting, Dublin is the only foreign city I’ve ever visited twice (outside the confines of a school group).





Beautiful Dublin, I was sad to leave, and anxious still to come home.

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!