Running Ruminations

The Santa Cruz iteration of Run She.is.Beautiful 5k/10k has become a go-to race for me in the past few years. It has been a race that I’ve done for the past four years now, almost as long as I have lived here, when I’ve been in very different junctures in my life: in 2015, pushing A in the 5k, and freshly into my second trimester with G; in 2016, pushing a little 7 month-old G in the 10k; in 2017, pushing a bigger, heavier, and of course older G in the 10k again; and now, in 2018, pushing G in the 10k yet again, and just one day shy of 6 weeks after having a stroke.

 

To run — or race — a 10k, pushing your heavy and healthy 2 ½ year old, just six weeks after having a stroke is both an exercise in humility and unwavering gratitude. I had registered for this race way back in autumn ‘18, before I had even a remote idea of how I wanted my spring racing to resemble. After the CIM high came and went, and Lisa and I started rebuilding in January, I figured that maybe I’d be able to repeat all my other SIB appearances, notch another W for the fourth consecutive year (because why not aim high, right?), and more importantly, hack off some more time from my SIB ‘17 posting. It sounded good on paper, at least. 

The stroke, of course, upended everything, but only to a degree. When I toed the line at SIB, surrounded by basically a colony’s worth of some of my friends from various running circles, Wolfpack and more, my mind wasn’t focused so much on what would surely be the physical challenges of the day — I had run exactly six times in six weeks, with all of those runs being in the ten days prior to race day, and no more than 5 miles — but instead, I just couldn’t believe that I was there, that I was physically well enough and sufficiently able-bodied post-stroke to go casually run a 10k while pushing my toddler. Oh, also, I had run with G exactly one time — for a solid 2 miles, on my first run post-stroke — so not only was I definitely out of shape, I was also intensely out of stroller running shape. (There’s a difference; ask any parent who runs pushing children). This was going to be quite a ride for sure, much like this whole post-stroke reality has been.

I couldn’t have picked a better race to be my first foray “back” into the racing scene, and my expectations — and if I’m being honest, my goals, too — were nonexistent. I just wanted to do it. I had even told my friends that, in the days preceding the race, if my neurologist were to come back and renege on his earlier diagnosis and sideline me from running for longer, I still would have made the trip over the hill for the race, even if it meant experiencing it on the sidelines. The positivity, sense of empowerment, community, inspiration, and of course, the fun competition that this race engenders is second to none, and it’s truly up there with Thanksgiving on my “favorite days of the year” list. It means a lot because I believe in its message, that you (I, we, all of us) are good enough where we are, right now, and that we’d all do both ourselves and the world a solid by acknowledging that.

 

The beauty of starting lines is the promise they hold. We’re designed in such a way that we place a lot of value on ways to demarcate our time (and our lives, really) very cleanly; in so many words, that’s why so many of us will willingly start a new habit (a better way of eating, a more regimented exercise routine, whatever) on a Monday, or on January 1, rather than some random Thursday in August. (Aside: Daniel Pink’s When talks about this in a lot more detail. It’s really fascinating. We are hardwired to do some weird shit).

Anyway, to be able to stand at an actual starting line, a real, tangible, starting line, surrounded by a sea of other people — in this case, women,  more or less around my age, some pushing kiddos around G’s age — was a very cool feeling. Couple that with the fact that I just had a medical emergency that could have very well killed me a month and a half earlier, and yeah, suffice it to say that I was thinking about starting lines in ways more profound than simply related to running.

Starting lines intrigue me so much, too, because most of the time, we have close to no idea of what everyone had to do, which choices they had to make, in order to be standing at that start line, bumping shoulders with us, and yet here we all are, together, about to race alongside each other and travel the same journey. That starting line may be Runner A’s way of making an income, while it could be a PR attempt for Runner B, or a celebration of many weeks’ and months’ worth of concerted training and shattering comfort zones for Runner C. Runner D might have gotten suckered into showing up by a friend, or Runner E could be there simply because they’re alive and feel like that is reason enough. Talking about starting lines in such crunchy granola terms like this makes me sound more hippy-dippy and metaphysical than I actually am, but there’s an inherent beauty in starting lines — and in the promise they hold, the sheer opportunity and magnitude that underpins them — and sometimes, it’s easy to forget. It’s really a pretty beautiful thing when you step back and really consider it in its totality; it makes me, at least, stop and sorta behold the whole thing. 

 

 

The SIB 10k, specifically the ‘baby mama’ division (the race category that delineates stroller-pushing runners from those running unencumbered), was my first opportunity since my stroke to see a lot of my teammates and friends from the running community. Holding my shit together was of the essence — there’s no crying in running! How can you run if you can’t see through teary eyes!? — and for the most part, I was successful. Janet and I, and our respective kiddos, ran from her friend’s house to the start line, about a mile and change, for our warm-up before hanging around for a while and catching up with many of our teammates and friends from the greater south bay running scene. I didn’t hesitate to line up right on the line, even though I knew I wouldn’t be racing at any sub-7 paces like I’ve done before in this race, and when the starting sound blared, under a somewhat ominous sky and over freshly-rained-on pavement, G and I began cruising toward the finish line.

 

 

As much as I can tell, the course was the same, or very similar, to the 10k course in 2017. Meg passed me early on and went on to clinch the 10k baby mama W this year (which was awesome!), and I got to see a handful of 5k-running teammates at their turn-around, flying toward home. Seeing Dave and three of the four fitfam6 children around mile 2, just like last year, was a treat as always, and when my body began to make it resoundingly clear that it was sufficiently tired, I didn’t think twice about slowing down: no expectations, no goals, just sheer gratitude to be alive to be there racing with whatever I had in me on the day. G was comfortably hanging in her little sleeping bag-like stroller sack and remarkably managed to fall asleep sometime before mile 4, if I recall correctly, even with American Idiot jamming behind her head. (She’s a big Green Day fan).

After we exited Natural Bridges, began running straight into a wall of wind, and inched our way closer to the finish line and Hoka’s half-mile-to-home finishing straight contest, somewhere in the mix, I noticed JT Service (founder of Represent Running, the race organization responsible for the Run the Bay series of events) doing crowd control. Never before I have attempted to run, while pushing a stroller, and somehow mid-run jump to the left, while never letting go of the stroller, and hug another person without breaking stride, but now I can add that trick to my repertoire. Next time, I’ll have to add the “take a picture” element to that maneuver.

 

Per usual with SIB, the last bit of the race, when the 5k merges with the 10k, was pretty hairy. I’m not sure how SIB can rectify the problem, short of staging the race at different times (5k before the 10k or vice-versa) or changing the course altogether to one that’d allow for wider passage, and even these changes would bring some unwanted side effects, too. In pre-race emails, I noticed that they had communicated very clearly and very explicitly that runners and walkers shouldn’t be more than two abreast, but unfortunately — as in years past — people didn’t listen, didn’t seem to know, or maybe didn’t care. It was no big deal for me this year, since I wasn’t racing competitively, but I know from years past that it can be really frustrating to be coming in hot — and pushing a stroller — and suddenly have to worry about crashing into a wall of people who can’t hear you or don’t understand (or care?) that you don’t want to break pace. Every year I want to solve this challenge, and every year I come up short.

As I finished the 10k, I couldn’t help but laugh at how tired I was and wondered if I had bored G to sleep, since she had been knocked out for a while and proceeded to sleep for another 30+ minutes at the post-race awards ceremony, to the backdrop of bumpin’ music and a boisterous crowd. It was awesome to see so many teammates and friends again and to meet friends of friends and re-meet Strava/IG/people I’ve met at previous races. It was also really touching to hear so many people ask me how I was doing and listen to them tell me that they had been following my story online for the past couple months. For someone who’s way more comfortable talking about my children’s exploits, or otherwise operating fairly behind the scenes, it is incredibly humbling to hear so many people tell you that they’ve been worried about you and have been thinking, praying, rooting, whatever for you and your continued good health.

    

Janet, the children, and I ran another mile cooldown back to her friend’s house, and we eventually went over to our teammate, Sam’s, beautiful home for brunch, alongside many other teammates, friends, and family members. It was an awesome morning and a long one, too; G and I left SJ around 6am for an 8:30 race and didn’t return until close to 3pm. It was wonderful.

 

There was a time in my life, relatively recently, where I would hesitate to show up for races if I weren’t in “racing shape” because I wanted to spare myself the embarrassment and the trip on the Struggle Bus. All things considered, it would have been a lot easier for me not to run SIB for any number of obvious reasons, but running this race — showing up for both it and myself, really — mattered to me. Among other things, it signified that I was moving in the direction of recovery post-stroke — both physiologically and psychologically — and surrounding myself for a morning with some of my biggest local cheerleaders and friends whom I genuinely find inspiring and wonderful human beings, who just so happen to be runners, was good for my soul and my head. Most of us would stand to benefit a ton from doing more stuff that’s good for our souls and our heads, regardless if we’re coming off a life-threatening medical emergency or not. YOLO, right? Let us not waste our precious time on things, activities, or people who rob us of joy.

Ultimately, on SIB race day (St. Patrick’s Day!), I had run my furthest distance post-stroke (a continuous 10k and 8+ for the day), and soreness aside — the woes of getting in shape — I felt great. When I talk about my running, I always say that my joy is in the journey, and SIB is a perfect backdrop for that sentiment. If you’re local or are ever in the area, definitely put it on your calendar. (Plus, this year’s Women Who Fly winners will get to run SIB in Santa Barbara, yay! If you haven’t yet, seriously: go apply! What do you have to lose by trying?!)

Again: thank you, so much, for all your continued support and encouragement.