Huh. How about that. It sounds strange to say it.
Running is funny like that, in that regardless of the innumerable specific details, ultimately, any run is most succinctly summarized simply as a start point and an end point. It’s not an accident that running has long failed to garner a substantial fan base. Running just doesn’t draw zealous spectators out of their homes and to the sidelines or stir up that inexplicable and undeniable passion so well known in the realms of football stadiums, basketball courts, and soccer fields. Instead, I have often found myself apologizing to loyal family and friends who have come out to do their duty at marathons I have run. They meticulously plan, scheming routes and calculating pace per mile, hustle all day long, so that they might catch a glimpse at Mile 12, and maybe a peek at Mile 18, and on a perfect day, when all goes right, see the final push to 26.2. And without fail, I feel…a little…underwhelming. Yep, here I am. Still going. Left, right, left, right, left. Pump those arms, breathe that air. You get the drift…it’s rather anticlimactic, and the thrill value seems inversely related to the distance.
And yet. Despite it’s clumsy failure- or is it a graceful declination?- in crowd pleasing, I have never felt, on a personal level, disappointed by the value of a good, long run.
As the thrill factor declines, there is something else, something equal but opposite perhaps, that rises up, and it has nothing at all to do with the start point and the end point, and everything to do with what lies between the two- the journey.
I want to try and give you a little of that, because you supported me, because you were a part of this and you should get to know something about the journey, but I undertake this mission with full knowledge- and also, full disclosure- that I cannot, no matter how hard I may try, or how much I'd like to, fully contain this experience in words.
The best I can do is tell you a little about it.
Day One.
A great, beautiful day of running with good buddies.
Started out at 6:45 AM from Ground Zero with Scott Martin, a friend and fantastic organizer of a NY Trails and Ultrarunning Group, ran 12 miles up to the George Washington Bridge- a BEAUTIFUL crossing I highly, highly recommend doing at least once if you live in the NYC area!- and over about 8 miles into New Jersey to meet Chris Jaworski, another running buddy. Starting was a bit surreal. Dad parked the van, and took a couple pictures, and I walked over to the chosen corner, right at the World Trade Center site. I'm not really sure how to describe the feeling- overwhelmed with the underwhelmingness of it all maybe? It was a morning like any other- one with particularly nice running weather, albeit- sidewalks crowded with people anxiously hurrying to destinations unbeknownst. I thought of everyone, every single one, strategizing a plan of action for the unique tasks that would give each of their days structure and meaning, and the task I was embarking upon suddenly seemed very strange...
Anyway. I got my handbottle of coconut water ready to go, messed around with the Garmin for a little bit while my dad and Scott introduced themselves, and then there was nothing left to do but start. So we did.
Now: In the interest of breaking up the monotony of my account, I'm going to give the honor- or duty?- of Day One to Scott and Chris. See the emails below, sent to a group of mutual running friends. Both Scott and Chris write great reports, and they're both exceedingly kind to me. : ) Good men both- in fact, as I think about that first day, I have to take that back ...beyond good men. Great men. Thanks guys. (Speaking of which, please also note the references to my father, and please note that all of those compliments are well deserved and then some.)
From Scott:
Yesterday, I ran the first 12 miles or so with her, from Ground Zero to the GWB. Her incredible and very nice father who's driving the support van had brought her to the starting point, and then met us a few blocks from the bridge. She picked up new maps, drank some of her favorite beverage (coconut water), and we both downed some of the tastycranberry (etc., etc.) bread she had baked. I ran with her just onto the bridge, so as to get a few shots of her on the bridge, and with the Manhattan skyline from the bridge. (Once I use up this roll, I'll post 'em). Then she ran off for another 8 miles or so, to meet Chris in Elizabeth (?) or somewhere further down the road,where he was going to run most of the rest of the day with her. Looking very happy! On a beautiful sunny day that was starting to warm up a little after a chilly start. It was a real privilege to be able to soak up a little of her incredible journey!
I was a little scared to be "pacing" her, as the only other time I'd run with her, on a Palisades training run, I struggled to keep up. And for a while, she ran ahead with Brice that day.But she was very good at sticking to her plan of roughly 5mph/12 minutes permile to start her big journey (in roughly 2:10 including bathroom stops, etc.,we covered somewhere around 12 miles). It actually felt a little strange to goso slow on roads, but like a nice ultra pace! Her daily goal is 38 miles,and so far she's right on target!
How did it go with your end of Tuesday's pacing, Chris?
Keep on truckin', Kelsey! You're such an inspiration!
From Chris:
Scott, it's fitting that I'll begin with how you ended: Kelsey is such an inspiration! She not only runs forever, but she was confident, upbeat, engaging, funny, and full of heart the entire way. And I think she must have x-ray vision, because she sees right through to the good in people. She doesn't fall far from the tree, either. Her father, Dan in the van, was the man! This is a wonderful trip and experience they're undertaking together.
And they picked what turned out to be a perfect day to begin their journey. It felt like the first day of fall. Temps in the mid 40s in the morning and around 70 when the running was done. Crisp air, blue skies, not much wind if any. And to go along with the Halloween decorations along the way, many of the leaves on the trees and the ground were bright red and yellow and orange. A day made to order for running ... and for the start of The Long Run.
After finishing ~12 miles with Scott at the GWB, Kelsey ran 8 or so to Little Ferry, NJ. That's where we met up for almost 20 miles west and south on the way to Elizabeth.
Between start and finish, we passed two airports (Teterboro at the beginning, Newark toward the end) and at least a couple of race courses (Teterboro Airport 5K, Newark Distance Classic 20K); followed a river (the Passaic) a good long way; and traveled through four counties (Bergen, Hudson, Essex, Union) and a dozen municipalities (Little Ferry, Moonachie, Wood-Ridge, Carlstadt, East Rutherford, Rutherford, Lyndhurst, North Arlington, Kearny, East Newark, Newark, Elizabeth). I think that's the correct and complete "rundown." (We really know how to pack 'em in in New Jersey!)
It was a good urban trail run. To avoid traffic, we stayed on the sidewalks. They were in good condition but required a watchful eye at times, and we encountered some grass, rocks, and dirt as well. Although we knew the upcoming turns we needed to make, a few blazes (er, street signs) were missing. Fortunately, course marshall Dan kept us on track at critical junctions, plus walkers in Newark were helpful in confirming we were headed in the right direction. Perhaps the course could have been marked with a few more fluorescent pink flags! Last but not least, the elevation changes were negligible -- just a couple of easy climbs within the first few miles.
We completed our 19.6 miles in 3:42 (11:20 pace) but not without two finishes. The first finish was premature (Dan had to tell us to keep going, as we hadn't reached the map placemark yet), and the second finish was, well, postmature (we don't know if there was a Clover Street blaze or not, but we ended up overshooting the placemark by 2.5 blocks). Ha! Well, those finishes just gave us the opportunity to high-five each other twice!
Among Kelsey's photos are five from our run: #70 and #73 show us coming and going in Newark (Broad Street in both cases, I think); #75 and #76 were taken at finish 2 (intersection of Rahway Avenue and Elmora Avenue); and in #77 we're hamming it up in Clifton, in the parking lot of the Tick-Tock Diner (after the run, Dan drove us back north so we could all get something to eat there, and then he and Kelsey dropped me off at my car in nearby Lyndhurst before heading south again).
It was a fun and interesting run fueled by good conversation. I think we were yakking all the way!
Kelsey, here's wishing you strong legs, safe travels, and interesting sights over the next five days. It already looks as if you'll have more of the same great weather during that time!
Chris
And a fitting conclusion from Scott:
Wow, Chris looks like the rest of the day went as well as the start. And yesterday's second day as well as the first, judging by her post! Truly amazing, and very inspiring! (And to think a dear running friend who's done many marathon asked me when I told of her this, "Why would anyone want to do THAT?!" Once you're out there and experiencing it, I think you "get it," just the way it is with ultras!).
Day Two.
Day Two was my first day out on my own.
And Day Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight.
Alright. As I began the task of recording some part of this journey in words, it seemed logical that the best way to do so would be chronologically, day by day.
Best laid plans…
Now, having actually commenced the recalling, reflecting, putting into words process, it is obvious to me that the day by day approach is not going to work. It’s not me, and it’s not the way I approached the journey run. Although it was essentially planned in day to day segments, once I was moving, a day was just not an appropriate structure upon which to mentally lay out the task. As I write this, it is perfectly clear to me, but I realize it is perhaps not so to anyone else. To clarify: in order to get from start to finish, I set a lot of sub-goals. And by a lot, I mean, a LOT. Like, how many stars are in the sky, how many grains of sand in the Sahara.
The degree of challenge, and the reward for meeting said challenge, fluctuated dramatically, depending on the prevailing mood of each moment, itself determined by a combination of ever cycling levels of pain, optimism, aggression, energy- maybe it would be simpler to say by whatever cocktail of neurotransmitters happened to infuse my body in any given moment?- and some random humor of Whomever. Suffice it to say, there was a lot of bargaining with myself, and a lot of mental game playing. Sometimes knowing some town with a catchy name, and the prestige of a big dot on the map was coming up was enough. Chalfont. On Day 2, I ran through Menlo Park, home of the Thomas Edison Memorial Tower and Museum (per my trusty DeLorme). I spent all morning whittling away the distance between myself and that museum, holding onto my intention to grant myself a ten minute break to walk through. I don’t know why. I have not, or at least hadn’t ever had, any special affinity to Thomas Edison. I think it was just exciting that there was something on the map, along my route. For whatever reason, it was something to concentrate on. Ha. When I got there, the museum was ‘closed for the season,’ and the camera ran out of batteries just when my dad tried to take a picture of me in front of the tower. So much for that. But, honestly, I didn’t really feel disappointed. It wasn’t so much the destination that mattered, it was just a focal point, necessary to motivate motion. I thought a lot about something James Shapiro talks about in his book Meditations From the Breakdown Lane, where he talks about a journey run being an enormous problem set before you, whose only solution is endless, unrelenting effort. I thought not of effort, but rather the even less abstract need for relentless forward motion. Those words- ‘relentless forward motion’- must have coursed through my head thousands of times each day. When things were really not so good, there were times when the goal was a traffic light 400 yards ahead. When there was no traffic light, the goal was twenty steps of running. The conversation in my head was something like: Hey Self, wonder if you could get to that tree up there in 23 steps. Think so? Think you can? And then, my conscience would coax the me moving the muscles: Okay, here’s the deal. If you get to the tree before the 24th step, then you can walk down the hill, (a quadricep injury halfway through made the downhills, which should have been relief, torture) and I won’t even bother you about not running. C’mon…just a little bit, a little more…’
Because that’s the only way I know to get things done- to do them. To ask yourself constantly, if you are doing all that you can do. To check in, to strive for that tenuous balance between not breaking yourself, but continually asking if you might give just a little bit more, find the strength to progress one more inch... As I write this, I feel like it sounds a little pompous, a little contrived or something. I do not want that. I am not a superhero, and I have no pretensions or imaginations of being such- more on that in a second! Rather I am someone who makes a decision about what I would like to do, and then fully and completely commits herself to doing it, because I can not think of a better way to get from where you are to where you want to be.
Days are not good measures of a journey run, because the range of emotions, the highs and lows of believing in yourself and being sure of failure, cycle so frequently that there are, in a sense, entire lifetimes in each 24 hours. What is more, a day, a measure of 24 hours of passed time, becomes something you don't have the luxury to contemplate, because you can not influence it or change it. Whether you move one foot, or cover 40 miles, a day will come and go. When you are competely devoted to moving from one place to another within a designated period of time, you focus completely on what you need to make happen. I need to get to this place, ahead of where I am now. I need to move forward. Keep on. As far as the passage of a day goes, you just sort of count on time to do it's thing, while you do yours.
As far as the 'not being a superhero' thing goes...oh wow. Let me just say that my journey run was a humbling experience. Any illusions of grandeur, any images of my gallant self gliding gracefully down the road were very quickly relegated to just what they were- illusions and images. There were parts that were not pretty, and it was very, very obvious that my body was not really meant to move 35 or 40 miles a day. Anything grand about it was way, way deep inside, certainly not in my body or visible to anybody who might have seen me shuffling along the shoulder of the highway.
There were parts that hurt a lot, and parts where I wanted to quit. But there were also parts where I felt that I must be the luckiest person in the world, to be outside, crossing beautiful country on a most beautiful day, on a most beautiful journey. There were parts where I thought about profound- or at least, things capable of being written of so as to sound profound- things. There were times when I thought very silly thoughts:
By the fourth day, my RIGHT quadricep had really started to make it clear that it was not happy about this effort, and in turn, it had acquired a theme song. Every time I heard Daft Punk's HarderBetterFasterStronger, I had this image of my quadricep muscle coming to life as a little cartoon and singing to me. I realize now that sounds really, really strange, almost so strange that I feel like I shouldn't tell you about it...but what can I say? When you are running along the highway, all day long, by yourself, for days on end, you have a lot of thoughts. Some are funny.
Anyway, it was on the seventh morning, a really tough one (possibly made bearable only by the presence of my father, repeatedly parking the car a mile ahead of where I was and circling back on the bike he'd brought along from my apartment- an electric blue retroish girl's bike, without functioning brakes, by the way- and trying to make me smile, keeping me moving, not to mention, physically and mentally in tact, with a proper balance of insistent prodding, light-heartedness and sincerity, a recipe which confounds me now and probably will forevermore, but by which I am amazed and for which I am inexpressibly grateful) that this song, Time Will Heal Me, by Everything (a CD, which, coincidentally, my dad bought for me when I was 15) came on for the first time. Now, really, I've never been that into this song. I find it a little...over the top, melodramatic. Which made it perfect for it's role on this particular occasion. As the syrupy drone of his voice flooded my ears, I realized Craig Honeycutt was singing my quadriceps' new anthem: Wake up and get on the road; We decided to make a living. You go to work, we do another show, Is everything now forgiven? I see the side of a mountain rising, It's looking good to me...And I can feel the sunshine shining, Shine all over me, I can finally see: Time will heal me, time will save my soul. Time will heal me, time will make me whole...
Okay, now stay with me. Yes, I know it's getting more and more bizarre...but: It made me laugh. A lot, aloud, and as I continued shuffling alongside yet another random country road in Maryland, my perspective shifted a little, and the gravity of my aches and pains and just general exhaustion melted into some kind of easy going love, just kind of zen like acceptance, and all the sudden, it just felt good to be there, where I was, engaged in the task I was in, aching quads, tired body, mind- tired everything- and all...Thank you Craig Honeycutt.
Let's see...what else?
As I started Day Three, I knew I had had about 10 miles to cover before I would cross the Delaware River. I clung to this thought, and as a result, for a good couple of hours, I convinced myself that every stream, every creek, every trickle of water I came upon was probably the Delaware River. 'Here it is! Yep, this must be it...wait? Is this it? Could this be it? Is it?!?!" Every single time, my head chattering away, this little eager zealous part of my conscious: 'Yep. Yep, yep, here we go!' By the time I'd crossed about the eight hundred and seventy sixth 'Delaware River,' my own zeal was wearing on me. This is the thing about that childlike eagerness we all have- while it is an absolutely essential component of the kind of personality that can take big risks (and what follows- achieve big things), it isn't all that durable. Or endurable, for that matter. After a couple of hours listening to my little eager 'Yep, yep!' conscience (If you've seen The Land Before Time, and you know the character 'Ducky,' the eager me voice is JUST. LIKE. THAT. Yep, yep!), the real, pragmatist me, the one who figures out how to complete the tasks the 'Ducky' me begins, had had enough: 'Seriously...it is the g*ddamn Delaware River! I think you'll know when you get there...if you have to wonder, you're NOT THERE...' And the switch was kind of flipped- finally, my head was quiet and I could just get down to business, and focus on moving my legs forward: left foot, right, left foot, right.
I've thought a lot, both during the run and since, about these two parts of my personality, and the roles they played in completing the run, and, for that matter, the roles they play in my life. They complement each other. The little 'Ducky' me is the epitome of The Dunning-Krueger Effect (briefly mentioned in the post after Day 2). It is the childish, over-confident, eager, admittedly rather irrational, but absolutely golden-hearted part of me. When I was 16 years old, I painted a canvas with a girl standing on the edge of a cliff, with the words 'Sometimes you just have to take the leap and build your wings on the way down.' The eager child part of me gives me the courage to leap.
But, as you may prophecy if you think even a little bit forward: for that leap to be anything at all close to glorious and courageous, rather than stupid and short-sighted, there'd better be something besides eagerness and golden-heartedness to build those wings.
I think there is a tendency within this society to believe in one or the other of these two personalities- either the happy-go-lucky, can-do Ducky dreamer or the down to business, wing building pragmatist. The thing is, I am convinced we need them both. Had I not been an overly optimistic dreamer, I would not have begun this journey. Had I not been a strong and determined problem solver, or had I not been able to call upon the strength of people I love, I would not have finished it.
Anyway, back to the road: It was at the end of the third day that my achilles tendons started screaming. I remember thinking that the last mile I shuffled through that afternoon was the most painful mile I'd ever moved in my life. In retrospect, I tend to think that's still probably true, not because that was the worst physiological shape- read, the most broken- my body was in, but because I wasn't prepared for it. In the days that followed, I learned a lot about how to mentally handle and modulate pain. Anyway, immediately after that mile, Dad and I went to CVS to check out the selection of achilles injury magic...we left with ice packs and some fancy looking gel pad bandaids. This would be the first of a great many trips to CVS foot and ankle care section...
The fourth morning did not begin well. There was lots and lots and LOTS of traffic- there are a LOT of cars in this country- and because the highway had no shoulders, and I did not wish to end the run by getting run over- I have to interrupt myself here. This is a lie. Had it been just me, I probably would have been run over. I got off the highway, and thus avoided the fate of a great many squirrels, because my dad made me. At the time, I was really a little irritated with him. [He was interfering with my FORWARDness...] In retrospect, I'm glad I'm still alive.
Thanks to my dad deciding he wasn't going to let me go all kamikaze (gee, the nerve!), I spent the morning detouring through the backyards in the neighborhoods alongside the highway. I kept trying to maintain this spirit of 'adventure' through this part, and it was sort of fun- but...I was glad to reach the end of the highway.
Then the achilles stuff really set in. There's not that much to say about it, except that it hurt. Bad. And I kept going, and it kept getting worse. We started off with the gel bandaids, in hopes that maybe it was just abrasion irritation. No go. Then I was convinced we could do the trick with athletic tape. Taped 'em up. 45 minutes later, no go. Retry, retape! Worse. By about 10:00 that morning, I was doubtful that I was going to be physically capable of moving forward for another day, much less running. It was in Norristown, I believe, that I was running- sort of (moving forward anyway)- along the route, towards the bridge that would take me to Valley Forge Road. As I got close and started seeing the signs- Detour Ahead- my heart kind of sunk. Big blow to the 'Ducky' spirit, and as eager and sweet as it is, that part of me has a real weakness in the resilience department.
So there we were. At the bridge, or as close as we could get. Dad had parked the van in yet another CVS parking lot, and we stood there on the sidewalk next to it, Dad trying to be all kinds of patient and pragmatic, and me trying to be worried about the bridge when all I was really thinking about was the sensation of millions of teeny tiny invisible knives plunging in and out of the back of my ankles. This was the only moment I had where I thought I might have to give it up. It did not feel good.
I sat down in the passenger seat of the van. I took my shoes off. Untaped. Retaped. Got up and ran about ten steps. Hobbled back. Saw a Sports Rehab clinic a few storefronts down the sidewalk. Walked in with Dad to see if anyone was there- they weren't. I took off my shoes again. My ankles looked very angry- Fat and Red. I put them up and said I needed a few minutes to get myself together. Dad went into CVS. And then the miracle happened. The miracle was called black neoprene ankle wraps, two of them, and it came from a plastic bag that came out of CVS on my Dad's arm. Crisis averted.
By early afternoon, I was into George Washington Crossing State Park, and on top of the world. It's a funny thing, - and by funny, I mean amazing- the rebound that happens when you find yourself cruising an hour after you thought it was all over. (And that's ultrarunning/journey running/distance running/not quitting/life, said the voice in her head.) This too shall pass.
I loved that park. I saw a lot of deer, and what was most wonderful, BY FAR, was that there were lovely running paths parallel to the road. WITHOUT CARS. There was one stretch where I was back out on the road and it got particularly winding and shoulderless. The prospect of going back to find another way through wasn't thrilling, but it had to be done, so done it was, and well rewarded. I saw this little meandering trail back in the trees off the road, and Dad- probably in need of a mind-clearing little jog after the morning we'd had- parked the van at the opposite end and came back to run it with me. Perfect weather, a canopy of lush and deep green old trees, a couple little brooks to play the soundtrack to the scene...one of those trails, those days, those moments, those miles, that makes you wonder how we ever came up with the idea of constructing the 'indoors.'
What's funny- and now by funny, I mean not laughter-inducing, and not amazing, but more like...interesting- is that I know I didn't seem particularly happy. I was just sort of wiped out, and though I remember feeling deeply happy, to be there, on that trail, on that afternoon, with that man as my Dad and 'crew,' I also know I didn't really manifest it. I just didn't really have the energy, or so it felt, to manifest anything, except forward motion. There were some tense moments out there, and at least once, I remember my Dad's frustration: "You're not even considering what I'm saying. I can't even talk to you; it's like you can't even think of anything but moving forward..." And he was right. Other people who have spent a lot of time with me have expressed frustration about this trait, applied in other pursuits. It's like you have blinders on. You just make this decision and then that's it...you can't hear anything else... I know they're right. It's often times not a great thing, and it's a part of myself I'm still working on refining. But in the case of this run, it served me well. I would even venture to say it was necessary. However, bull headed stick-to-itiveness, when it saps you of the energy to consider options and consequences in a dynamic and changing environment, requires a complementary (and phenomenally patient and loving) crew guy if it is to translate into a successful journey. I was lucky to have that complement.
