There Are "resolutions"...and then There Are RESOLUTIONS!

My closest friend has often told me, “Wow, when you decide to do something, you don’t do it halfway, do you? You commit!” I take that as a compliment, although she might mean it (at least partially) as a suggestion that I seek psychological help.

In my last entry, I mentioned the first two races of 2011 for which I’m registered: The First Run Lowell 5k on New Year’s Day (as I keep my fingers crossed that New England does NOT get slammed by a blizzard this week) and Boston’s Run to Home Base 9k on May 22nd. (That latter race is a fundraiser, so if you’d like to help me get to my ambitious fundraising goal of $1000, please visit my fundraising page at www.runtohomebase.org/runtohomebase/joanmeyer. I’ll add your name, and the names of any veterans on whose honor or memory you are making your donation, to the sign that I will wear on my back all through the race.) I'm particularly pleased to be running that race in honor of Louis Zamperini, 1936 Olympian and WWII POW, and the inspiring subject of Laura Hillenbrand's fascinating book, Unbroken. I’m also hoping to run the Peachtree Road Race (10k) on the Fourth of July in “Hawtlanta,” Georgia. Call it a 48th birthday present for myself, since my birthday is the day before the race. (If it gets hot enough, it might also be my LAST birthday present to myself…not to mention possibly my last birthday!)

An active.com e-mail about the SheROX sprint triathlon in Bermuda caught my eye this morning and inspired my next race registration. (How can I resist an event with the tagline, “She SWIMS, she RIDES, she RUNS…She ROX!”?) Maybe it’s the late-December-in-Upstate-New-York brain damage talking, but who could blame me for wanting to go to Bermuda in November, even if it involved swimming, cycling and running all in the same day? There was just one problem: a sprint triathlon was on my Goal List for 2012, not 2011; and I wanted to complete that sprint tri in the Cleveland area, where my fitness heroine (and pseudo mentor), Tiffany, lives.

Well, Tiffany to the rescue! Thanks to some info she provided to me (and a wee bargain we struck), I am now registered for the Ohio Women’s Sprint Triathlon for the Cure at Portage Lakes (near Akron) on September 17th. This particular women-only sprint tri is right up my alley: 250-yard open-water swim, 7-mile bike course and 2-mile run. I looked at those distances, even in combination, and thought, “I can definitely finish that course!” (Since the swim will be my greatest challenge, I’ll have to try to find some open water swimming here in Upstate New York—not really difficult to find, given our abundance of lakes…but did I mention it’s currently December?!?!?!?) Best of all, since it’s a tri that’s geared toward beginners, I won’t feel intimidated about not having all the top-of-the-line equipment. (I don’t even have a road bike--I ride a hybrid!) My goal will be to finish; I have no idea what kind of time goal to set, if any (but I think finishing in under an hour won’t be too overly ambitious). I really just want to complete this mini-tri and enjoy the experience! I suppose my greatest challenge may involve completing the lake swim without getting that skeeved-out look on my face when my feet touch the bottom of the lake. <shudder>

Best of all, the event raises funds for the Komen Foundation and I’ll get to cheer on Tiffany as she competes in an Olympic triathlon the following day. (I get tired just thinking about that distance!) As for our “wee bargain”? We’re planning to compete in the SheROX Bermuda sprint triathlon together in 2012! That race will involve a half-mile swim, a 20k bike ride and a 5k run.

Keep in mind that my 2011 goals also include a half-marathon! (Hmmm…there’s one in Barbados in December…) This is just the kind of stuff that helps keep me warm during these nasty Upstate New York winters!

So, as my dear friend discovered long ago: No, I really don’t do things halfway. But if you’re not going to commit, why do it at all?

KEEP MOVING!!!

A Sneak Peek at 2011

Well, it's been a while since you last heard from Ginger (aka La Tortue Enflammé), and I've been really busy with rehearsals and performances of "Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge"! It's been a blast and, after December 18th, Mrs. Bob will be no more. I'll miss having so much fun playing with a great and talented group of actors whom we have unofficially nicknamed "The Mrs. Bob-le Heads". If there's a plus side to the show ending, it's that I can at least start returning to my previous Amish-farmer-wannabe hours. Sad to say, my time management skills have rather gone to pot during the rehearsal and performance schedule. More auditions are coming up in early January, so I'm hoping for another opportunity to restore those skills while maintaining a rehearsal schedule and, of course, training for my next run.

Mother Nature has been quite frigid this December, which means that a chickenshit like me ends up running on the "dreadmill" rather than outside. (I'm a wuss, I'll admit it!) Registering for cold-weather races is something I've done intentionally to help me keep running, despite the cold, harsh Northeast winters. (And, technically, as I write this, it's not even technically winter yet...YIKES!!!) I'm keeping my fingers fiercely crossed that Albany will manage to avoid getting much snow this winter (and, please, NO ice or freezing rain, OK?); the über-freezing, blustery weather is plenty brutal enough for me! (Yes, I've already lost count of the number of times I've considered moving to Florida. This week...)

I am already registered for two runs in 2011: The First Run 5k in Lowell, MA on January 1st; and a run I am absolutely ECSTATIC about running, the RUN TO HOME BASE 9K presented by New Balance® on May 22nd in Boston. This race is  a unique and special event that celebrates our military heroes and  raises necessary funds for the Red Sox Foundation and Massachusetts  General Hospital Home Base Program. The Home Base Program is committed  to serving the needs of veterans with combat stress and/or traumatic  brain injury and their families. Your support to the Home Base Program will help to ensure that veterans who served our country receive the clinical treatment they need  for combat stress and/or traumatic brain injury, and that their  families get the guidance and support they need. The Home Base Program  also seeks to advance innovative treatments that hold the most potential  for helping veterans with combat stress and/or traumatic brain injury  and their families.

You can probably imagine what a thrill it will be for me (a die-hard Red Sox fan) to cross home plate in historic Fenway Park. This race provides me with TWO unique challenges: It is the longest distance race I have registered for to date (previously, I only registered for 5k's) and it also involves a rather ambitious fundraising goal for me: $1,000. I hope you will take a moment to visit my fundraising page at www.runtohomebase.org/runtohomebase/JoanMeyer and make a donation. Your donation will be sincerely appreciated, no matter the amount! The last fundraiser I ran, the Komen Race for the Cure 5k, I was so pleased and profoundly touched by the generosity of so many donors. In that race, I ran with a sign on my back, listing the name of each person who donated and the names of those whom those folks donated in honor of or in memory of; it was truly an honor for me to wear that sign throughout the race. So I decided to do that again for the Run to Home Base 9k! When you make your donation—whatever the amount—please be sure to indicate on the donation form the name(s) of any military personnel in whose honor you're making your donation. (If you know that person's rank and military branch, that would be great and I will include that info on my sign!)

The race is in May, but raising $1,000 will take a lot of time and effort, so I hope you'll consider making a donation as soon as you can!

Thanks! Gotta run!!!

Act, Gingah, Act!

(Cue cheesy 60’s soap opera organ music.) When we last saw Gingah, she was gradually expanding her horizons, running the occasional 5k as the Upstate New York road racing season wound down and successfully working up the nerve to sing in public. (Although she’s been singing in church for years—as a cantor at Albany’s historic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception—she never really considered that truly “public”…besides, it's rude to boo someone in church. Even Judas doesn't get booed during the reading of The Passion.)


Over the course of the previous year or so, through the modern marvel of Facebook, I have reconnected with so many of my fellow theatre alumni from WVU. We’ve all gotten a little older and perhaps somewhat wiser, but the essential personalities I remembered so well have remained—familiar, warm and comfortable as a favorite old sweater.


Well, the horizon, like the universe, apparently, keeps expanding.


A few months ago, on a pleasant summer evening, I walked to Steamer No. 10 Theatre, about a mile from my home in Albany, to audition for a staged reading of Joanna McClelland Glass’s† Trying, which was being produced by Theater Voices. I had been eagerly (and extremely nervously) awaiting an opportunity to audition after a 25-year absence from the stage. (I graduated with a BFA in Theatre from West Virginia University in 1985. Since then, life got in the way.) A staged reading, wherein the actors carry their scripts while performing in a fully blocked production, seemed like something even rusty ol’ me could do. I actually surprised myself by not sucking at the audition. (Auditions, like job interviews and first dates, have always intimidated the hell out of me; as a result, I have typically bombed at all three. With alarming consistency.) The director, Carol, was very complimentary when I spoke with her by phone later that week. Unfortunately, there was one obstacle I couldn’t quite overcome: At 47, I couldn’t pass for 25. Not even a very mature 25. But I had already told myself (on that walk to the theatre for the audition) that the most important thing was the experience of auditioning. Basically, I treated it like a training run. This wasn’t about the result; this was about the process. And in that process, I met some wonderfully warm people who quickly reminded me why I love the performing arts. I also agreed to operate the tech board for the production, so at least I was getting back into theatre. When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.


Between work, running and still trying diligently to housetrain a sweet but very willful Chihuahua mix puppy, I still haven’t prepared an audition song. But at least I have some sheet music now. When the next feasible audition notice arrived in my e-mail in box (it seemed I had to wade through an inordinate number of audition notices for very young people, or theatres that were nearly an hour away from my home, or looking for a specific ethnicity—Italian-American in one case, which would be an even tougher sell for me than trying to pass myself off as a 25-year-old), it was for a Christopher Durang play, Mrs. Bob Cratchit’s Wild Christmas Binge, being produced by Confetti Stage, Inc. This audition would require a prepared comedic monologue and the a cappella singing of any song, such as a Christmas carol. I was tired of using the I-don’t-have-time-to-prepare-an-audition-monologue excuse, so I dusted off the only monologue I had a shot in hell of having memorized in a few hours (since, by the time I saw the notice that morning, I realized the audition was later that evening): the Epilogue from Shakespeare’s As You Like It. I printed it out, read through it periodically through the day at work, and ran the lines as I did my afternoon training run. In the meantime, of course, I had plenty of time for what seems to be my real profession: second-guessing myself. I wondered if preparing a Shakespearean monologue for a Durang comedy would be akin to showing up for a 5k wearing a tuxedo. And clown shoes. Would the director roll his eyes? Would my brain seize up and cause me to forget part of the monologue? What if the Trying audition had been a fluke? What if I really still just suck beyond belief at auditions? I reminded myself that it was about the process, not the result. I went to the audition. I certainly didn’t leave anyone thinking they’d just seen the next Meryl Streep, but I didn’t suck. I remembered the whole monologue, sang a snippet of “Deck the Halls” (ironically, on the last line of the verse, forgetting the f*cking lyrics), read from some sides and met more fun, kind theatre folks. After leaving the audition, I prepared myself for the possibility of rejection. I didn’t even care what role I got, as long as I would have an opportunity to act. I hummed “Anticipation” to myself as I imagined the ketchup-like wait to hear about my audition.


I took my time getting home, sitting in my car for a good 10-15 minutes checking and answering e-mails from my CrackBerry before pulling away from the curb and heading away from downtown. Just as I pulled the car into the garage, my CrackBerry rang. It was Jeff, the director, offering me the title role of Mrs. Bob Cratchit. Like a complete idiot (because why do anything halfway?), I actually said, “Really???” <FACEPALM> (Note to self: That was asinine. Don’t do that again. It makes you sound like a dork.) Even in the midst of full-on asininity, I was thrilled beyond belief. As of this writing, we’ve completed our first read-through; our first rehearsal begins this Monday. We open December 10th at Albany's Masonic Hall.


As I considered my return to acting, I quickly found a lot of parallels between community theatre and running road races:


First, both involve stepping out of your comfort zone, whether that’s going to an audition or signing up for your first 5k. Either way, you’re putting yourself out there, risking ridicule or embarrassment (most of it just a figment of your imagination, you later find), saying to the Fates, “Please consider me worthy.” Do well, and you get the role or run a good race; do poorly, and you examine what went wrong and determine how to change your approach to avoid doing poorly next time. In both cases, “Screw this, I’m never doing this again,” just doesn’t cut it.


Second, you are because you do. I can “officially” call myself an actor because an accredited university (a real one, not some for-profit online diploma mill), after I invested four years of my life (and enough tuition to spend 10 years repaying student loans, despite two years of performance grants) to the study of theatre, gave me a piece of paper that states I am. In much the same way, one can call oneself an engineer because one holds a similar piece of paper attesting to one’s completion of the requisite course of study. But being an actor isn’t just about what you know; it’s also about what you do. (What you know informs what you do.) And in that sense, I have considered my profession to be “unemployed actor” for 25 years. Oh, I’ve been employed; and the skills I’ve used for most of the employment I’ve had—skills I’ve had the luxury of taking for granted—have come directly from what I learned while studying to be an actor. But to those who didn’t know my academic background, I’ve never been an actor; I’ve been a writer, a bank teller, a personnel manager. These have been various jobs I’ve had, but I’ve never considered any of them (with the sole exception of writer) to be even remotely like a profession to me. They paid the bills and I was good at them and they were all legal. And, in a sense, the work I get paid to do is what enables me to devote some time to the work I love to do. But to be an actor, all you really have to do is act. Granted, studying the craft is tremendously beneficial, but there are plenty of people who are good actors who've never studied Stanislavsky or Strasberg/Meisner/Hagen/whatever. You don't have to be in Hollywood or on Broadway to be an actor, any more than you need to be in the Olympics to be a runner.


People tend to have an image of what a runner is: slender body, disciplined routine, the latest athletic apparel and that long-distance, concentrated stare. When you line up at the start of a road race, whatever the distance, you see an abundance of people who look just like that. But you also see a lot of people who look nothing like that. People like me, for instance. If you didn’t know anything about me and you saw me on the street, you would never peg me as a runner. You will never see someone like me on the cover of Runner’s World. It’s often been frustrating for me to find good athletic running wear because sometimes even the ladies’ XL size leaves me gasping for breath (before I’ve even taken my first step), relegating me to the saving grace of online athletic apparel suppliers that recognize the needs of “plus size” female athletes. When I started running, it seemed as though just about everyone told me I would lose a lot of weight and “get so skinny”; well, I’ve actually gained a few pounds. (I’m working on it, I’m working on it. But that’s another blog entry for another day.) I’ve run all of my 17 races (so far...and that's just since June of this year) between 200 and 213 pounds. And let me emphasize that I ran most of those races. I ran them slowly, but I f*cking ran 3.1 miles at each race. I don’t care if you weigh 200+ pounds or 98 pounds soaking wet; running five continuous kilometers at any speed is an Accomplishment-with-a-capital-A. Sometimes we non-traditional types need to remind ourselves of that: I AM A RUNNER.


Third, you don’t have to be the best; you simply need to do your best. Some of those very athletic-looking types toeing the line at a 5k will leave at the end of the race with a medal or a PR, but the overwhelming majority of them will leave knowing that they ran the best race they had in them that day. Just as you don’t have to win an Oscar or a Tony to be an actor, you don’t have to win a 5k to be a runner. Maybe your goal was to PR, maybe it was to run comfortably or just have fun. For my most recent race, the Race Away Stigma 5k in Troy, I didn't even have a time goal. I just wanted to run the full distance and not have my hips feel like they were trying to kill me from the inside. I relaxed, had fun, conquered (slowly) a hill that had forced me to slow to a walk twice just a few months ago and ran without pain. The result? My second-fastest race time ever. Go figure!


Fourth, you prepare thoroughly for the whole play, but you act in the moment. No actor would even think of setting foot onstage without having prepared extensively—learning lines, rehearsing blocking, exploring and developing a character. But when the play begins, you’re acting; you must be right there, in that present moment, not three pages ago, not two scenes ahead. An actor lives in the now. All of that preparation is what frees you to let go of everything except now. As a runner, you go through your long- and short-term preparations, but once the race starts, you just run. You pace yourself, follow the “script” for that race that you’ve developed through your training (and, as necessary, ad lib when something goes awry) and let the result be what it is.


And fifth, once you get started, you will be amazed to discover the community that’s out there. Before I registered my first 5k, the Freihofer’s Run for Women, I had no idea how many road races were out there. I knew the various distances—5k, 10k, 15k, half-marathon, marathon—but I had no idea that there were races damn near every weekend. At last night’s performance of Confetti Stage’s production of Heresy, I found as I perused the program that there are even more local theatre companies (and, therefore, more acting opportunities) than I realized. And with two good, solid auditions (one of them resulting in an actual role) under my belt, the question now is not if but when; and that question isn’t answered, “Someday,” but rather, “Does the audition or rehearsal schedule conflict with my Mrs. Bob commitments?”


One of the nice side benefits of running and returning to the theatre is that I have had to be more disciplined with how I organize and use my time. As a self-professed obsessive-compulsive, anal-retentive, perfectionist control freak, I’m almost ridiculously well organized; but the best plan isn’t worth sh*t unless it gets put into practice. I’ve also started mapping out my off-season training plan, with the goal of being 10k-ready by late January, so I can get a few 10k races under my belt before heading to Atlanta for the 2011 Peachtree Road Race. (I already know that my current PR more than qualifies me to run the Peachtree, but I have to get in first—and registration for that race notoriously sells out in hours. And they cut off registration at "only" 55,000.) If all continues to proceed reasonably according to plan (and if this approaching Upstate New York winter will do me a solid and be f*cking mild for once), I hope to be (gasp!) half-marathon ready by summer. I’ve even got my sights on a duathlon in 2011 in the hopes of moving up to a sprint triathlon in 2012, hopefully in Ohio, where my athletic inspiration, "Ironman Tiffany," lives.


So if you’ve ever toyed with the idea of trying community theatre or running (or both) but thought you couldn’t because you don’t “look” the part, take a deep breath, exhale with a firm-but-Zen-like, “F*ck it, let’s GO!” and take that leap of faith. Do the work, step by step, and before long you’ll find your old excuses falling apart like a house of cards on a rickety folding table being periodically brushed by a Newfoundland puppy who desperately needs to pee. Your knees that used to ache when you just thought about running will gradually acclimate to it and, in time, you may even find that your knees ache more when you don’t run. Your I-don't-have-time-to-be-in-a-play excuse will dissipate as you organize your time better. All you have to do is start. An object in motion tends to stay in motion; an object at rest tends to stay at rest. It's hard to argue with physics.


The rewards are immeasurable. You don’t need to win the race or get the lead role. All you have to do is engage the process and see it through. That’s where confidence comes from. You don’t have confidence or discipline first; you develop them by pushing your own envelope, facing and conquering little challenges day by day, week by week, month by month. And most of all, surround yourself with people who will cheer you on, even if only from afar, who will love you for who you are and admire you for reaching out beyond what you think you can do. (Victorious, inspirational “Rocky“-like music swells. Fade to black. Roll credits.)

†Damn you, E.B. White. I still think ’s looks weird after a monosyllabic proper noun ending in s, but since your Elements of Style has long been considered the standard for modern writing, I’ll do it. But I refuse to like it. You probably split infinitives, don’t you, E.B.? Bastard.

Everything Old (Including Me) Is (Gradually Becoming) New Again

Hey, Gingah! Where've ya been???

Well, for those of you who have been going through Run-Gingah-Run withdrawal (symptoms include re-reading old blog posts, repeatedly and futilely pressing the F5 key to refresh your screen, and craving Ben & Jerry's—any flavor), let me assure you that I have not abandoned you.

I've been running (most recently, the UAlbany Homecoming 5k and the Power House Athletics inaugural 5k Challenge to benefit Lance Armstrong's LIVESTRONG Foundation) and still have a few more races on my schedule for this year.

It's been a pretty rough few weeks, as personal emotional crap rudely invaded my training routine. (I respect my readers far too much to go into those pathetic details. I'd just as soon discuss my bowel movements. Hmmm...I sense a theme!)

After the UAlbany Homecoming 5k (which I had to run/walk), I had a really solid (albeit slow) 4-mile training run the following Monday. Then I took a tumble doing something as literally pedestrian as walking the dogs (damn curbs), banging up one of my knees a bit (lovely bruise) and leading later on to some significant hip pain. When I ran the Komen 5k a couple of weeks ago, I ran practically the whole race with my hips aching; I figured it was a result of a particularly intensive leg press session the day before the race. <FACEPALM> But this hip pain continued through the week, even after a visit to my chiropractor (which helped to some extent, but not entirely) and frequent applications of BioFreeze. If you own stock in companies that make industrial-size store-brand acetaminophen and ibuprofen, you should have a nice dividend coming your way at the end of the quarter. I was popping those puppies like Tic-Tacs.

The pain grew gradually worse through the week, keeping me from doing any workouts. The fact that my job involves sitting on my tuches all day (I'll leave it to my Yiddish-speaking friends to correct my spelling of "tuches") only seemed to exacerbate the problem. I also ran the board for a local staged reading of "Trying" by Joanna McClelland Glass, and the chair in the tech booth certainly didn't help my hip problem. During sections of the performance without cues, I did my best to stretch my legs and hips to alleviate the pain. Meanwhile, I was still popping NSAIDs like there's no tomorrow. As I began to experience pain running down my right leg, I began to wonder if I had developed sciatica. Of course, I always try to remind myself of the medical school admonition: "Sometimes what appears to be a zebra is just a horse."

So yesterday morning, I headed up to Saratoga Spa State Park for the Power House Athletics 5k Challenge. Since my hip problem had kept me from training, I hoped, at best, to run the full distance, preferably pain-free. I ran slowly, and, of 79 entrants, I finished 77th (which I considered appropriate, since my bib number was 1177). I took some pride in discovering that the two people who finished behind me are both younger than I am. But what made me proudest was that I ran the full distance. What surprised me most was that I did not have any hip pain during my run. Astounding! (Later that afternoon, after the endorphins wore off and just before I headed to the theatre for the final performance of "Trying," the hip pain returned with a vengeance, so I was singing "Hello, Ibu!" again.)

The impending end of this year's road races is something I see as both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because it will give me an opportunity to focus more on rest and gradually rebuilding my base and (God willing) getting my weight down, which I'm certain is the primary factor in my health woes (as well as factoring, no doubt, into  some of the aforementioned emotional crap); a curse because I will miss the nearly weekly supportive boost that I only seem to get from racing.

My next race, #17 for those of you keeping track, is the Race Away Stigma 5k this Saturday in Troy. Again, my goal is to run the full distance and to run pain-free. I've decided that improving my time is just the icing on the cake. (Did someone say caaaaaaake???) And that'll be it until the Christopher Dailey Foundation Turkey Trot in Saratoga Springs on Thanksgiving, after which I'll conclude my 2010 road racing year with the City of Albany's Last Run 5k in mid-December.

In the meantime, I'll see about getting my hip checked out at some point (my primary care physician is also an orthopedist who is board certified in Sports Medicine--one of the reasons I selected her; I just hadn't taken into consideration the fact that she would be out on maternity leave), focus my efforts on rebuilding and reinforcing a well-rounded fitness base, training my very willful 6-month-old Chihuahua-mix (which is the one thing most likely to kill me), and getting involved more in the local theatre scene.

I just want to take a moment to say THANK YOU to everyone who has given me genuine support in my running efforts; to my theatre friends (both old and new) for reminding me why I love the performing arts; and to Chris Ciceri and the Albany Devils for honoring me with the opportunity to sing "God Bless America" at the Devils' season opener as the New Jersey Devils' AHL team finally returned to Albany for the first time in several years. (Thank God I remembered all the words, didn't miss any notes and didn't fall over the railing!) Although I preferred the previous team name (Albany River Rats), it's so good to see professional hockey return to the Times Union Center (which I still keep accidentally calling the Knick...which it was, what, two or three iterations ago?). River Rats or Devils, hockey in Albany, to paraphrase Shakespeare, "by any other name would be as suh-WEEET!"

It’s Déjà Vu All Over Again…Only Better!

I wasn’t supposed to become a runner this year. I was actually supposed to become a runner last year, and my first 5k was going to be the 2009 Komen Race for the Cure in Albany. I even had a reason to run: to honor my pastor, known to most of his friends as Bill (but I’m just a tad too old-school to address a priest by his given name). Last year, he was diagnosed with breast cancer. Fortunately, the cancer was detected early and he responded well to treatment. He is now cancer-free. I wanted to run in his honor and as a reminder that, yes, men get breast cancer, too. I also wanted to run in memory of my eldest maternal aunt, Catherine White, who passed away in October of 2008. Well before she passed away, she was a decades-long breast cancer survivor.


I was disappointed not to have been fit enough to run last year’s Komen, since some medical complications I mentioned in a recent blog entry derailed my training plans. But if “Bill” has taught me anything, it’s that some things run on God’s timetable, not ours.


After I signed up for the 2010 Komen Race for the Cure, former college friends from West Virginia University planned a reunion of the Division of Theatre. It would have been my first opportunity in 25 years for me to meet up with my fellow theatre majors, but I was committed to run the Komen. So as my college friends gathered in Morgantown, I prepared to run my 14th 5k of 2010.


So many people generously supported me in the Komen Race for the Cure, helping me raise more than $400 for the Susan G. Komen Foundation. In honor of friends and loved ones who have survived (or died from) breast cancer, and in thanks to everyone who supported my efforts with a donation, I wore a sign on my back throughout the race:

I had two fundraising goals: one monetary and one participatory. I wanted to raise $250, and I wanted at least 5 of my collegiate friends to contribute. I was humbled, honored and immensely pleased to have exceeded both goals.


The week leading up to the Komen was certainly less than illustrious. Two 5k’s the preceding weekend combined with an acute cold to knock me out of training for the better part of the week before the Komen.


The Komen also represented the first time I would retrace the route of a previous race: my first 5k, the Freihofer’s Run for Women, this past June. I remembered that route well, including its two hills: the opening hill on Madison Avenue, and the second on Lake Avenue between the first and second mile. I already had a game plan in place, having learned a lot since then about running in general and in particular how my body responds to running. I knew where to focus my energy and where I could give my body a bit of a break when I needed it.


As always, my ultimate goal was to get a PR. The Freihofer’s, being my first 5k, came with a built-in PR; all I had to do was cross the finish line. Between that race and this, I had run 12 5k’s; some of them frustrating, a few of them personally thrilling, and all of them challenging. My most recent PR was 34:26 in the Saratoga Palio 5k, representing a pace of just over 11 minutes per mile. I would have expected at least to feel faster at that pace, but, if anything, the Palio 5k felt downright ordinary (read: fairly pokey). With that PR under my belt, I set my twin goals for the Komen: to run the entire race and to score a PR, shooting for 34:15. I knew the time goal was particularly ambitious for me, especially given my illness-induced inability to train as much as I would have liked. I recognized the very real possibility that I would have to cut myself a break and consider just running the whole distance as sufficient challenge in itself.


The weather forecast for “Komen Saturday” had, for several days, looked very much like the outlook for the Palio: autumnal temperatures and no precipitation. I kept my fingers crossed. As Saturday morning dawned, the forecast proved accurate. A cloudless azure sky and 50 degrees Fahrenheit boded well for a good race. I even had Friday morning’s solid, intensive, hour-long elliptical training session and tough, long-overdue triple set on the leg press to help compensate for a lack of running all week. The only potential snag was a direct result of that tough workout: my hips and glutes made it abundantly clear to me that they were not accustomed to such a hard workout. They would continue to express their displeasure emphatically throughout the race.


Every runner will tell you from experience that not every race will be a PR. It stands to reason that a human being, regardless of training intensity, will naturally experience ebbs and flows from one race to another. After the Palio, I thought breaking the 35-minute mark meant I would never struggle to finish a race running the whole way; it would simply be a matter of how fast I would run. But it seems running has a way of humbling you: when you think a day feels like nothing special, you end up surprising yourself with a good solid run; and when you feel like you could your best race ever, something inexplicable will thwart your efforts.


So I focused on running the full distance and working the hills effectively, not worrying about finish time. After arriving, snapping some photos and “trick-or-treating” among the sponsor tables, I stashed my extraneous stuff in the car and headed back toward the Empire State Plaza, detouring briefly to the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception (near the finish line) for a few pre-race devotional moments.


Three friends from work—Carolyn, Everton and Kathryn—were also registered to run the Komen, and I ran into Carolyn and her boyfriend’s sister-in-law, Teri, before the race. We stretched and chatted a bit, then headed toward the start line. I’d learned the hard way during the Freihofer’s Run for Women that if I started back where I was “supposed” to (because I expected to run about an 11- to 12-minute mile), I would get stuck behind a lot of participants who would opt to walk up the opening hill. Since I wanted to run it all and put in at least a respectable pace, I didn’t want to get boxed in. I was among the crush of folks under the overpass between the Empire State Plaza and the New York State Museum. Announcements were being made, but between the cacophonous chatter and the echo-heavy acoustics in the underpass, I couldn’t understand a single word being said. We were crammed together so tightly, I barely had room to move around much, so I just swayed back and forth to warm up my hips and knees and to get ready to run.


I remember reading a training quote a few months ago, referring to running a marathon: “Run the first third with your head, the second third with your legs and the final third with your heart.” I’ve adopted that for my races; despite the shorter distance, the principles hold true. It helps me break down the race into manageable chunks, which, when combined with a familiar course, help fend off the temptation to slow to a walk.


I don’t even recall hearing the starting signal. In a race with thousands of runners, you really just wait for the a$$es in front of you to start moving and follow suit. Due to my starting experience in the Freihofer’s Run for Women, I started farther forward for this race and stayed to the right to avoid getting boxed in or run over. So guess what happened? I got boxed in a bit at the start, since there were still people in front of me who were taking the opening hill even more slowly than I did. I focused on lifting my knees, keeping my head up, pushing off with my feet and taking quick “baby steps” up Madison Avenue hill. At the top of the hill, I switched my focus to getting a good breathing cadence going as the crowd of runners began to thin ever so slightly. The familiar transition points came and went: the few straight, level blocks of Madison Avenue between Swan and Lark Streets, the entrance to Washington Park, the downhill approach to the Lake House. At the one-mile mark, the clock showed me at a relatively modest pace of 12:10. I ran past the water station and prepared my legs for the next big challenge: the hill on Lake Avenue just after we exited the park.


As we headed up Lake, I once again focused my mind on lifting my knees, keeping my head up, pushing with my feet and taking short strides. In the midst of this, I was passed by a slender blonde who turned to her friend and said, “I don’t see how they can even call this a hill.” Keep in mind that I had my earphones in and I still heard this statement as clear as day. (I keep the music just loud enough so I can hear runners coming up behind me, but I’m typically focused on my breathing or my legs or the music, so I rarely notice what most people say during a race.) At blonde runner chick’s statement, I wanted to kick her butt; if only I’d caught up to her pace, I might have smoked right past her. Maybe next year…


As we turned onto Western Avenue at the top of the hill, I recognized the area where I had to slow to a walk during the Freihofer’s Run for Women, just shy of the two-mile mark. As I’ve done in every race since the Dunkin Run, I looked for people to thank—volunteers, APD, AFD—and extended my Attitude of Gratitude toward those around me. On Madison Avenue, not far before the two-mile mark, I saw a vested, flag-toting volunteer and shouted, “Let’s hear it for the course marshals!” A few of the runners around me joined me in some appreciative applause. At the two-mile mark, the clock showed 23:40, showing a slightly improved pace from the first mile. Although I was certainly tiring, I felt like I had enough left in the tank to go the distance.


We turned onto Henry Johnson Boulevard for the final block before re-entering Washington Park. In the Freihofer’s, I had slowed to a walk again just inside the park for a distance of perhaps a hundred yards. But I knew I would run the full distance today. My confidence was building with every step. Perhaps half a mile from the finish line (around the point where I had resumed running for a second time during the Freihofer’s), I felt someone brush up against my shoulder and was completely surprised to see Everton (aka “Scooch”) come up alongside me. I said, “Hey, Scooch! What are you doing way back here?” (This was his first 5k in who knows how many years, but he’s still a lot younger, fitter and more athletic than I am; hence, my surprise. He would tell me after the race that he had to slow to a walk five times. I half-jokingly suggested he should do some training runs with me.) We kept pace for a while, but by the time we exited the park for the last time and turned onto Madison Avenue, he was well ahead of me.


At this point, the race was all about how much energy I had left to exert. I pushed myself down Madison, knowing that the hill I had slowly climbed at the start of the race would pull me toward the finish line. I thanked a spectator who was sitting on the steps of his brownstone, cheering us on, and before I knew it, I was at the top of the hill. It was literally all downhill from here. As I crossed Swan Street, I started to applaud and thank some of the spectators along Madison when one of my greatest racing fears came to fruition: I tripped. Rather than my worst-case-scenario fear of a full faceplant onto asphalt, I immediately regained my footing without losing more than perhaps half a step. I raised my arms like a gymnast and shouted, “Aaaaaaand she sticks the landing!!!” One of the benefits of being fairly slow (and at least a little klutzy) is the opportunity to be entertaining; I am convinced that this is (at least partly) the real reason I became a runner.


I passed the starting line carpets and kept pushing toward the finish line. As I expected, given the illness-induced lack of training the preceding week, I was not going to PR; but I was going to finish sub-:36, which was better than I expected, given how I felt during the race.


While the start of the race is the most anticipatory, the finish is always my favorite part. I’m still not to the point where I’d rather keep running than stop at the finish line, and I’m not entirely convinced it’s even possible for me ever to feel that way. Until then, I’ll just keep enjoying the stopping part.


I was elated to have easily surpassed my performance on this same course just four months prior. At first, I estimated that I beat my Freihofer’s time by over two minutes; a later check of the official results revealed that I had come just one second shy of beating my Freihofer’s time by three minutes.


A volunteer removed the racing chip from my shoe and I fought through the crush of finishers to get to some desperately needed water. I met up briefly with Scooch and it finally dawned on me to head further down Madison to get away from the peak density of the crowd. I felt my CrackBerry vibrating against my back (where it was stashed in its usual spot between my bra and my compression top) and no sooner had I retrieved it when I saw the person who was buzzing me: Carolyn, who was standing with Teri. Carolyn was hoping to finish under :30. When the results were posted online that afternoon, it turned out that she not only ran sub-:30, she managed a PR. Score!


I never found Kathryn, but she commented on my Facebook status later that she cheered me on as she saw me approach the finish line. At that point, George Clooney could have been shouting his undying love for me (it could totally happen!) and I wouldn’t have heard it; I was that focused on getting to the finish line with whatever semblance of speed I had left in me.


I can’t wait to run this same course twice again next year: at next June’s Freihofer’s Run for Women and next October’s Komen Race for the Cure. Perhaps if my running keeps improving at an estimated three minutes every four months, then I could potentially run a 25-minute 2011 Freihofer’s and a 22-minute 2011 Komen. But there’s a tremendous amount of work ahead of me in order to accomplish those feats. There’s no point in enjoying races I haven’t even run yet!


I am sincerely and profoundly thankful to everyone who supported me in the Komen Race for the Cure and for their generosity to an organization fighting to end a scourge that claims a life somewhere in the world every 69 seconds.

My All-Too-Brief Career as a Superhero

Of all the boneheaded things I’ve done this year, the year I became a runner, the most boneheaded by far involved signing up for more than one 5k on a weekend. I managed to do this not once, but three times. The first such weekend involved the Run for the Horses in Saratoga Springs and the Wobbly Feet 5k in Halfmoon on consecutive days in early September; the results were nothing short of disastrous. The second involved the Race for the Cure in Bethlehem/Slingerlands and the Palio 5k in Saratoga last weekend, also on consecutive days; the results were vastly improved, including a very surprising PR in the Palio. The last of these weekends was this weekend, involving Friday evening’s Arsenal City 5k in Watervliet and Sunday afternoon’s CaresNY AIDS 5k in Albany.

In my brief tenure running 5k’s, I’ve run in various conditions: heat, humidity, moderate temperatures, drizzle, and all manner of combinations thereof. I’ve been spared the cold extremes (so far), but I’ve run in enough Upstate New York heat to know that it is far from favorable, despite some good results. The beauty (or curse, depending on your perspective) of Upstate New York weather is that it can be far warmer or cooler than would typically be expected. Sometimes it almost seems as though we can experience all four seasons in one day.

It should have come as no surprise that an evening in late September would involve temperatures in the 80s. Even the most jaded New Yorker is usually too busy enjoying the unseasonably warm weather to complain about it. There was a solid breeze blowing, taking the edge off the heat, but even that and a flat course ended up being more than I could handle this evening.

I really wasn’t worrying about my time, but I hoped that the conditions would be favorable for a nice little PR in the Watervliet Arsenal City 5k, my 12th race. This 5k also featured the only false start I’ve experienced. Probably two dozen runners took off prematurely, including me. What can I say? I saw asses running and I was just following the ass in front of me. Within a manner of seconds, the runners stopped and returned to the starting line. An airhorn blast finally signaled the real start, and someone had a small but frighteningly loud toy-like cannon that took what appeared to be a 12-gauge blank shotgun shell. Had I not been forewarned, the loudness would have sent me about 50 yards--vertically.

As we started out, I felt like I had a good cadence going and felt very relaxed. I thanked volunteers and cops, as applicable, at every intersection. At the 1-mile marker, the clock indicated I was on just over an 11-minute pace. Not too shabby at all. Just before the 2-mile marker, though, I felt the tank emptying fast. It turned out that even though my brain had 3.1 miles in it, my legs had just shy of two miles of running in them; the remainder of the race was all run/walk for Gingah. Even Gingah-the-Thanking-Machine with an Attitude of Gratitude couldn’t keep my legs running. I decided it was wiser to save something for Sunday afternoon’s CaresNY AIDS 5k.

After I got home, my throat started to feel sore. I hoped it was just dehydration or fatigue from the 5k, despite the fact that every time for as long as I can remember, a sore throat lead directly to a nasty cold (and every cold I’ve gotten for as long as I can remember was immediately preceded by a sore throat). I hoped that this time it was just part of my 5k hangover. Oh, hell no. By the time I went to bed after watching the Red Sox game, I could feel my head fill with congestion and the sneezing had begun. I threw back a dose (well, more like two) of Nyquil and decided to take it über-easy on Saturday, hoping this nasty head cold would run its course quickly and enable me to have a solid Sunday.

Nearly twelve hours of sleep later (with a brief break around 6am to let two little doggies outside to pee), I was bearing the merciless onslaught of the mother of all seriously nasty-ass head colds. Great. Gee, I didn’t have anything important planned for the weekend…just singing at Mass and running a 5k. I was actually more worried about the singing. Who gives a crap what I sound like when I run a 5k? At that point, all I wanted was to run the full distance, time be damned. In the meantime, I must have been at least partially dehydrated, because a lot of various fluids were going in (juice, water, herbal Throat Coat tea, skim milk, chicken broth), but only a relatively small amount of one kind of fluid was coming out. Unless you count what I was blowing out my nose into a tissue.

Wow…that got rather ugly and awkward there, didn’t it?

Just picture some long-distance runner firing off snot rockets during a marathon while his nipples bleed from chafing against his running jersey. I don’t sound quite so icky in comparison now, do I?

Aaaaaaanyway, my checklist for Sunday’s 5k now needed to include a small pack of tissues. Gingah don’t do snot rockets. Gingah’s got herself a rep to maintain.

Sunday’s CaresNY AIDSWalk included, for 2010, an inaugural 5k race. Despite the fact that I still felt considerably like dog poop, I figured I should be able to manage at least a run/walk for 3.1 miles. Besides, how could I resist the opportunity to wear a red superhero cape?

I was, as usual, one of the first runners to check in. (This explains why I was able to get a really good parking space in Washington Park, where I have so often been thwarted in my search for any parking space.) Although I didn’t get a T-shirt for this run (I found out too late that T-shirts were only for those who raised at least $100 for CaresNY; a fact that I banked for next year), I did put my red cape on right after I attached my timing chip and racing bib. I got my photo taken by a couple of people and even got interviewed for the evening news on the local NBC affiliate. (They used a nice soundbite, but no amount of post-production editing can compensate for my lack of makeup. <shudder>)

By the time the race started, we’d already heard from Mayor Gerry “The Man with the Tan” Jennings, Anne Hughes (one of the anchors from WXXA, the local Fox affiliate) and one of the state legislators. (I think it was one of the Breslins, Neil or Mike, but I can never keep them straight anyway. Besides, they‘re state legislators...or county...or whatthefuckever, so who really cares?)

The race itself was fairly uneventful, since I barely made it a mile before I had to slow to a walk. Even though the congestion I felt was largely confined to my head, my lungs still managed to feel the effects of my cold. This was my first experience running sick, so the fact that I was able to run at all was a relief. What I remember most distinctly was the fatigue. I also remember a couple of folks with cowbells who obliged my pleas for “MORE COWBELL!!!“ and the college kids in their fraternity and sorority sweatshirts who volunteered as course marshals. (I would like to extend my apologies to the members of lambda pi something, since I thought the first letter was delta, but on the second lap I realized there was no base to the triangle. I hope that when I shouted “Thank you, Delta Pi!” as I chugged by, they just figured I was too delirious from the effort to see straight.

According to local news reports, approximately 1,000 people attended; 88 of them participated in the 5k. I finished 82nd of those 88. This fact actually came as a relief to me, since I was certain I was in last place practically the entire race. That tends to happen when one feels like a zombie. (Incidentally, only one of the runners behind me was older than I am, so the fact that I actually finished a 5k faster than some twenty- and thirty-somethings was a nice touch.)

The CaresNY AIDS 5k was my last run before next weekend’s Komen Race for the Cure. I’m hoping for a good race and to feel healthy. So if you’ll excuse me, there’s a bottle of Nyquil with my name on it…

I'm with Bon Jovi: "I LOVE THIS TOWN!!!"

One of the signs of maturity, it seems, is that you have passed the point where very little surprises you about the world, and even less frequently do you surprise yourself. The funny thing about that kind of maturity, though, is that it's fluid; one day you feel positively ancient, and the next you may be completely reborn. (But just for the record, I am hardly "mature" by any definition.)

After yesterday's very relaxed Race for Hope 5k near my home in Albany, I felt prepared and even eager for this morning's Saratoga Palio 5k. It's actually been a while since I was genuinely excited about running a 5k. This morning was almost like the excited anticipation of my first 5k, the Freihofer's Run for Women. I prepped everything last night, since I knew it would be an early morning for me. I slept rather strangely, with dreams of repeatedly waking from weird dreams, all wrapped up in weird dreams. When the alarm went off at 0430, I hardly jumped out of bed, raring to go. Instead, I carefully picked up my sleeping Chi-mix puppy, Tessie, while I single-handedly put on a shirt and pants to take both Tessie and my seven-year-old Chi, Diva, outside for a very early morning potty-and-poop session. This actually requires a good deal of skill, considering that of Tessie's six pounds of weight, at least two-thirds of it must be comprised of bladder.

After the las perritas finished their cover of BTO's "Taking Care of Business," I ate what is probably the earliest breakfast of my life. It's nothing for me to eat half a banana and a small glass of milk before an early morning workout, but this was full-on typical morning breakfast I was eating. At 5AM.

I showered, put on my running clothes and headed out the door, going through my checklist one last time. At 5:30, I headed toward Saratoga Springs and hoped 'Toga Town would be as good to me this morning as she has been for so many 5k's this year. As I drove up the Northway in the pre-dawn darkness, the moon was nowhere to be found. In my car's CD player were five disks that I call "The Fish 98," a compilation of songs sent to my by my college friend, Dan Fisher. As I passed Clifton Park, Frank Sinatra's "In the Wee Small Hours" began to play. I've never been a big Sinatra fan (I'm more of a Tony Bennett girl, myself), but I sat back and relaxed behind the wheel while Ol' Blue Eyes honored me with a pre-race serenade.

I arrived in Saratoga around 6:15AM, when race day check-in opened. I had picked up my race packet and goodie bag the previous day (after finishing the Race for Hope 5k), but between the estimated 1,000+ race registrants who would be descending on my favorite city in New York State and said city's notorious there's-plenty-of-parking-but-all-the-spaces-are-full reputation, I relished the opportunity to relax pre-race, stroll part of the course to see what the hills were like and take some photos before starting my pre-race warm-up and stretching. (Incidentally, the Palio has the best race tee thus far, and the goodie bag--courtesy of The Meat House, one of the race sponsors--was an insulated reusable canvas shopping bag...BOTH KEEPERS!) After my own BTO cover in the ladies' rest room at the Hampton Inn & Suites (where race day check-in was held), I grabbed a course map and a cup of Earl Grey tea and headed up to Broadway with my camera.

Strolling down Broadway with its quaint shops is one of my favorite things to do in my favorite New York State city. The local businesses eventually give way to national chains as you head toward Congress Park, but even the GAP and Eddie Bauer and Banana Republic storefronts were clearly designed and built to look as though they belong in this classic city with its Victorian roots.

Daylight revealed a thick blanket of clouds overhead and I ambled over to Congress Park to share a moment with the ducks (who came right over to me as though I might dare to violate the posted park rules against feeding the waterfowl) and to scope out the section of the park where the 5k would pass through. Congress Park featured the lone significant downhill stretch of the race. There would be a few uphill climbs, none of them particularly daunting, but the last uphill came at the end of the race, ending perhaps 50 yards from the finish line, when I was going to be exhausted.

The Saratoga Palio is actually two races: a 5k and a half-marathon. The race is run in  memory of Saratoga Springs resident and mental health professional  Melanie Merola O'Donnell, and the race funds a scholarship in her name  in the mental health fieldh. They've run the race for about five years  and have gone from a couple hundred runners to about 1,100 today.

Runners amassed on Broadway as the 8AM start time approached. The half marathon would start at the top of the hour, with the 5k starting after that. I had already waited in line at the Hampton Inn for my second (mostly preemptive) potty stop of the morning; good thing, too. There were two pee-pee teepees on Broadway, right next to the starting line. The line stretched almost all the way down the block. I almost wanted to mumble, "suckers..." but the better angels of my nature won out. As the final call was made for the half marathon, the announcer reminded those who were gathered at the start line that this was for the half marathon, not the 5k. "If you're at the starting line, you'll be running more than 13 miles..." We 5k'ers on the sidelines appreciated the reminder.

Once the last of the half marathon runners left the starting line, we mere 5k runners gathered around to begin our own race. I looked around and found it interesting that there seemed to be more half marathoners than 5k'ers today. A thought both interesting and daunting to me.

At the sound of the airhorn, we headed up Broadway, past Congress Park, up a slight incline and, after passing Dunkin Donuts (complete with donut-baking aroma, which seemed rather cruel, even though I'm not a huge fan of donuts in general), we turned left onto Lincoln Avenue. Even though I had reviewed the course pre-race, I have to admit that if someone had quizzed me on it, the best I would have been able to come up with was the final mile of the route through Congress Park, past Ben and Jerry's (far more cruel, that) and up two hills that were, for me at least, significant but thankfully rather brief, before finishing back on Broadway just behind where this all began.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. It seems that the more 5k's I run, the less distinct the details become during the race. So once again, my memories are snapshots of the race. There were a lot of young kids doing their typical "bottle rocket/leisurely stroll" interval racing, a few parents pushing jogging strollers, and a lot of people who slowed to a walk as if to encourage me to pass them. Once again, as with the Dunkin Run, I was running with an "attitude of gratitude" (thank you, Tiffany!) and thanked everyone along the race route. Anywhere there was a spectator with a cowbell, I shouted, "MORE COWBELLLLLLL!!!" and they heeded my call every time.

A 5k typically has one water stop, but since part of our race route was also used for the half marathon, we actually passed two water stops. I suspected that the second water stop was a generous local citizen who had set up the water stop in front of his house. As we approached, just after the two-mile mark, someone's child(ren) had written in chalk on the road, "WELCOME, RUNNERS!" Even though I didn't stop for water at either location, I shouted, "Thank you for the cool chalk signs!"

We headed down toward Circular Street, where we would enter Congress Park. When I thanked the cop at the corner as I ran by, he seemed almost surprised and said, "Have a great day." I shouted back, "Thanks! BE SAFE!" and trotted into the park, where the cinder path and steep downhill awaited me. The runner ahead of me was a woman pushing two children in a jogging stroller. For their safety and hers, she had to slow to a walk, since she might have weighed 130 pounds soaking wet and was at the helm of a heavy-looking stroller with what appeared to be preschoolers in the seats.

As we emerged from the park and headed down Putnam Street, I could feel my legs start to feel genuinely fatigued. I just kept telling myself there was less than a mile to go. I did my best to avert my gaze as we passed Ben & Jerry's, especially since they had the unmitigated gall not to be open at 8:30AM. I realized that I was retracing (in reverse) some of the route I'd run during the Read Run 5k, which was the first 5k in which I actually ran the entire distance. We headed up a slight incline and turned onto Caroline Street for a block, then turned down High Rock Avenue before turning left again onto Lake Avenue. At the High Rock/Lake intersection were two signs: the first read "1/2 M" and pointed straight ahead; the second read "5K" and pointed to the left. I had made note of these signs earlier during my pre-race recon. It's one thing to go off-course; it's something else entirely to go TEN MILES off-course.

Lake Avenue represented the second-to-last incline I would have to run and, for me, it was sufficiently daunting, especially at the tail end of the race. At the time, I rather thought that both of the final hills would be the death of me. I was thrilled when I made the turn onto Maple and kissed the Lake Avenue hill goodbye. One more turn onto Grove Street (although on the hard-copy map, this was listed as something like Edward Jones Street), one last uphill for my tired-ass legs. I was chugging so slowly uphill, I figured any hope of a good time result was pretty much out the window, but there was no way I was going to slow to a walk this close to the finish. Pardon my French, but FUCK NO.

Considering my recent race results, I had set what I thought was a rather ambitious goal for today's race: 35:45. I barely dared to hope to hit 35:15, which would represent a PR. As I got to the top of Grove/E-whatever Jones Street and turned into the finish lane, I saw the clock: 34 minutes. I actually asked someone (no one in particular), "Is that clock right???" (As if someone was going to respond, "Uh, no, it's running a few minutes fast, but just for you.") At this point, even if I had tripped and rolled ass-over-teakettle across the finish line, I would have a PR.

I crossed the finish line around 34:20 (as of this posting, I'm still waiting for Albany Running Exchange to post the results). As I stopped to allow the volunteer to remove the timing chip from my shoe, my legs felt like overcooked linguine and I managed to drop the water bottle being handed to me by a young volunteer. I also got to hear my name announced, which, admittedly, is always kewl.

I wandered along Broadway in dazed disbelief before heading back to the final turn to cheer on the runners behind me. Although all I typically want after a race is a nosh and a nap (in that order), today I was high on the adrenaline buzz and ran a couple of errands on the way home, then changed into my coolio Saratoga Palio long-sleeved technical tee to take the dogs on a nearly two-mile walk and then, of course, to start writing this blog post. Still no nap; not to fear, the Chi's are more than making up for my napping deficit. I'll sing at Mass this evening, then join my dad and sister for our typical Sunday dinner. As usual, I will have salmon and asparagus. And tonight, there will be brie (unless there are Oysters Rockefeller). And there will be wine. Oh, yes. There will be wine. And around 9PM, I'll cuddle with a combined 14 pounds of Chi warmth and sleep the sleep of the just.

By breaking under :35, I have now gone from snail to turtle to opossum to SLOTH!!! Woo-HOOOOOOO!!! I haven't even begun to contemplate what less-pokey mammal will represent sub-:34...

Ronnie's My Homie... (But, Sorry, Dude, I'm Not Eating the Crap at Your Restaurant...)

I approached the Race for Hope 5k as a warm-up for the next day's Saratoga Palio 5k. The Race for Hope wound through a neighborhood in Bethlehem and included two long hills. My plan was to turn on my iPod and alternate running and walking: run for one song, walk for the next, and repeat the process until I crossed the finish line. But a strange thing happened during this race: the deliberately slow pace I set for myself (about a 14-minute mile) managed to make me "forget" I was running. (Granted, for most people, a 14-minute mile is a brisk walk; for me, it's a jog.) As a result, I didn't even remember to slow down to a walk until the fourth song (The Neville Brothers' "Tell It Like It Is"). After that, I started running again and didn't slow to a walk again until after the two-mile mark; and the second walk was only about a minute or so. I crossed the finish line at an intentionally snail-like :42. I actually felt comfortable running the whole time. What a concept.

I have a confession to make: I almost didn't go to the race. I was so tired the night before that I kept trying to read the same paragraph in Eat, Pray, Love about half a dozen times until I realized that the reason I couldn't follow the paragraph was because I kept dozing off. (That should not be construed as a criticism of the book; I'm really quite enjoying it, and purposefully limiting myself to one chapter a night. But last night, I was so tired that I only managed about half a chapter.) When I woke up Saturday morning, I actually had to argue with myself to get out of bed. I didn't want to run. So what got my lazy heinie out of bed, into my running clothes, and off to Bethlehem? Was it athletic discipline? Was it my drive to excel?

Well, um...no. It was someone else.

The Race for Hope Benefitted Capital Region Special Surgery (part of St. Peter's Hospital Foundation) and Ronald McDonald Charities of the Capital Region. Thanks to the generosity of my family and friends, I raised $220 for this fundraiser. THAT'S who got my lazy heinie out of bed. YOU did.

All I had to do was show up; the people who supported me already showed up, by making generous donations when I asked. It always feels strange to me, asking people for money, even for a good cause. I don't want to pester people, and especially in the current financial climate, a lot of folks are just scraping by just with the essentials. Perhaps fundraising would be a lot easier if I were acquainted with scores of millionaires, but I'm not. And frankly, nothing against folks who can contribute huge amounts of money to a worthy cause, but I actually value the "smaller" sacrifices of ordinary folks much more. Whatever the amount—$5, $10, $25—it's not the size of the donation that matters; it's the breadth of the response. I have about 185 Facebook friends, a small circle of "real-life" friends (many of whom are on Facebook) and a lot of people I know from church and work. For the sake of argument, let's say I have 200 friends and acquaintances. If each of them donated five bucks—the cost of a venti latte or a doughnut and coffee—that would be $1,000. Granted, not everyone would be able to donate; but some folks would be able to donate more than $5. When I look at it that way, it's really not so difficult. But at the same time, as one of my Shakespearean monologues goes, "I am not furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not become me."

I am also running the Komen Race for the Cure the first Saturday in October, to benefit the Susan G. Komen foundation. If you're reading this before October 2010, I hope you'll consider supporting the Komen foundation through my donation site. I have set a modest fundraising goal of $250. And wonderful as large donations are, I would be thrilled to raise even a buck or two from everyone I know. For the Komen, I'll be wearing a sign on my back with the first name of every person who makes a donation through my site (regardless of amount), as well as the first name of anyone a donor wants me to run in honor of (breast cancer survivors) or in memory of (those who have died from breast cancer).

But you all really come here to read about my experience during the race, and even though this post will be comparatively brief, I will provide you with a few details. The fact is, while I "forgot" I was running, I also managed to "forget" a lot of the details of what was going on around me. But here's what I remember:

Before the race began, when I was supposed to be warming up and stretching and all that normal pre-race stuff, I got sidetracked instead. First I met Ronald McDonald and had my photo taken with him. Then I chatted for quite a while with one of the Leukemia Society Team in Training folks. Then, about 15 minutes before the start of the race, as they were starting to call folks to the start line, I realized I hadn't used the bathroom yet. My hopes for an indoor potty were quickly dashed as I was directed to a line of seven porta-potties (pee-pee teepees, in my vernacular) that had a line almost 15 people long in front of them. As I waited for my turn, I just wanted to be able to pee and get to the starting line in time. Being in the pee-pee teepee when the race begins would be rather like Christina Pickles being in the ladies' rest room when she won her Emmy for "St. Elsewhere," one of the few award ceremony moments I remember all too clearly, probably because I figured that's where Murphy's Law would have me be if I ever won an award.

I hope you'll forgive my brief digression into this topic. These were, as pee-pee teepees go, fairly upscale. The latch actually worked, and there was even a pump-like lever to flush the potty. As I was sitting there, I realized that to my right was a portable sink. (Believe me, I triple-checked to make sure it wasn't actually a urinal.) And there were paper towels. Just two things were missing: a trash can for the used paper towel (no, I didn't flush the paper towel, since I don't want to screw up the time-space continuum) and, most importantly, SOAP. Nada. Euw. So I didn't really wash my hands, I rinsed them. And what's truly frightening to me is that that's more than most people do in fully equiped indoor bathrooms. OK, is everyone sufficiently grossed out? Good. Let's get on to the race, since I did finish my personal business in plenty of time to get to the starting line for the race.

We started on New Scotland Road, going up a looooooong slow hill to begin the race. We turned inot a neighborhood I've driven past but never through, and I spent most of the run nearly dropping my jaw at the homes in this neighborhood. I'm used to seeing some really amazing homes in Saratoga Springs, but these were all relatively new homes, every one of them something I could never afford without a winning MegaMillions ticket, each one situated on a plot of land that would easily contain my house's plot at least four times over. In this neighborhood there was another very long hill, but the grade was much less steep, so it wasn't as difficult.

Just before the halfway mark, I started pacing a newbie runner named Jess. She walked the race last year and just started running this year. We shared a similar sense of humor about the course. As we wound around the turn-around point, we passed a garage sale where the homeowner was selling a bicycle. Jess looked at it, but I jokingly chided her that riding a bike to the finish would be cheating. Just past that house, we turned down the next street and I saw a sign reading, "Small Animal Crossing" with a picture of a turtle underneath. Of all the times to be without my camera! I commented that I appreciated how slimming they made my turtle image on the sign. We kept up a 14-minute mile pace, which was very comfortable for me. When we turned onto the main road that would take us back to New Scotland Road, I saw one of the many Bethlehem Police cars that protected our route and the EMT rescue truck that would follow the last runner. As we rounded the turn, I said to the small group of volunteers and cops, "We have reservations. Ambulance for two..." They smiled and cheered us on.

I can honestly say this race was the easiest I've run (even though I didn't run all of it). I treated it like a warm-up and just relaxed and had fun with it. As a result, I actually feel prepared for tomorrow's Saratoga Palio 5k...but that's another blog posting.

To those who supported me in the Run for Hope, whether through a donation or a high-five or an electronic "atta girl," I just want to say thank you. Thank you for getting my heinie out of bed this morning. And if you ever need a bright and surly wake-up call, I'm your girl.

The "Dunnican" Run

Think for a moment about someone you knew for only about a year. Someone who, despite the brevity of your relationship, profoundly affected your life. Friend, lover, coworker, whatever. Imagine that person being taken away, not just from you, but from this world. How big of a hole would that person’s loss make in your world? In the world?


I was blessed to be under the care of an extraordinary surgeon for just over a year. Dr. Ward J. Dunnican, whom I met a couple of years ago, was recently killed in a motorcycle accident. His specialty was minimally invasive surgery, with a particular emphasis in bariatric surgery. He was a physician, a surgeon and an assistant professor of surgery. He worked and taught at Albany Medical Center.


Everyone liked and respected him, and it was easy to see why. He was a physician who genuinely cared about his patients, he was compassionate toward an entire population of patients who, because of their size, have experienced first hand the dismissal of other medical professionals and society at large. His bedside manner was nothing short of stellar. He was personable, compassionate, accessible, ethical, professional and highly skilled. He was, in short, what every physician should be. When he greeted his patients, it was always by looking them in the eye, shaking their hands and smiling.


If I’m to tell the story of how much he affected my life, I have to reveal more information than I typically would. I’ll spare you most of the details, but I still need to disclose more than I generally prefer.


I am by nature a very private person, averse to revealing intimate details to anyone other than a select few. Most of the world knows me primarily for my sense of humor, which runs the gamut from inane to sardonic. The vast majority probably don’t realize that humor is a highly effective and reliable defense mechanism, emotional kevlar with a kick—not only deflecting rejection and judgment, but also capable of disarming opponents with rapier-like precision.


Those select few are the only ones, for instance, who know the full extent to which I have struggled with my weight—a battle I have waged for nearly my entire adult life—and the toll it has taken on me physically, psychologically and emotionally.


As an adult, my weight has swung widely on a clinical scale from normal to morbidly obese. When phrases like “co-morbidity factor”—or pretty much any term with the word “morbid” in it—start entering your medical history, it’s time to shit or get off the damn pot. My co-morbidity factors were high cholesterol, osteoarthritis and clinical depression. I am eternally grateful that I didn’t have worse co-morbidity factors, like hypertension and diabetes (both of which run in my family) or sleep apnea or heart disease.


I examined from every conceivable angle how I’d gotten to that point, how I’d “let myself go,” as it’s all too often phrased. Above all else, I had to acknowledge one fact: regardless of what the motivations were, what actions led to this point, I was behind the wheel. I drove myself here, intentionally or neglectfully, through my own actions. Unhealthy habits had built neural connections in my brain that were reinforced and strengthened through repetition. It’s easy to look at it from that perspective and feel defeated, to feel like the ultimate failure, to pile layer upon layer of guilt and blame upon myself. But it isn’t about fixing blame; it’s about fixing the problem.


Those bad-habit neural connections can’t be undone, but they can be rerouted to new connections through better choices and healthier habits. By readjusting the focus, this acknowledgment becomes tremendously empowering: If I drove myself here, then I have the power to get myself out of this situation and get to where I want and need to be. And believe me, there are a lot of detours and wrong turns I’ve taken (and occasionally continue to take) along the way, and all of my yelling at my nutritional/physiological/biological GPS system won’t get me on the right road. (Imagine if every time you had to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and try again, a little voice in your head repeatedly said, “Recalculating…recalculating…” Believe me, you’d bludgeon her with a chocolate glazed donut in a heartbeat.)


When you get right down to it, weight loss is a fairly simple equation: burn more than you take in and you’ll lose weight. (Highly evolved human physiology being what it is, nature throws in a few metabolic curveballs, especially after 40 and, in a particularly sick twist, for people who’ve lost and regained weight over and over again. But caloric deficit remains the basic premise.) But if I learned nothing else as a theatre major, it’s that “simple” and “easy” are not even remotely the same thing.


Having tried everything from Atkins to The Zone, from Diet Center to Weight Watchers (and even, yes, good old-fashioned diet and exercise more times than I can count), my experience was all too common: preliminary weight loss, then the inevitable plateau after seemingly endless plateau, finally hitting the inevitable peak of frustration that would send me plunging into despair—and the nearest pint of Ben & Jerry’s—usually muttering the all-too-familiar phrase, “What’s the fucking point?”


When my weight hit an all-time high, I began to consider the most drastic approach: bariatric surgery. I was extremely uncomfortable with the idea of “rerouting the plumbing” (gastric bypass), so I focused on gastric banding. After copious amounts of research online into the pros and cons, the side effects, and what to look for in a surgical program, I entered the bariatric surgery program at  Albany Medical Center. There was no question that bariatric surgery was a drastic step, and after all of my research I had no delusions about what it could and could not do. Bariatric surgery is a tool; nothing more, nothing less. A tool that would only “work” if it was used properly. I wasn’t looking for a miracle cure or a magic bullet; I was just looking for the missing piece to the puzzle, the key that would open a door that had been locked for far too long. I was looking for something that would help level the playing field, if only a few degrees.


The program at Albany Med is unapologetically daunting. Anyone who thinks that bariatric surgery is “cheating” or “taking the easy way out,” should try jumping through all the hoops necessary just to get to surgery: screenings of every conceivable kind—blood tests, pulmonary evaluation, psychological evaluation, endoscopy, etc.—nutritional counseling, a thorough mandatory information session, attendance at support group meetings, and a requirement to lose ten percent of your weight before being cleared for surgery. All of that before I could even schedule a surgery date.


After more than a year in the program, I was finally cleared for surgery and had a date scheduled. I was going through pre-admission processing a few days in advance when I received a call that my original surgeon, Dr. Singh, was sick and wouldn’t be able to perform the procedure on my surgery date. I was crestfallen. I had jumped through every hoop only to get burned on the last ring of fire. Another surgeon, Dr. Dunnican, could perform the procedure, so I met with him that afternoon for a pre-op consultation. Dr. Singh had the reputation of being one of the best bariatric surgeons in the Northeast, if not the entire country. I was confident in his abilities and felt quite circumspect of placing my health in any other surgeon’s hands, even someone like Dr. Dunnican, who had fellowed under Dr. Singh. My other option was to wait more than a month for another surgery date to open up, and the wait thus far had been agonizing.


As I waited for my late afternoon appointment, I tried to imagine this Dr. Dunnican. For whatever reason, I imagined a balding, middle-aged Irishman with a condescending manner, a fondness for Jameson’s and maybe even a God complex. When Dr. Dunnican walked in the door, two thoughts immediately hit me, nearly simultaneously: OMG, he is GORGEOUS! (seriously, I used to refer to him as "Doc Hottie" to my close friends) and  Crap, he is WAY too young to operate on me! I hope neither expression was written on my face, but I’m rather notorious for my lack of a poker face, so you do the math. He was the diametric opposite of what I had imagined.


As he took his time, reviewing my history, going through the details of the surgical procedure, how the band worked, how it was adjusted, etc., I was amazed that this man, who had been in surgery all morning and had been at the VA hospital all afternoon, was taking all of this time, carefully explaining everything, answering every one of my questions (even the stupid ones) and laughing at all my jokes (even the really lame ones). He must have been exhausted, but he never showed it. I had never met a doctor who was so patient and thorough. I had long since grown accustomed to the managed care reality of seeing a doctor for five or ten minutes per visit and trying to make sure I remembered all the important questions to ask in that tiny window of opportunity. Most of the physicians I have encountered spent practically the entire office visit looking at my chart or looking at the floor. The few who didn’t always seemed to leave private practice or move away or whatever just as I was getting really comfortable with them.


I left Albany Med that day feeling confident that this procedure was, in fact, worth all the effort, all the sacrifice, and that I was in the best possible hands. The following Monday, June 16, 2008, Dr. Dunnican performed the laparoscopic procedure to implant a LapBand around the upper part of my stomach.


Over the course of the ensuing months I would have regular follow-up appointments to evaluate my progress; discuss any questions, concerns or difficulties I encountered; and adjust the band through a port just under the skin below my right rib cage. Adjustment is more art than science, since there’s no one-size-fits-all proposition in banding. Oh, and it involves a big needle. So why go through all of this? Because for the first time in my life, I felt empowered. I felt capable. I felt like the playing field had been leveled just enough to give me a real fighting chance.


I ran into complications the following February when my band slipped. Once again, Dr. Dunnican and I had a date with the OR; this time, to reposition the band. Everything seemed fine again until I landed in the ER about four months later when my band slipped again.


It’s difficult to describe what a slipped band feels like. It’s one of the most common complications of gastric banding, and one I knew about from my research and from my first consultation with Dr. Dunnican. When I would describe it to my close friends, I used the term “kamikaze attack” because it came out of nowhere, without warning, without an identifiable catalyst. Sometimes it felt like intense pressure, sometimes it felt like no matter how much I tried to swallow, something didn’t get quite all the way down to my stomach. Sometimes it just felt…wrong. But it never felt acutely painful. (Even I’m smart enough to seek medical attention when acute pain is involved.)


I had three options: reposition the existing band, replace the existing band with a new band, or remove the band altogether. Dr. Dunnican fully supported my decision, whatever it would be. The uncertainty of the kamikaze attacks was tremendously stressful. In the end, if you’ll pardon the pun, my gut feeling was that my body didn’t want the band inside me. Despite my trepidation, I knew I had established the habits that would lead me to success and had gotten my weight down lower than it had been in well over a decade, and the confidence that came with that accomplishment helped steel my resolve. I opted to have the band removed. On June 16, 2009—one year to the day since it was first implanted—Dr. Dunnican removed my LapBand.


I told Dr. Dunnican afterward that I was determined to be his “most successful ‘failure’.” At every appointment, he had always looked me in the eye, smiled and shaken my hand when he greeted me and again when we parted ways. At the final appointment, I asked for (and got) a hug for good luck. Two, actually.


When I read of his sudden and tragic death in a motorcycle accident, I thought first of his family (in particularly, his young children), then of his colleagues, and finally of his patients. If our lives are ultimately measured by the number and depth of the lives we touch, then he died a very, very wealthy man indeed. For his family, I pray they will be comforted in their time of inexplicable loss. For his colleagues, I pray they will be inspired by his example. For his patients, I pray they will find the kind of trust and rapport they had with him in another capable surgeon. And for Dr. Dunnican, I pray for eternal peace.


So that person you thought of at the beginning of this post; imagine for a moment that you had an opportunity to say something to that person before (s)he was gone forever. What would you want to say?


To Dr. Dunnican, I would say thanks for all he did for me in a very brief period of time. I would tell him that his extraordinary care and compassion set an example for all physicians to follow. I would tell him about my running and that, as corny as it sounds, I would run this weekend’s Dunkin Run (my ninth 5k) in his honor (the “Dunnican” Run, as it were). The impact he had on my life played a crucial role in enabling me to run at all.


On most race days, I wake up reasonably well rested and eager to get to the race. On the morning of the Dunkin Run, I felt, well…meh. It was cloudy and dreary out, and even though I had slept pretty well, I just wasn’t feeling it today. I wanted to run it all and put in a decent time, especially after last weekend’s twin debacles of my fledgling 5k “career”. I gave myself a goal of sub-:37 but really just wanted to feel good running. Most of all, I wanted to run for Dr. Dunnican, for all the good he did, for all the compassion and laughter he spread, for all the life he put into his 37 years.


My Facebook friend, Tiffany, was competing in her first Ironman Triathlon in Ohio on the same day. Swim more than a mile, cycle for 56 miles, and then, oh yeah, run a whole freakin’ marathon. 140.6 miles of hard-core cranking. And all I have to churn out is five measly kilometers. Tiffany often talks about having an “attitude of gratitude,” and today I really took that mantra to heart.


I made a conscious decision that no matter what I encountered, I would have an attitude of gratitude. Long bathroom line? I’ll be grateful for the invention of the flush toilet so I wouldn’t have to poop behind a tree. Tired, achy legs? I’ll be grateful that I have legs, that they work, and that they have carried me this distance before (and for ibuprofen, of course). Breathing cadence that just won’t get with the program? I’ll be grateful for healthy lungs, for clean air, for the luxury of coming out on a Sunday to run just because. No chocolate glazed donuts? I’ll be grateful to spare my body the refined sugar. (But, um…I really wanted a chocolate glazed donut, refined sugar and all.)


I arrived at Albany’s Sidney Albert Jewish Community Center on Whitehall Road just after check-in opened at 7am. Even if I hadn’t already known where the JCC was located, it would have been a no-brainer today. Dunkin Donuts banners, giant Dunkin Donuts coffee cup by the starting line, Dunkin Donuts iced coffee mobile, huge Dunkin Donuts truck…good luck forgetting who put the “Dunkin” in the Dunkin Run. (Incidentally, it’s only been the Dunkin Run for a few years; it was previously the Bruegger’s Bagel Run.)


I checked in and the volunteer looked at the sheet and said, “You’re number one!” He checked it twice. Yup, I had bib number one. I said, “I’m registered for the 5k, right? Not the kids’ fun run.” He assured me I was. (The Dunkin Run was the first time I’ve seen kids in a fun run wearing regular bib numbers; usually, if kids get bibs, they all get #1.) He asked me if I was going to finish first. I joked that the list he was looking at was the only time in history when my name and the number 1 would appear on the same line of any race document.


I went about my usual pre-race routine: locate rest rooms, use rest rooms, check out the race day goodie bag, take pictures of all the goodies, attach my timing chip and bib, take pictures of the venue and, in today’s case, verify that there were chocolate glazed donuts. It turns out there weren’t any donuts per se, but there were munchkins galore (including chocolate glazed), so I wasn’t complaining. I usually don’t eat sugar before a race; I’ll eat a light breakfast after getting up, then a banana about an hour before the race. But as I surveyed the Dunkin spread, I decided I really didn’t want to chance missing out on the chocolate glazed munchkins, so I decided to relax a little an have a couple.


I walked around to warm up and did a little light preliminary stretching. I was really just biding my time until the folks from the School of Massage Therapy were ready with their massage tables. I hadn’t had a pre- or post-race massage since the Freihofer’s Run, and I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity today.


While I waited, someone finished hooking up the sound system and played a couple of U2 tunes: first, “City of Blinding Lights” and then “Beautiful Day”. I looked up at the gloomy, cloudy sky, and felt the slight chill of the breeze on this cool morning and thought, Beautiful day? Um, if you say so, Bono. Then I remembered my mantra: I have an attitude of gratitude and I was grateful for some great tunes to start the day.


When the massage folks were ready, I was directed to a purple massage table set up under a big, rather happy-looking, maple tree. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the name of the gentleman who gave me my massage, but it began with an L, so I’ll just refer to him as L and make him sound mysterious, like a double agent in a John LeCarré novel. I began the massage lying prone on the table, relaxing as L gently warmed up my leg muscles. When it was time to roll over onto my back, I looked up at the tree and just soaked in its bark and leaves and little clusters of helicopters. Over the five-minute massage, we chatted briefly about running and what my goals were for the race. He told me to come back for a post-race massage and tell him how I finished. I thanked him and walked away to finish warming up and doing my last pre-race stretching, grateful for a free pre-race massage and the skilled hands that delivered it.


One benefit of wearing bib #1 is that people notice you. Not that I don’t have a tendency to stand out just a bit in a neon green running jersey, but people I had never met before would walk by me, smile, and say, “Hey! Number One!” A couple of them asked how I got that number; I speculated that I must have been the first to register for the race, but not before quipping about signing up for the kids’ fun run by mistake. I have to admit, the unexpected attention was actually pretty cool. A girl could get used to that.


As we lined up near the starting line, the young woman standing next to me told me she was nervous because this was her first race. She asked if it was okay to start so far forward, since she was a slow starter. I told her she’d do great and just to stay to the right so the faster runners would have plenty of room to pass on the left. As long as she wasn’t planning to walk the start, she’d be fine where she was. I told her that I am a slow runner and always stay to the right, and I’ve never heard anyone curse me out for it yet. (I saw her again after the race when she called out, “Number One! How did you do?” It was then that I found out she had run the 10k. I told her how impressed I was that she chose a 10k for her first race. The smile on her face conveyed her agreement.) Thanks in large part to the atmosphere of the runners (and, of course, a nice pre-race massage), I was feeling much better; definitely more relaxed as we awaited the start o the race.


We would be taking over a rather sizable length of Whitehall Road, making a few people nearly late to church. (I know this because some of those people are fellow parishioners of mine at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception.) As soon as Albany’s finest finished clearing the route, the air horn signaled us to start running.


I typically thank some people along the course of a 5k, mostly the race marshals, but for this race I decided (on a whim as I started running) to extend my attitude of gratitude to everyone I could. I decided to focus not on finding my breathing cadence or getting to a comfortable stride, but instead on getting to the next volunteer, the next race marshal, the next cop. My goal was to thank every single one. At every intersection, I said “Thank you!” and either clapped or pointed. I suppose someone might have thought it was silly or even obnoxious. (I certainly wasn’t whispering, after all; and my voice does tend to…um…carry.) Some might even have thought I was wasting energy that I should have been spending on running. Did thanking everyone at every intersection cost me a few seconds on my time? Perhaps, but gratitude is a positive energy, and I find that positive energy yields positive energy. A couple of the folks I thanked looked surprised, but most of them smiled and thanked me back or clapped or said, “You’re welcome.” No eye-rolling, no bird-flipping, nothing negative. I felt more energy as I ran down the road.


I really wasn’t thinking much about my running. I wasn’t thinking about my breathing. Don’t get me wrong, it was still quite an effort to haul my heinie 3.1 miles. But today, that didn’t seem to take nearly as much effort as it had last weekend. The more people I thanked, the more energy I took in. I was Godzilla and gratitude was my electricity.


There was a lovely elderly couple sitting by the curb in their lawn chairs, the wife wrapped up in a blanket against the morning chill. The way the course is laid out, I passed them twice. The first time I just smiled at them. The second time, I thanked them. They beamed back huge smiles at me. Godzilla kept getting stronger.


As we approached one of the few turns in the race, where we would loop around a block and then run back along Whitehall Road in the opposite direction, we could see the flashing lights of the police escort vehicle ahead. We all moved over toward the left lane to make room. The police escort vehicle was followed by a motorcycle cop and the Dunkin Donuts iced coffeemobile. And then we saw the lead runners, nearly shoulder to shoulder. We cheered them on. As the escort vehicles passed me, I thanked them.


Once we made the block turn ourselves, we were headed back along Whitehall for what, at times, seemed like the endless trek to the Albany School for the Humanities, which would be the turnaround point for this race. I’ve driven Whitehall Road countless times, but this was the first time I’d run it. Big surprise: it seems a lot longer when you’re running it. Who’da thunk it? When we started to see the lead 5k runners heading back toward the finish line at the JCC, we cheered them again. And many of the runners cheered us on. I was overjoyed when I saw the turnaround at ASH. I literally said, “Hallelujah!” And I mean audibly. As I headed back up Whitehall toward the JCC, I saw Joe, who for once was behind me (and stayed that way). I was also rather surprised to see some fast-looking runners coming in the other direction after I finished the turn at ASH. Then I realized, those were the 10k runners, who were running the same route as the 5k, but completing it twice. So to them, I cheered, “Woo-hooooooo! Way to go, 10k!!!” One of them smiled and said “Thank you, Number One!” In a typical race, when I start to feel my legs getting fatigued, I look at the ground so I can just focus on one step at a time, listening to my iPod, thinking just get through this song. But in this race, when I would start to lose steam, I just kept thinking, This one’s for you, Doc, and look for someone to thank or to cheer on or to high-five. I never had to look very hard. Mmmmm…electricity…Godzilla liiiiiiikeeeeeee.


And so I chugged along, a neon green-clad, pointing/clapping/cheering/thanking, #1-wearing gratitude machine. Seriously, what’s the worst that could happen? People would remember me? For thanking people? Oh, hell yeah, I can definitely live with that.


When I got to the three-mile mark, I felt tired but strong. I could see the traffic cones ahead guiding me to the finish line. I resisted looking at the clock for as long as I could. I felt I had run a good race, had a good vibe, and thought I had a good shot at making my sub-:37 goal. As I neared within perhaps 30 feet of the finish line, I couldn’t resist looking at the clock: 35 minutes and change. I was going to beat my goal by more than a minute. Thanks, Doc, I thought, this one’s for you. I crossed the finish line at 35:49, let out what has become my characteristic whoop…and then, inexplicably, burst into uncontrollable tears.


I don’t know where the tears came from exactly, but they were coming fast and furious and I didn’t care that I was walking around on rubbery legs with tears streaming down my face. Maybe they were tears mourning the loss of Dr. Dunnican. Maybe they were tears for his family, especially his children. Maybe they were tears of relief from crossing the finish line on a morning when I woke up feeling meh. Maybe they were tears of sheer exhaustion. Maybe they were tears of realization that gratitude begets gratitude, that positive energy begets positive energy, that joy begets joy. Maybe they were all of those things.


I wandered over to the sidelines to cheer on some of the runners who were approaching the finish line, and I kept crying in wave after wave. As soon as I thought I was finished, I’d start back up again. After several minutes, the waves finally began to subside, but through it all, I kept cheering runners on. I finally saw Joe come trotting toward the finish line and cheered him by name. As I stood there in a cool breeze under a cloudy sky, the sound system again started to play U2’s “Beautiful Day”; this time, I didn’t even hesitate. Yes it is, Bono. It is a beautiful day indeed.


I headed over to L for my post-race massage. He was already massaging another runner and, even though other tables were open, I wanted to tell him how I had done, so I waited a few minutes. While I waited, I heard someone call out, “Number One!” By now, I was fully enjoying my new nickname. Ah, yes. A member of my public. It was one of the 10k runners I’d cheered on as I was on the final mile of my 5k. I recognized him because he was the one who responded to my cheering with, “Thank you, Number One!” His name was Ken and he was a marathon runner. We chatted a bit about running and he told me, “You’d love Boston.” Well, yes, I adore Boston. It’s my favorite US city. But I knew he was referring to running the Boston Marathon. Yeah…um…I’m still working up to running a 10k next year in Atlanta (on the Fourth of July…yeah, I know). He mentioned that he’s run Boston 15 times. (Well, I’ve certainly been to Boston more times than that.) I had to chuckle when he said, “At the risk of dating myself, I’ve run Boston every year since I was 20.” A 35-year-old telling a 47-year-old woman that he’s dating himself. We shared a laugh over that and then each went to our respective massage tables.


During my post-race massage on the purple table under the happy bird-less maple tree, I mentioned to L that I ran the race in memory of Dr. Dunnican. It turns out that L works at the Starbucks across from Albany Med. He wasn’t sure if he recognized Dr. Dunnican’s picture in the newspaper, but suspected that he probably served him on occasion.


I recently read this quote online: “Time goes by so fast, people go in and out of your life. Try to never miss the opportunity to tell these people how much they mean to you.”


So thank you, Dr. Dunnican. And thank you, my friends, for taking time out of your hectic lives and reading my blog. Thank you for your encouragement and support. Thank you for electronic high-fives and hugs.


If you enjoyed reading this post, don’t just send me positive feedback (although I love that). Go ahead and forward on to someone. Tell someone who means a lot to you, whom you may have been too busy to mention it to lately, how much richer your life is for knowing him or her.


An attitude of gratitude is contagious. And I want to be a carrier. Let’s go viral, shall we?