Marathon Day

I wasn't sure about joining the groundswell of blogposts, Facebook posts and tweets about this tragic day.  But the thing is I can't not, because this one is very real to me.

There has been a lot of bang on commentary about the amazing , selfless acts of bravery, as people ran towards the site of the blasts to help those in need. Who ran towards potential danger, with no thought of their own safety.  But then, perhaps this nation has learnt from the heroic acts of those who ran into the burning Twin Towers, and who fell to their deaths with those they were trying to save. Of those that run into schools with armed kids trying to kill other kids.  Heroes.

I want to write about those you saw running.  Those people who were almost at the end of a huge physical and emotional effort, those who were in such a mental  "zone", it probably didn't register that they were in danger, that their lives were at risk.

I ran the Sydney Marathon last year and bored you all rigid with it for a good 6 months, finishing off with this .  My marathon experience was joyous.  I ran with all shapes and sizes, all ages, all states of mental and physical fatigue.  And I ran joyously.  Not one moment wasn't.  I flung my arms in the air and crossed the finishing line of my marathon, joyously.  And then I put it in the file called "Highlights of my life" because it was one.  Running a marathon isn't about tying up your shoes and pinning on a number.  It's months and months of lonely hours, just you, the footpath, and your own thoughts and doubts.

Every person who lined up at the start line of the Boston Marathon did so as winners.  They had done everything they needed to be there.  They had everything they needed to cross the finish line.  For many this may have been their "Everest", it may have been the hardest thing they'd ever do in their lives. Yet that was taken from them.

Four years ago, I watched the end of a marathon, gulping back tears and with a fierce determination that I'd do that one day.  I had stumbled across it, and stood transfixed, watching the wave of determined and focused faces as they stumbled their last few hundred metres.  Then only a few years later, my family and friends waited expectantly at the finish line waiting for for me.

I don't want to take away attention from the tragedy.  Because this is a tragedy.  But these people running and those watching expectantly and supporting the runners, have had something taken from them, their joy, their trust, their achievement and in the 143 tragic cases (and counting) so much more.

Running Me

You know this blog is a bit of an outlet for me to bleat on about the ol' chestnut of living your best life, and most of you know that in the spirit of trying to do just that, I've taken on a big life challenge this year of running a road marathon. I try not to talk about it too much and keep it lurking in the background, because really running stories aren't interesting to most.  But with only 10 weeks to go, it's starting to poke its head up a little more, and I'm learning a few things about myself.  And they're kind of living your best life stuff, so I think it's cool to chat every once and a while about it.

I am lucky enough to have a couple of friends who are also running the marathon, in all honesty, they're likely to be showered and drinking chocolate milk by the time I straggle in and seriously girls, I'm cool with that, just don't let me see you doing it.  One of the girls is my lovely friend Kayte who has a clever iron-man husband who's training her and has kindly taken me on as a "the little engine who could' kind of project.  I promised him I'd do whatever he asked of me, so when he tells me to run for 2 hours and 45 minutes, that's what I do, to the second.  He gives her lots of advice like "eat the pain" and "HTFU" but he's still being too nice to tell me that, although if he saw me that's exactly what he'd want to say to me, so I tell myself those sage words instead.

I had a gruelling run on Friday.  Mentally it's tough heading out knowing that you've got to move for that long, but I keep pretty neutral in my head, although the occasional silent scream "WTF, are you kidding me, I have got soooo much longer to go?", shaking me which I shut down and put in the "bad voices I will ignore" part of my running head.  For my last 30 minutes, I was primal, there was snot, there was nausea, there was ominous groans from the depth of my bowels.  It was not a good space.  I looked nothing like the lunchtime joggers bounding round the racetrack of Sydneys gardens.  I was the hobbling, clench jaw, clenched butt, snotty, stinky woman. It was a lonely place.
My time ticked over, I got to stop, and that's when the pain really started as tearfully, I hobbled to my ferry home.  And truthfully, I was emotionally spent and teary for a long while after.

But the beauty of this gig, is that today I heard a song that's on my iPod, instantly it took me to a spot and time on my run, and I had a strange moment where I missed that run.  I bet that didn't even make sense. But I actually missed my long, hard run that made me tearful.
Which got me thinking...I've realised that the only thing that's going to stop me getting to the start line and the finish line of this personal Everest are injuries.  Not my willpower.
And the only person I'm in competition with, is myself, and the only one I've got to beat are those voices in my head.
Because it doesn't matter if it's running 5km or 42km, swimming 1km when you can only swim 50 m, going to 3 spin classes a week and improving your resistance, or whatever your personal physical challenge is, the goal is to have a goal. And the reward from achieving this goal is a very personal and introspective form of self actualisation. A feeling of "I was actually good enough to do this, I did it".
I want this bad, I just hope these legs, these creaky old knees and sore hips, want it as much as the rest of me does.

Does anyone else get me?


Postscript.  I don't know why I though I'd end up stick thin and streamlined by running a marathon - pipe dream folks, mirrors don't lie

You always want what you haven't got....

Did y'all know that after a fit of desperation I am now an "Organised Housewife".  I even have a list of daily jobs on my fridge and I've wiped the bathroom surfaces (including the loo!) for the last 2 days in a row.  Oh yes, I am on the road to recovery.  Lordy I may even turn into my mother and make my kids dust the skirting boards every second day (true story).

But while on the sniff for more ideas of awesomeness, I stumbled upon a life I will never live but one that I am more than happy to lust after. Holey moley guacamole, I am in luurve with this blog abeachcottage.com.  It's an english chick who lives on the beaches near me, in what used to be disgusting 70's inspired cottage but which has now evolved into symphony of white and beige, of flowers (white) and milkjugs (white), of white linen and candle votives (beige/white), of artfully placed "bits" (mostly white, with some beige).  I want to be able to live here.  I want to have this white and beige life. And even though I want to let myself off the hook by arguing that she must have forked out a fortune to have created this level of fabulousness, truth is, she did it all on the teeniest of budgets and scoured junk shops, Vinnies, Ikea, Target and other places that I'm perfectly capable of scouring too.

Problem for me is (and always will be with houses that are just "so") is where is all the "stuff"?  You know, the school notes, the soccer socks, last Sundays newspapers, the shell with a dead sea creature inside it, the power bill, the power bill reminder, the yoghurt container from last night, the teaspoon from the yoghurt container from last night, the clothes drying rack, the homework folders, the flyspray where it was left after spraying a spider...you get me?  Where does all the stuff go in those gorgeous houses?  Do they actually....put it away?

So along with my Desperate Housewife List of Daily Jobs, I'm just going to also have a daily inspirational glance at this blog, and see if any beige and whiteness rubs off on me.

Here's a taste of the platform I'm working with...(and I've been kind to myself, and yes that is an empty skittles packet by my unmade bed)

 


But one area I'm having an immediate impact on is my blog.  Do. you like my new blog look?  I've parred back, decluttered, streamlined and tried to make it a little less goofy and a little more slicker and contemporary.  Of course I take no credit but will leave that all to my fabulous blog declutterer, Olena.

Righto, gotta make that bed and whisk up a slow cooker dinner before school pick ups.  I think I'm going through a life change.....

Chaos

I wasn't going to put a photo up to show you how chaotic my house is at the moment, because I'm a little too embarrassed but we've known each other long enough now.
Each time I move house I adopt a slow burn, where I pack and organise over a 6 week period, meaning we live with the silent stress of being surrounded by boxes and rifling through boxes trying to find thing packs prematurely.

I have once done the wham-bam-thankyou-mam approach, packed and loaded in the container within 3 days, but then I wasn't paying for that one, with The Husbands work picking up the tab.."do I want those Big W wine glasses packed in acid-free recycled paper?  Why, what a splendid idea...".

This time, the slow burn had been conducted over a shorter time frame of a few weeks, but the stress of this is amplified by the fact we have been packing to go nowhere.  We're not in much better shape still with the bulk of our belonging heading to storage for "30-90" days and us heading to a small house in a neighbouring suburb (oh you will hear all about that once the reality of living there hits).  But least it's a roof.

With a council clean up imminent we have been rampant in our clearing out of junk, with the boys playroom, an early casualty, as a grumpy husband swept through like a tsumani, sweeping armfuls of the kids toys into rubbish bags "for other less fortunate children", frantically the kids tried to salvage but they knew it was a fruitless exercise.

I am over living like a slob, but I can't bring myself to clean around the chaos, and am tolerating it as long as the bench is clear, the beds are made (excluding the 11 year olds but that has nothing to do with our move), and the lounge room is sort of tidy with some candles lit each evening - aaah, home.

However, the other night while mid way through an intense parenting workshop with our 11 year old, he suddenly pointed to a mouse sitting behind our lounge chair.  While breathing a sigh of relief it wasn't a r_t, because I couldn't have dealt with that, we grabbed plastic containers as it took off heading towards the mosh pit of crap at the bottom of our stairs.  I think as I screamed for the fly spray, the husband had one of those ephinanies where he realised that the love of his life was going to be completely useless in this (and future) situations and it was going to be down to him and his son to sort it.  And only moments later a dazed mouse (from an unlucky aim with a metal bowl) was herded onto a breadboard and flicked with force at the neighbours house.

The good thing is we have a deadline for living like this with a 12 day count down now on.  But my job has been made harder now with every pile of crap a potential hiding spot for vermin.

Anticipation

Can you imagine, the sheer terror and anticipation in knowing a Category 5 Hurricane is heading your way.  

There are no words for this.

You are in our  thoughts and our prayers.

A challenge

One of my oldest and dearest friends and I are doing a run in March.  We did our first one when we were 7, our legs were tied together and I think, because it was her birthday party, we were allowed to win the 3 legged race.  We did another in 2009, but not much running, instead 100kms of walking over 30 tough hours.  Our next event is called Motatapu  It's a 42km Off Road Marathon from Wanaka to Arrowtown in the gorgeous mountains of New Zealand.  I'm already relishing the thought of the day after where with tired legs we can soak up some Queenstown before we hop on planes back home.
My personal challenge is getting to the start line.
Somehow I have to get myself fit enough to not completely disgrace myself.  I'm a comfortable 8 - 10km runner.  In fact I'm not even comfortable at that.  I'm not built like a runner, I'm a classic mesamorph body shape, muscular and tendency to chunk up.  I should be doing a body sculpting challenge.  I'm pigeon toed.  I avoid looking at my reflection as I approach bus shelters and see my awkward gait.  I have a dicky knee.  I can't walk down stairs  in high heels without clutching the bannister, often with both hands.
But I am loving having a focus.  Even though I dread the thoughts of my long runs, I love the feeling afterwards although not last Saturday when I was crippled by "girl" chafing.  I ran 20 km's last weekend, much of it was a blur, I solved all life's problems I think.  Today I ran 11kms in the bush, I'm terrified I will stumble on to a snake and need to fashion a tourniquet out of my shoe lace.  I always do a wee spit in the bush (noice!) to leave a little DNA.  Just in case.
I need to get up to 32kms in a single run.  This brings tears into my eyes.  Sometimes on my long runs I get a little weepy when I think about how far I've got to go, or if I've got myself a little lost and I need to retrace my steps.  I did a little weeping during my Oxfam 100km Trailwalker event.  I think I'm a serial weeper when it comes to tough physical stuff.
Sometimes I'm nearing the end of a run and I'm hobbling, and some fresh runner screams past me.  I want to call after them "but I've come from miles away, I've been running for hours", but quietly tuck that knowledge away to spur me on for the last km or two.
So that's my world and my single minded focus until mid March.
I don't think this will be the last you hear of it somehow.