No puede fallar. Tan pronto se aproxima la fecha en que uno tiene que ponerse serio para el entrenamiento, y ¡zacataplún!, va uno y se lesiona, pareciera como que si a propósito.
En diciembre fue que si la fractura del muslo, y después con que y que no podía correr sino hasta finales de abril. Bueno, no importa porque el maratón no es sino hasta octubre. Hay tiempo. ¿Y qué crees tú que pasa entonces? Llega mayo, uno mete dos o tres corriditas paupérrimas ahí, y cuando uno menos se lo espera, ¡zacataplún!, va uno y mete la proverbial pata, y ahora queda uno con un tobillo torcío, del tamaño de una toronja, que ni lo deja a uno ponerse el zapato de costumbre. Por ahí anda uno dando lástima caminando con muletas por todos lados, lamentándose del nuevo incidente que le impide a uno demostrar su verdadera naturaleza de atleta. Es que todos sabemos que en circunstancias normales no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. A correr se ha dicho, y por allí pasa uno, cual gacela veloz (o por lo menos así se imagina uno a uno mismo así) dejándole el pelero a todos. Pero ya saben cómo es la cosa, "el doctor dijo que descanso, hielito ¡y nada de ejercicio!"
Vamos a dejarnos de zoquetadas. Todos sabemos lo que está pasando en realidad: lo que pasa es que uno está más gordito de lo que debiera, que uno es 10 años más viejo que la última vez, que con dos muchachos encima, no queda ni tiempo ni mucho menos la energía, y que solamente de pensar en los próximos 5 meses de duro entrenamiento en medio del verano Marylandiano (¿o será Marylandés?), a uno lo que le da es gana de echarse al lado de la piscina con un buen libro en una mano y un piña colada en la otra. No es de extrañar que entonces el subconsciente haga las mil peripecias para que uno consiga las formas más gafas de lesionarse, cosa de tener una buena excusa.
Pero no hay marcha atrás. La cosa ya está pagada y en el calendario. Gústele a quién le guste no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. El próximo lunes comienzo el entrenamiento. Ahora sí, de verdad verdad... en serio.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Another Walk Done
This past weekend started out beautifully. The weather could not have been any more perfect. A glorious Washington morning greeted us, inviting with its pure, crystalline blue sky, trees in full bloom, and the smell of flowers in the air.
I was both nervous and excited at the same time. Having done this walk once before, I was perfectly aware of the grueling task I was about to undertake. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins fueled by the prospect of facing such an enormous challenge was tempered by an uneasy hole in the pit of my stomach, and a nagging feeling that I was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead. I put on some makeup, knowing full well that it would be all smeared by noon. It doesn't matter. It was necessary to start the day with beauty and grace, even if by the end of the journey I'd be crawling to the finish line on all four.
My dear husband, being the selfless creature that he is, woke up at the break of dawn to drive me to the starting line. With a kiss and a hug, he left me there and went back home to capture a few more minutes of blessed sleep before the entire house went into a frenzy getting ready for the day. While he slept cozily with our sons in our king-sized bed, I waited for the start of the race in the company of nearly 2300 other souls who, like myself, were there for very personal reasons, each of them just one small fragment of the same sorrow, the same hope: that one day, we will not have to suffer the loss of another loved one, that one day what we do today will matter, that one day, we will kick breast cancer's butt.
I decided not to pair up with anyone, because it tends to slow me down. I had lofty goals. I had personal records to break. It was all very well thought out. But it was, I must confess, a lonely affair, made all the lonelier by the heavy presence of my recent loss. The first time around, I walked in her honor. This time, I was walking in her memory.
The journey began, and I found myself towards the back of a long, snake-like mass, slithering slowly but steadily forward. If I was to make the time I wanted, I had to be at the head - not the tail - of that snake. So I started to increase my pace, moving steadily forward, sneaking and swerving into the close spaces left between anonymous bodies that rubbed and bumped against each other for lack of room. Before I knew it, I made it to the head of the snake, and by the time I reached mile 5, I was officially number 11. Eleven!! I was beside myself. So I continued my frantic pace, moving forward, unstoppable, a force to reckon with. This pace continued until about mile 10, when I stopped for lunch... at 9:26 am.
Then it all started to go downhill. The brief 10 minutes I stopped to eat my turkey sandwich were enough for my beaten body to catch up with my mind. My limbs let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I had overdone it. They screamed loudly at my stubborn self that I had to slow down, 'cause they were just plain tired of trying to keep up with me, and if I didn't like that, well that's too bad, 'cause they weren't coming and that was that. I slowed down my pace, confident that the great head start I had would be enough to keep me in a comfortable lead (as if this was a competition?!?). But by the half marathon point, there was no denying it. I had slowed down my pace considerably, and little by little I started to see people passing me by. I stubbornly tried to command my body to obey me, to keep the pace, to move on, but my body decided to overthrow me, and I was no longer in command. Instead, my feet began to dictate what the rest of me would do. Swollen to twice their usual size, my feet felt confined into too-tight running shoes (this is a walk, why on earth would anyone wear running shoes for?), so to avoid hurting that tiny, itty, bitty little toe any more, I was forced to walk shifting my weight towards the my outer foot, making it hard on the hips to keep moving with such unnatural alignment. So, now it was not only my feet that hurt, but now my hips were throbbing wildly, radiating pain towards my thighs. The fear of a recent stress fracture and the prospect of not being able to train for the marathon in October filled my mind with dread, and doubt took hold of my self-resolve.
By mile 15, my family finally came to meet me and cheer me on, but by then, I was beyond cheering. I just wanted other shoes to change into, and maybe someone to push me in a wheelbarrow the rest of the way... an there were still 11 more miles to go. But when things get tough, having your loved ones by your side really does make a difference between being able to plow through, and complete and utter failure. Bob and the boys had to leave early due to my son's baseball game, but my parents stayed with me, determined to see me through. From time to time, my mom would walk with me until I reached the next rest stop, while my dad followed us in the car, ready to give us a lift if needed. We continued like this for another 8 miles, and by the end of mile 23 I had slowed to a crawl, and I began getting the sympathy look from other walkers --oh, how do I loathe the sympathy look. More and more, I got the "are you OK?" question, and even the event volunteers kept asking me if I was all right. At that point, 2 miles short of the finish line, my legs finally gave in, and I had to admit defeat. I asked my dad to take me the last two miles to the village so I could at least walk through the finish line for that first day. By that time, I was beyond all sense of pride and dignity. All I wanted to do was to put my feet up and sleep, everything else be darned.
This year I decided not to sleep at the village, but rather come back home and return to the walk the next day. Well, after that first day, I had decided that I would not do the next day. Why should I? I did what I had set out to do, which was to raise money for research. I was hurting, hungry and tired, and there was no telling me that I would have to do another half marathon the next day. You'd have to be crazy to do that.
At home I took a nice long shower and went to bed early. I slept soundly, finally getting a much deserved rest, and woke up before the sun was all the way up. Slowly, a funny feeling crept into me, a kind of anxiety that I could not explain away. I tossed and turn in my bed, trying to close my eyes and fall back asleep, but when it was evident that sleep had gone for good, while everyone else slept peacefully, I began pacing and worrying that I would forever regret never finishing the whole walk. When my youngest son finally woke up, I decided to wake the entire house up, because by George, I had a walk to finish! And we were ALL going!! And who cares if it is raining? And what if it is already 8 o'clock? there's still time, and boy go and put your clothes on right now! where's my pink bandana?!? Go, go, go!! Take a shower already or we're leaving without you!! and is everyone in the car? Good. Let's go.
I was not deluded enough to think that I would walk the entire length of the half marathon. After all, the damage done to my feet and legs the day before was not a product of my imagination, it was quite real. But a good night's sleep helped mend some of the hurt, and in a pragmatic move, we decided to start walking from some point in the middle of the race course. This time my mom and dad followed us in the car, and Bob and the boys walked with me. After a little while, we sent our youngest son to follow us in the car with my parents, but my 7 year old son, Daniel, walked the entire last five miles with me, without complaining one single time. I was so proud of him. It was by far the best moment of the entire weekend, being able to cross the finish line with the greatest companion a woman can have. He made me forget how much my body hurt. Just seeing his determination was enough to make me want to do better, to finish strong. And so we did.
In the end, I will remember 2011 not as the year I failed to finish all 39 and a half miles, but rahter as the year I had the enormous privilege of crossing that finish line with my oldest son, who at age 7, was not embarrassed to wear a pink bandana on his head, because he knew why we were doing this. He knew that as I held one of his hands, his aunt Michelle held his other hand, all the way from heaven.
I was both nervous and excited at the same time. Having done this walk once before, I was perfectly aware of the grueling task I was about to undertake. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins fueled by the prospect of facing such an enormous challenge was tempered by an uneasy hole in the pit of my stomach, and a nagging feeling that I was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead. I put on some makeup, knowing full well that it would be all smeared by noon. It doesn't matter. It was necessary to start the day with beauty and grace, even if by the end of the journey I'd be crawling to the finish line on all four.
My dear husband, being the selfless creature that he is, woke up at the break of dawn to drive me to the starting line. With a kiss and a hug, he left me there and went back home to capture a few more minutes of blessed sleep before the entire house went into a frenzy getting ready for the day. While he slept cozily with our sons in our king-sized bed, I waited for the start of the race in the company of nearly 2300 other souls who, like myself, were there for very personal reasons, each of them just one small fragment of the same sorrow, the same hope: that one day, we will not have to suffer the loss of another loved one, that one day what we do today will matter, that one day, we will kick breast cancer's butt.
I decided not to pair up with anyone, because it tends to slow me down. I had lofty goals. I had personal records to break. It was all very well thought out. But it was, I must confess, a lonely affair, made all the lonelier by the heavy presence of my recent loss. The first time around, I walked in her honor. This time, I was walking in her memory.
The journey began, and I found myself towards the back of a long, snake-like mass, slithering slowly but steadily forward. If I was to make the time I wanted, I had to be at the head - not the tail - of that snake. So I started to increase my pace, moving steadily forward, sneaking and swerving into the close spaces left between anonymous bodies that rubbed and bumped against each other for lack of room. Before I knew it, I made it to the head of the snake, and by the time I reached mile 5, I was officially number 11. Eleven!! I was beside myself. So I continued my frantic pace, moving forward, unstoppable, a force to reckon with. This pace continued until about mile 10, when I stopped for lunch... at 9:26 am.
Then it all started to go downhill. The brief 10 minutes I stopped to eat my turkey sandwich were enough for my beaten body to catch up with my mind. My limbs let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I had overdone it. They screamed loudly at my stubborn self that I had to slow down, 'cause they were just plain tired of trying to keep up with me, and if I didn't like that, well that's too bad, 'cause they weren't coming and that was that. I slowed down my pace, confident that the great head start I had would be enough to keep me in a comfortable lead (as if this was a competition?!?). But by the half marathon point, there was no denying it. I had slowed down my pace considerably, and little by little I started to see people passing me by. I stubbornly tried to command my body to obey me, to keep the pace, to move on, but my body decided to overthrow me, and I was no longer in command. Instead, my feet began to dictate what the rest of me would do. Swollen to twice their usual size, my feet felt confined into too-tight running shoes (this is a walk, why on earth would anyone wear running shoes for?), so to avoid hurting that tiny, itty, bitty little toe any more, I was forced to walk shifting my weight towards the my outer foot, making it hard on the hips to keep moving with such unnatural alignment. So, now it was not only my feet that hurt, but now my hips were throbbing wildly, radiating pain towards my thighs. The fear of a recent stress fracture and the prospect of not being able to train for the marathon in October filled my mind with dread, and doubt took hold of my self-resolve.
By mile 15, my family finally came to meet me and cheer me on, but by then, I was beyond cheering. I just wanted other shoes to change into, and maybe someone to push me in a wheelbarrow the rest of the way... an there were still 11 more miles to go. But when things get tough, having your loved ones by your side really does make a difference between being able to plow through, and complete and utter failure. Bob and the boys had to leave early due to my son's baseball game, but my parents stayed with me, determined to see me through. From time to time, my mom would walk with me until I reached the next rest stop, while my dad followed us in the car, ready to give us a lift if needed. We continued like this for another 8 miles, and by the end of mile 23 I had slowed to a crawl, and I began getting the sympathy look from other walkers --oh, how do I loathe the sympathy look. More and more, I got the "are you OK?" question, and even the event volunteers kept asking me if I was all right. At that point, 2 miles short of the finish line, my legs finally gave in, and I had to admit defeat. I asked my dad to take me the last two miles to the village so I could at least walk through the finish line for that first day. By that time, I was beyond all sense of pride and dignity. All I wanted to do was to put my feet up and sleep, everything else be darned.
This year I decided not to sleep at the village, but rather come back home and return to the walk the next day. Well, after that first day, I had decided that I would not do the next day. Why should I? I did what I had set out to do, which was to raise money for research. I was hurting, hungry and tired, and there was no telling me that I would have to do another half marathon the next day. You'd have to be crazy to do that.
At home I took a nice long shower and went to bed early. I slept soundly, finally getting a much deserved rest, and woke up before the sun was all the way up. Slowly, a funny feeling crept into me, a kind of anxiety that I could not explain away. I tossed and turn in my bed, trying to close my eyes and fall back asleep, but when it was evident that sleep had gone for good, while everyone else slept peacefully, I began pacing and worrying that I would forever regret never finishing the whole walk. When my youngest son finally woke up, I decided to wake the entire house up, because by George, I had a walk to finish! And we were ALL going!! And who cares if it is raining? And what if it is already 8 o'clock? there's still time, and boy go and put your clothes on right now! where's my pink bandana?!? Go, go, go!! Take a shower already or we're leaving without you!! and is everyone in the car? Good. Let's go.
I was not deluded enough to think that I would walk the entire length of the half marathon. After all, the damage done to my feet and legs the day before was not a product of my imagination, it was quite real. But a good night's sleep helped mend some of the hurt, and in a pragmatic move, we decided to start walking from some point in the middle of the race course. This time my mom and dad followed us in the car, and Bob and the boys walked with me. After a little while, we sent our youngest son to follow us in the car with my parents, but my 7 year old son, Daniel, walked the entire last five miles with me, without complaining one single time. I was so proud of him. It was by far the best moment of the entire weekend, being able to cross the finish line with the greatest companion a woman can have. He made me forget how much my body hurt. Just seeing his determination was enough to make me want to do better, to finish strong. And so we did.
In the end, I will remember 2011 not as the year I failed to finish all 39 and a half miles, but rahter as the year I had the enormous privilege of crossing that finish line with my oldest son, who at age 7, was not embarrassed to wear a pink bandana on his head, because he knew why we were doing this. He knew that as I held one of his hands, his aunt Michelle held his other hand, all the way from heaven.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)