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?

It Was the (Second) Worst of Times, It Was the Absolute Worst of Times (Or: Lessons Learned, Perspective Gained, and the Race I Should Have Run)

It’s finally Labor Day weekend, which in the great Northeast should mean we can largely kiss the hot, humid summer weather goodbye. (Of course, in Upstate New York, it seems we can experience all four seasons in one day sometimes, so there are no guarantees.) Before summer unofficially made its last hurrah with the arrival of Labor Day weekend, we were treated with at least our second official heat wave of 2010. If you’ve been following my blog, you can imagine how much I enjoyed that. (Do I even need to insert the sarcastic smirk here?) Every 5k I’ve run in my life I ran this summer. I’ve run at least half of my races in heat and humidity; in fact, I can think of only one race I ran in 65-degree weather (the Read Run 5k, my second race). The week leading up to Labor Day weekend was filled with crappy sleeping weather, the naturally ensuing crappy sleep (what little sleep there was), energy levels that started low and still managed to drop like a sinkerball, only one decent training run (the Saturday of the preceding weekend) and all the lovely side effects that come with Gingah’s Crappeh Weathah Combo (mild depression, the requisite depression-induced overeating, and all the other vices to which I have grown all too accustomed over the last few decades). I don’t even have an immaculately clean house to show for all my lack of training runs.


Labor Day weekend featured two races for me: Saturday’s Run for the Horses 5k in Saratoga Springs (to benefit the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund) and Sunday’s Wobbly Feet 5k (subsequently renamed the Hope With Every Step Halfmoon 5k). Both races were fundraisers. Contrary to what you might be thinking, I do not have a maddening desire to drop dead from running 5k’s. I originally registered for the Wobbly Feet and then, when I registered for the Run for the Horses, I neglected to check the full weekend on my calendar. The result? Back-to-back 5k’s. Worse, it left me with no opportunity to run the race I should have entered, the SEFCU Labor Day 5k. On the plus side, I would end up at the SEFCU race, but as a volunteer, not a runner. I’m enjoyed lending support to other runners the way so many race volunteers have supported me.


Once I realized (back in August) my scheduling mistake, I took it as an opportunity to test myself and see if I could run two 5k’s back-to-back. Well, now I have my answer: a resounding NO. Or at least a heartfelt NOT YET. (Good to know, since I’m already registered for seven 5k’s in September.)


Saratoga Spa State Park presented a beautiful location for a 5k on a perfect late summer day. The morning started reasonably cool, the humidity that characterized most of the preceding week had skedaddled and it was looking like a great day for running. I hoped that nearly a full week off from running would end up helping me with a more relaxed race. Um…yeah…NOT. My bib number was not a prime, but that was OK. The fastest race I’d ever run, the Jailhouse Rock 5k in Ballston Spa, had me wearing #14, but that race was also being held ON the 14th, which just happened to be my dad’s birthday. The R4H 5k also advertised that the voice of Saratoga and New York racing, Tom Durkin, would call the start of the race. I had been looking forward to hearing the customary, “Aaaaaaand they’re OFF!” at the start of the race, but apparently Mr. Durkin was a late scratch.


My goal for this race was to run it all in 35:15. To have any shot at finishing in that time, I would need to run the entire distance. I was confident in my endurance; my speed would be up to my legs. As I looked around pre-race for a dog to pet for good luck, I met another runner and her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Darby. One might not typically think of that breed for distance running, but Darby ran the entire race with her owner. (They passed me on the Avenue of the Pines on the way to the turn-around point, and again on Gideon Putnam Road on the way back. Both times they passed, I cheered, “Go, Darby, go!!!”)


The R4H certainly took the prize for Most Varied Terrain for a “road” race. We ran on gravel, asphalt, hard-packed dirt and, finally, a grassy field. For my entire (admittedly brief) running “career,“ I have run exclusively on asphalt. Another runner informed me that the softer surfaces would be a welcome change to my legs. I started out a bit less sure-footed that usual on the gravel roadway. Fortunately, most of the actual gravel was on the sides, with hard-packed crushed gravel dominating the access road. One particularly large piece of rock presented itself perfectly for my left foot to land on it in the most inappropriate manner: right in my arch. Yeouch. NOT a particularly auspicious start to my race. We soon left the gravel drive and turned onto the paved biking/running path that paralleled the Avenue of the Pines. Everything seemed fine: breathing, legs, stamina. So far, so good. The aroma of the pines that line the avenue was a nice accompaniment to the sunny skies and moderate temperatures. We ran down along the avenue until we turned onto Gideon Putnam Road. I still felt strong and comfortable, with what seemed to be a good solid pace. I passed the water station and got to the turn-around point still feeling good in the run. As I passed the water station on the way back, I gratefully accepted a cup, thanked the volunteer, swished a little agua in my mouth and tossed the cup aside.


Throughout the race, once I had established a comfortable pace, I started looking for human landmarks: people to try to pass. Some folks walked/ran this race, as is a common occurrence. Just before the turn back along the Avenue of the Pines, I selected a particularly challenging human landmark. I would learn his name after I crossed the finish line, but for the time being he was, in my mind, “Le Target” (pronounced “Tarzhay”). He was proceeding through the entire race doing running and walking intervals. He was also about six feet tall, so his legs are longer than mine. (B@stard, I thought.) For the last full mile of the race, I had him squarely in my sights. And yet, he proved frustratingly elusive. I would get within a few paces of him while he was walking, and he would start running. Fortunately, his running intervals were brief; perhaps a minute or two at most. But just as I would close in on him as he walked (also in intervals of a minute or two), he’d pick up again. I didn’t know what the French word for “elusive” was, so I just modified his sobriquet with a little Franglish: “Le Target Elusive” (pronounced with a distinctly Pepe Le Pew accent). He would continue to elude me for the rest of the race.


By the final half mile, I was starting to lose a lot of steam. I was getting that “running through Jell-O” feeling and just kept pushing to get to the end. I completed the final turn from the paved path to a dirt road in sight of the finish line, and then, with tremendous gratitude, put everything I had left (which, admittedly, wasn’t much at all) into the final 50 yards or so of open field. I glanced at the clock next to the finish line: creeping up toward 37 minutes. CRAP, I thought. (OK, I didn’t actually think crap, but my blog censors my naughtier language, so my other option is to say, “Sugar Honey Iced Tea!”) I don’t have all of my race times committed to memory, just my PR (35:31 in the Jailhouse Rock 5k) and my first (38:14 in the Freihofer’s Run for Women). But I did know that I’ve only run one race over :37. I willed my legs to get me across the finish line before the clock ticked to :37. (After the race, I would find my official time: 36:58. So my legs got the job done…just barely.)


As I crossed the finish line, I wanted to collapse but kept walking. A volunteer bent down to remove the racing chip from my shoe as I heard the AREEP announcer call out my name. (THAT was a first. And he even pronounced it properly!) I saw Le Target Elusive just ahead of me. He turned around and thanked me. I was at a loss to figure out why. He said, “Every time I heard you gaining on me, it spurred me to run a little more. Thanks for pushing me!” Well, damn, I’m not that magnanimous! (As for him hearing me approaching, I’m sure he was referring to my breathing, which doesn’t even have a stealth mode; I have no doubt my breathing could be heard all the way to Vermont!) I responded by telling him how frustrated I was getting during the race, coming so close to catching up to him, only to be thwarted within a few steps. We shared a laugh and parted ways. (Incidentally, his name is Joe and our paths would cross again sooner than either of us would have expected. But I digress.)


In all, 117 people completed the Run for the Horses. I finished 109th. And my goal of 35:15? The closest I came to that was watching the eight-year-old kid in a Derek Jeter T-shirt who constantly seemed to be a couple hundred yards ahead of me, as if to taunt me with all his Yankee-fandomnessitude. But, come on, he’s a kid, and from what I could see, a pretty decent kid. He finished in 35:13, won his division (by virtue of being the only one in it--which I think was 13 and under), and I cheered heartily for him when he claimed his prize. (But I still hate the Yankees. Especially this year, with my beloved BoSox limping down the homestretch of an injury-wracked season. But, again, I digress.)


I comforted myself with the knowledge that I gave that race everything I had in me that day, and reminded myself that there is no substitute for adequate preparation. That race was behind me, with its second-worst-ever-for-me time of just a couple hairs under 37 minutes.


The next challenge lay ahead…the following morning.


Sunday morning dawned very cool and breezy; my favorite kind of weather. For the first time since I started running 5k races, I needed a warm-up jacket. I drove up to Halfmoon Town Park for the inaugural Hope with Every Step Halfmoon 5k (originally the Wobbly Feet 5k), a benefit for the Wobbly Feet Foundation.


After checking in and taking care of business in the ladies’ room, I attached my bib for this hand-timed race. I chatted with a young couple who were participating in the 1-mile family walk with their dogs, Yoda and Logan. Yoda was a mixed breed with some Chihuahua in him, which was evident when he barked excitedly. Every Chi seems to have that I’ve-just-been-hit-by-a-car bark that scares the bejeezus out their owners the first few times they hear it.


I also spoke briefly with Rich, who is 76 years old and runs a lot of road races. He and I chatted about running, various courses, and his friend Regina, whom I wrote about in my last blog entry after the Jailhouse Rock 5k.


I went off by myself to warm up, stretch and give myself a little last-minute pep talk to prepare myself mentally for the race and what my expectations were.


Today’s race would be run entirely on a crushed gravel/cinder track, which should have provided some cushioning for my legs and, I hoped, would improve the likelihood of my being able to run the entire race. Yesterday’s race had a time goal that I failed to make, but I ran the entire distance. Today’s race had only one goal: to run the entire distance. I had on one or two occasions run the 5k distance on consecutive days, but never at race pace. Even though all of my running seems to happen at more or less the same pace, give or take a minute (at most), there is something different about racing with a group of people in a timed event. I harbor no illusions that I will finish among the top three of my age group; the only way that could happen at present would be for all but two other female runners in their 40s to be waylaid by amoebic dysentery or food poisoning or a tear in the time-space continuum. When I race, I race against myself and my previous PR, and I always try to leave everything I have on the course. Today, I would be racing with yesterday’s second-worst-ever finish still fresh in my mind. My game plan was to run comfortably enough to enable me to run it all, knowing that I would be lucky to improve on yesterday’s disappointing time by even a small margin.


As we gathered at the starting line, I went though my race checklist mentally. Big mistake. I keep my checklist on my CrackBerry precisely because I don’t trust my memory, which is notoriously akin to Swiss cheese. Everything seemed to be in place; I’d even had to add my running gloves this morning because the breeze across the open park made me a bit chilly. I knew I would warm up as I ran, so I abandoned my warm-up jacket back at the car; but if my hands were cold, I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate, and the gloves were easy enough to remove and stash in my waistband if I got too warm during the race. There was a nagging suspicion that I had forgotten something. I checked for the usual suspects: cough drops (to keep my throat from getting too dry)…check. Lucky hat (which I hadn’t worn in either of the two previous races)…check. Sunglasses…check. I figured it was just nerves, so I put the worry aside and focused on the course instructions.


I already knew the course surface, but this would be my first chance to hear about the course itself. It turned out that the course featured one of my pet peeves: a repeated loop. I can barely begin to tell you how much I hate that…but you know damn well that I will. My personal opinion is that repeated loops should be against the rules. For someone as slow as I am, by the time I get around toward the end of the first loop, several runners (if not most of the field) have already passed me once and are on their final approach to the finish line. As a runner, I have not yet developed the mental toughness to be able to see the finish line and know that I have to go around again.


When my Facebook friend, Tiffany, competed in the 70.3 Ironman Rhode Island, my first thought was that there wasn’t enough Rhode Island to make that work; after all, we’re talking about a state that only measures 37 miles wide by 48 miles long at its largest points. Rhody’s official name (State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations) is almost bigger than the state itself. And yet, in that relatively tiny piece of real estate, Tiffany would swim 1.2 miles, bike 56 miles and run a half marathon. The run was the part that concerned me; not just the distance itself but, since the running component was conducted entirely within the city of Providence, the fact that runners would have to complete two laps of the running course. I remember at the time wondering what kind of physical and mental stamina it took to do that.


Today I would be facing that challenge on a far smaller scale, but this race, I hoped, would help me develop the foundation of that stamina.


With the course instructions presented and the sponsors thanked, we prepared for the two sounds we’d assembled to hear: “Runners ready” and the starting claxon. In the last 30 seconds before that, I looked around and tried to relax and laugh with the other runners. That’s when it hit me: I had forgotten something. I saw runner after runner wearing headphones. Sugar Honey Iced Tea…I had left my iPod in the car. It was too late to go back now, so I would run this entire race without music. Since I began running at the start of this year, I have only run without music twice: most recently on a striding training run and a few months ago during a standard training run. I got through both sessions, but it was, frankly, excruciating. I don’t run and chat (in fact, talking while running wears me out completely) and I don’t trust my mind to run without music…it’s far too easy for my mind to wander to realms where it has no business. I’m not one of those runners who gets “in the zone” and achieves moments of blissful clarity while running. I’m still in the I’m-happy-when-it’s-over-and-I-can-stop phase of being a runner.


The claxon sounded and off we ran. As is my habit, I stayed to the right so the hares could easily pass all the tortoises like me. This race included families with young children (the walkers were behind all of the runners), and I was impressed with all the kids who were so eager to run and have fun. I’ll admit I was rather envious of that; 5k runs were not quite so plentiful (and girls weren’t encouraged to engage in sports other than “girl” sports much) when I was their age. One little blond boy to my left at the start line told his mom and dad that he was going to “sprint the whole way”; his father reminded him that he should pace himself, since 3.1 miles was a long way to sprint. I was impressed that a kid who was perhaps six or seven years old even knew what the word “sprint” meant. (Many of his peers probably only know of Sprint as a wireless phone company, if they know the word at all.) I was passed by many youngsters as young as preschoolers. I enjoyed their attitude and even their rather entertaining running technique. I also remembered from my second race (the Read Run 5k) that kids are like bottle rockets in these events: run as fast as you can until you’re tired (typically about 100 yards), then walk, look around, talk, tell Mom or Dad that you’re bored, then repeat the entire process again and again until you cross the finish line. Of course, the Read Run 5k was run on roads; this race was being run on a much narrower jogging trail, perhaps three feet wide. When a four-year-old gets tired from running all-out, he doesn’t tend to slow to a jog or to a brisk walk; he tends to stop. Since he’s not an experienced runner and, from a developmental standpoint, is still learning about how his actions affect others, he doesn’t realize that when he stops dead in his tracks, another runner might be right behind him and not anticipate his sudden stop. Between my observations in the Read Run 5k (the first involving young children) and my work in the early childhood development field, I was probably better prepared for this situation than most of the other runners (with the exception of the parents, who probably react out of instinct). The faster runners were already well ahead of us (but remember, there would be two laps) and the parents did their best to tell their children to clear the path. This race also had a fairly small field and lacked the more vigilant competitiveness of other races, so to my knowledge there weren’t any negative interactions. There was only one time when I almost slammed into a kid, and it was the aforementioned blond sprinter. As soon as he passed me and ran in front of me, he slammed on the brakes. Nothing intentional; his body was just done running for the time being. I was surprised that I was able to shift quickly to my left while glancing over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t about to become an obstacle for a runner behind me.


We finished the first smaller loop and I was already feeling far more tired than usual at that point in the race. I had the two larger loops to go, which would include the smaller loop we just finished. This meant that I would actually pass within sight of the finish line clock thrice by the time I crossed it. At this point, the clock read nine minutes plus, and I was nowhere near the first mile marker.


I wanted to keep running as long as I could and spied a runner up ahead to help me keep pace. Just keep up with that guy, I thought. Keep him in sight. I noticed he would periodically stop running and slow to a walk, which in my experience is quite common among the folks who are running 12-minute miles like me. (Yes, I run as slowly as some people walk. Fortunately, I find that fact more amusing than annoying. Vive la tortue!!!) I actually started gaining on him a little during his walking portions and finally reached the point where I was about to pass him. Suddenly, I realized he was "Le Target Elusive," the guy who thanked me for “pushing” him toward the end of the previous morning’s Run for the Horses! From reading the previous day’s race results, I knew his name was Joe. As I passed him, I said, “Didn’t you run yesterday in Saratoga?” He said yes and then said to me, “Green shirt?” in reference to my racing attire the previous day. He started jogging slowly and we kept pace for a little while, then I realized I had to slow to a walk. He did the same and we chatted a bit while we walked. He is built rather like a football player (think nose tackle, not running back) and informed me that, despite how he looked, he’d already competed in two half-marathons and 33 5k’s, running/walking all of them. I have to admit I was impressed. And certainly someone looking at my physique would never instinctively think runner. But when you think about it, a runner is someone who runs. That’s it. You don’t have to be an Olympic sprinter to be a runner. You don’t have to finish a 5k in 15 minutes to be a runner. You don’t even have to run a single road race to be a runner. All it takes to be a runner is to run; to get up a few days a week at least, put on some running shoes, and just freakin’ run. It is as simple and as sublime as that.


One of the reasons why I hate slowing to a walk is that each time, it makes it harder for me to start running again. It also increases the likelihood of more walking intervals. It’s like trying to eat just one or two tortilla chips. But unlike the tortilla chips, where abstinence is possible with sufficient willpower and/or distraction, my legs and lungs and heart pretty much tell me whether Team Gingah is going to run the distance or not. In this race, I slowed to a walk more times than I could count; at least five times before I even got to the first mile marker. The second and third miles were filled with unmitigated frustration for me. For the first time in a race, I came close (several times) to throwing my hands up and walking off the course. I’ve never even considered that before. Periodically, as I wound down the first big loop, a runner would pass me (on his final loop) and give a word or two of encouragement. It meant a lot to me. As I finished the first loop, one of the course marshals said, “You’re almost there.“ As if. He obviously didn’t know I was still on the first lap. I could see the finish line clock (25 minutes and counting) and knew I still had another lap to go. I already knew I would be turning in a PW (personal worst); I just needed to go the distance, despite the frustration. I had to fight back the self-loathing and the frustration and the desire to quit and sit on the curb and cry and then go drown my troubles in a quart of Java Chip Frappucino ice cream. (You heard me. Not a pint; a quart. BJ’s Wholesale Club sells them. I wish I didn’t know this. Where are the Men In Black with that memory erasing gizmo when I need them?)


To help distract me from my pathetic self-absorption, I made myself think about the purpose of this race. It was a fundraiser for Ataxia-Telangiectasia (ay-TACK-see-uh tel-LAN-jick-TAY-sha), or “A-T,” a progressive, degenerative disease that affects a startling variety of body systems. Children with A-T appear normal at birth, and the first signs of the disease usually appear during the second year of life. These first signs are usually a "wobbly" lack of balance and slurred speech caused by "ataxia," which means a lack of muscle control. (Hence, the Wobbly Feet Foundation.) Before the race, I met Josh, who‘s about six or seven years old and who has A-T. He was using a walker (and I saw him later motoring along in a scooter chair) and was wearing a New England Patriots hat. He had a beaming smile and a wonderful family, including his little sister, who kept giving him hugs. He claimed not to like that. I suggested she was just trying to keep warm on such a chilly morning. He met Connor, in whose honor we were running that morning, and both of their families posed together for a photo, with Josh’s big beaming smile cutting though the morning chill.


So when I started to feel sorry for myself and beat myself up for not running the whole distance, I reminded myself of the race that Josh and Connor and their families are running. It’s not about finishing first. It’s not about turning in a personal best time. It’s about going the distance, even when you’re tired, even when you’re frustrated, even when the odds seem too overwhelming. I tried to imagine Josh blowing past me in his scooter chair, smiling that smile and telling me to get my heinie in gear. But I think Josh is probably too nice a kid to say that. I did what I do in training when my body won’t cooperate and run the full distance: I count my steps. 60 right footsteps running, 30 to 60 right footsteps walking (depending on how long it takes me to get my breathing back to normal), over and over and over again. It’s boring as hell. But I kept going.


By the time I finished the run, I was sure I was dead last. I didn’t really even give a crap anymore. I just wanted to cross the finish line and be done with it. When I finally came toward the end of the final loop, I started running again, because there was no way in H-E-double-hockey-sticks that I was going to walk across the finish line. Gingah don’t play that.


I finished in 42 minutes and something. I still don’t know my official time, because I haven’t seen any results posted online. When I crossed the finish line, I got a medal, just like everyone else. My first race hardware. While I have no problem with the “everybody plays, everybody wins” mentality and the intent behind it for kids, it felt a little empty to me as an adult. My aching hips, which had been b*tching at me since the start of the second mile, didn’t give a flying rat’s patootie about finishing or getting a medal or eating a freakin’ doughnut. (No chocolate glazed left by the time I finished; actually, no doughnuts left, period, by the time I finished. I settled for a quarter of a bagel and a schmear of plain cream cheese.) My hips were demanding a ransom: 800mg of ibuprofen in small, unmarked pills, and my car’s seat heater on high (a/k/a “freakin’ nuclear arse flambé”).


I drove home, already planning my training approach to next Sunday’s Dunkin Run. My goals for that race: run it all, finish in 35:15 (basically, my goals for the Run for the Horses), and eat a freakin’ doughnut after I cross the finish line. (I’m not even a big doughnut fan, except for apple cider doughnuts in the fall, but after running 3.1 miles, I’m not going to apologize for eating a freakin’ doughnut.)


As typically happens after a race, I take a nap. A nice 60- to 90-minute nap, depending on the extent to which two wee doggies are willing to oblige me. I slept like a rock both Saturday and Sunday nights, and on Labor Day morning, I got up, went through my morning routine and walked over to the Harriman State Office Campus near my home to volunteer at the SEFCU 5k, a/k/a the race I should have run this weekend. (I have already updated my CrackBerry’s calendar to reserve every Labor Day weekend for this race.) Like many volunteers, I was a veritable renaissance woman: prepping post-race noms (putting banana halves in bowls and cutting bagels), then I headed over to help at the finish line. The SEFCU 5k is a hand-timed race, which means that someone hits a button on a hand-held device as each runner crosses the finish line. Runners stay in order in the chute and we collect the pull-tabs from the bottom of their racing bibs and put them in order on a spindle. My task was to be the “spindle runner” (Hey, I actually got to run today!), running the full spindles the short distance from the end of the chute to the truck where the race results were being compiled. I’m not fond of hand-timed races because there is more opportunity for human error. Sometimes we have to use “bandit tags” for folks who either lose their bib tabs or duck under the chute rope. Bandits can eff up race results by throwing all the hand-times off, so one person along the chute watches out for bandits (and hands a bandit tag to the spindler in the appropriate order) while the spindler collects the bib tabs. As the spindle runner, until the spindle is full, my job is pretty much to stand there and cheer the runners as they come down the chute. For my efforts I got a hat and a T-shirt, a bagel and some water. And, most important, I got to see a little bit of the types of things that the volunteers do to make sure we runners have a good race.


Only one thing surprised me today: since I’ve never been at the finish line of a road race with all the fast runners, I just assumed that when they crossed the finish line, they thanked the volunteers or at least looked them in the eye and smiled. The first 20 or so people who crossed the finish line? Nada. Zip. Zilch. Bupkis. Obviously, they were very tired, having just run 3.1 miles in 16 minutes or so. Maybe two of the first few dozen (all late teen or young adult males) said thank you, and they were in the third dozen. The first female who crossed the finish line? She said thank you. As did the overwhelming majority of females and most of the middle-aged and older men. Incidentally, one of the runners who crossed the finish line and said thank you looked very familiar. As he approached the spindler, I said, "Are you Joe?" He then recognized me and said it was his first "three-fer"; once again, I was impressed. He told me his goal is to run 52 road races this year, 12 of them half-marathons. And I thought I was crazy for trying to do 17. For once, my obsession with prime numbers helps me look sane. Since there are few road races around here during the winter, Joe was making up for lost time. This was #34 for him.


The volunteers are there to check runners in; make sure runners get their racing bibs, T-shirts and goodie bags; prep the post-race grub; guide runners along the race route; cheer on all the runners; make sure each runner’s finish is recorded properly; and clean up and break down the tables. Sure, volunteers like me got a hat and a T-shirt and a nosh, but that’s not why we volunteer. Many volunteers are runners or former runners or relatives of runners or people who wish they could run or just people who want to lend a hand. They have varying levels of experience and skill, but without them, races simply wouldn’t happen. I have a renewed respect for race volunteers now that I have served in that capacity. In addition to race goals, I also have a goal to volunteer for at least four races a year.


In the meantime, this weekend showed me that I have a lot of work ahead of me to prepare for Sunday’s Dunkin Run. There’s nowhere to go but up.