What It Is All For ...

My reward for surviving the Stockholm Marathon was a gift of beauty. Take a look at the pictures below, from our cruise through the archipelago toward Finland, and none of my harrowing marathon stories could convince you it wasn’t worth it.

On the cruise

Our boat, the Cinderella II

At Sandhamn, the last stop before Finland

Ready for some tennis?

I want to go to summer camp here (as long as I have lots of warm clothes with me).

The islands in the archipelago provide good settings for summer homes.

I bought lunch at this little grocery store.

And Just as I Was Leaving, the Sun Came Out

Rain splattered the windows of the bus as it drove from the Stockholm airport into the city. I peered out at the dense gray sky. Somehow, whenever I had imagined my trip to Sweden, I had pictured Stockholm sunny.

Outside the bus at the Central Terminal, the cold penetrated my two jackets, making me hunch my shoulders and scurry for shelter—as much as it is possible to scurry with luggage. I guess I blame the cold for distracting me so that I missed the sign pointing from the bus terminal to the adjacent train station. Whatever the culprit, it seemed to take me as long to travel from the bus dropoff point to my hotel as it had taken to fly to Sweden.

By the time I reached my hotel room, I had no desire to go outside again into that inhospitable weather, especially to brave the crowded train system once more and find my way to the marathon packet pickup. But I didn’t want things piling up for the morning, when my anxiety would already be high. I went back out into the storm. The rain had lessened somewhat. Still, I walked as quickly as possible from the train station to the marathon expo. I kept telling myself it would be better tomorrow … anyway, there was no point in thinking otherwise.

The next morning dawned early, around 3 am. I kept my eyes on the window. No rain, at first. And then a few drops. And then a few more. By the time I left for the marathon, the rain fell steadily. I had received a white baseball cap labeled Oasics Stockholm Marathon with my marathon packet, and I decided to put it on. It afforded some relief, deflecting the drops out of my face. But in the first miles of the run, I felt the wind snatching at it. I should have tried to fasten it with my barrettes. Too late—near the 5-km mark, the wind got greedy and carried the cap off and away.

I held out hope that the rain would let up, only it didn’t, and the wind blew cold, and the sky framed the world in bleakness. I didn’t believe that the sun had ever shone on Stockholm. Around the halfway point, I glimpsed a row of port-a-potties and decided to stop (not a poetic detail, but real). The storm sounded even worse from inside the little box. The wind ripped at the roof and the rain pounded at it. I found that my hands had frozen into claws. I listened to the elements swirling inches away, and I knew: I could not go back out there. I was stuck. I was alone. I couldn’t go on, but I had to.

Because I was in a port-a-potty …

in a park …

in a foreign city …

on the coldest June day in 50 years …

with no money on me (lesson here?) …

and there was only one way out of my nightmare.

I burst out the door and hit the pavement running, and I did not stop until I reached the finish line inside the Olympic stadium from the 1912 Stockholm games. Even then, I permitted only brief delays. I exhaled heartfelt thanks to the volunteers who cut off my timing chip and handed me a yellow “Finisher” T-shirt (to stand in for the sun, my mother said) and a recovery packet containing fluids and snacks. I gushed even deeper thanks to the volunteer who retrieved my bag from the bag check. I pulled out my two jackets and my subway card and hurled myself toward the train station. On the subway, I stood shivering. Someone asked me about the marathon, about how I did. I couldn’t really answer.

“Too cold,” he said.

“Yes.” But I was finished—in the better sense.

Night of the marathon, still standing

The next morning, I was still alive. The air had less ice in it and fewer rain drops, but I rode the train to Gamla Stan, the Old Town, out of a sense of obligation. After consulting the map in my guidebook, I navigated toward one of the narrow streets that twisted up from the modern stretch outside the train station. At one point, I looked back to orient myself … and I gasped … and smiled. The view was beautiful.

I whipped out my camera. “This is cool!” I said.

Then I turned down one of the old streets. “This is so cool!” I said.

 

And it was still cold and damp all that day, although the sun peeped out, and the next day was just a little better, and the last day, the day I left, might even have turned out warm in the afternoon. I wasn’t there to know.

Even with my two jackets, I had not expected Stockholm to be quite so cool. And then again, even in my pretrip excitement, I had not expected Stockholm to be quite so cool.

Storming Stockholm

Last Saturday I finished the Stockholm Marathon under the toughest weather conditions I've ever faced in a run. I made it to the end mostly because I doubted whether my frozen, collapsed body would be carried into shelter if I dropped somewhere on the course. Coming back from Sweden on Tuesday, I waited in the passport control line at JFK airport and reflected on the experience. I told my mom I would be gratified just to have the difficult conditions acknowledged on the marathon website or in runner comments on Marathonguide.com. Today I checked my email and found this:

"June 2 was the coldest day in June in Stockholm for the last 50 years, so it was not a good day for running a marathon. Wind and rain made the situation even worse. All those things made the 2012 ASICS Stockholm Marathon the most demanding race in the 34 years history of the race.
We are most impressed that you and almost 15 000 other runners managed to finish the marathon, concerning these cruel conditions. You and other runners were well prepared for the race, and ran wisely.

"Kind regards
"Athletic clubs Hässelby SK and Spårvägens FK"

Foreboding weather at packet pickup was only a shadow of conditions to come

 


And now, I feel like I can do ANYTHING!

This Weekend

It's just about time to head to Stockholm, Sweden, for the next marathon.

Marathon Multitasking

Brookings, South Dakota, the site of my Birthday Bash and Boston-qualifying marathon back on May 12, was such a beautiful city: when the marathon route kept winding past apartment buildings, I began checking them out as I went by. I had fun fantasizing about a new life in a new place. The weather was perfect, cool and breezy; I'm sure that's always the case. Back at my car in the park near the finish line, I encountered a few bugs. But with the bug population as my sole caution, I was prepared to stay!


Only, I had to return my rental car to Omaha.

Here are some images from my trip.



Welcome--and have some cheap gas!







My fierce-looking Ford Fiesta didn't take much gas, anyway.



Around Brookings

Packet pickup at the the Children's Museum

"Welcome, runners!"



FINISH LINE!





From the Air, It Looks Like Art

A few weeks ago a friend and I discussed parenthood and opinions. Mostly the opinions of people who have not yet experienced parenthood. We represented both sides: she has two kids, I have none. But I could sympathize. Sure, it’s easy to set up high ideals when you aren’t in the situation yourself.

I do that, too. After settling into my seat for my recent flight to Omaha, I was less than excited to hear a small child from the row behind me. Fortunately, he wasn’t crying, and he spent only about half the time whining. I sat waiting for the plane to take off and hearing the conversation between the child and his mother, with the father occasionally contributing from the across the aisle. Oh, I lamented, the mother’s letting the child be the boss. Where is the discipline? What will this next generation of child tyrants come to? And then I remembered the conversation with my friend. I smiled to myself and resolved to put an end to my critical thoughts. At least, for the most part.

I focused my attention on looking out the window. I felt disgruntled at getting stuck in a window seat, but the flight was full and I had no options. My leg muscles shivered and crawled in anticipation of the coming ordeal. I fully expected to spend the entire flight thinking I needed to use the restroom, since that usually happens to me whenever I feel I can’t get there easily.

How different, I realized, from my first flight. Sitting by the window had been more than a treat—it had offered a portal into superhero powers, because my soul seemed to pour out through the glass and expand across the horizon, with only the lightest tether to the aircraft, almost as if I were flying on my own with my superhero cape flowing out around me. Every view had seemed so amazing and wonderful. I had watched the early morning sun grow stronger, I had seen the shadow of the plane pass across a puff of clouds that looked like white cotton candy. I had gazed out across vast fields of farmland, and then the blue uniformity of the ocean reminded me of the vinyl tablecloth at my grandma’s Thanksgiving dinner.

I saw farmland on this recent trip, too. It seemed a familiar view at first, because I’ve flown over it many times now, I’ve studied the geometric shapes of fields and there’s nothing left to discover. Or so I thought. Suddenly, gazing down again at it again, it struck me anew as amazing and wonderful. So much land that my eyes would pass over without seeing, that my mind would dismiss as “empty”—all this land is actually cared for, planned, laid out with hard work and attention. The lines, shapes, patterns crisscrossing beneath me all testified of human labor. And the creation was beautiful, like art. I could make out lines I thought were irrigation ditches, running in spokes and swirls. Although they were not there for my joy and amusement, they called to mind an artist with a paintbrush, a hand gliding deftly across a vision on canvas to add complexity and a hint of whimsy. The whole beautiful scene might have been meant for me and me alone, the way it penetrated beyond my vague annoyance to touch me in a place that was real and deep.

And there was that child again, asking questions, saying something about a dog. The plane had a dog, he insisted. I thought he meant the whirring of the engines sounded like a dog growling. He wanted to know about everything. Why this, why that? His parents managed to answer sometimes, but often he was on to the next question before they could really formulate a reply.

He had made up his own mind about the dog, anyway.

Later, after we had all survived the flight and made it off the plane, I was walking through the airport when I noticed the aircraft through a window. I realized that the Frontier Airlines planes display a picture of some kind of animal. I had been able to see the picture from my seat when we were parked at the departure gate and after we landed, and I bet that little boy had seen it, too. One thing I could say for sure, the animal in the picture wasn’t a dog. But what it was … that I couldn’t answer so confidently. Some kind of mammal from the Frontier. Uh, huh, yeah. I remembered hearing the mother in the seat behind me mention a bunny. I imagined myself with my own child. “What is that?” The child would want to know. “Well, dear, that’s some kind of mammal from the frontier.”

To my friend’s point during our discussion a few weeks ago … I am really in no position to criticize a parent.

Oh, by the Way ...

I'm not through posting about my most awesomely fabulous trip to South Dakota, but I'm leaving for Sweden in a few days: Stockholm Marathon coming up this Saturday!