Just Jessica

The other day I was rushing out of the house in typical fashion. Generally this consists of me stringing together a sentence made entirely out of expletives as a result of not being ready on time, and stopping each time I pass the dog to pet him, kiss him, and otherwise hug him against his will. Consistent with routine, Marc stopped me mid-haste to give me a hug and then said, “You look great today.” My response was, “Ugh. I look gross. I’m fat.”^[1] 

Marc and I go through this same song and dance pretty much everyday, and the sad truth is that he sincerely thinks I look great everyday. And I sincerely feel like I look gross and fat everyday. Now, I need to pause a minute here and talk about the word “fat”. I have issues with this word. We all have fat. Some have more than others, but we all have it. I feel like I should also add that I see nothing wrong with being overweight if you find peace and happiness within yourself. To me, a person's worth, value, and beauty have absolutely nothing to do with their size or image. What appeals most to me about a person is their capacity for kindness, their willingness to love sincerely and wholly, their willingness to listen, and their ability to show compassion when it's easy to do so, but more so when it's not. And none of those qualities can be measured on a scale or reflected in a mirror. It's when “I’m fat” is uttered with disdain that I take issue, because what is really being said there is, “I’m not good enough.” So, going back to the story, I didn’t just say “I’m fat” with disdain, I hissed it with disdain, lit it on fire for emphasis, and then assaulted myself with a litany of insults as I pushed myself out of Marc’s arms. 

In my mind, I can’t just say a simple thank you to his compliments and walk away because I don’t believe them^[2] and if I say thank you, I feel like that implies that I agree with his assessment of my appearance, which I do not, in case that wasn’t clear already. And let’s just completely ignore the fact that a simple thank you is what civilized folks call “being polite”. Apparently, this is something I have yet to master in all my 28 years of walking this earth.^[3] But humor me here, friends. Here’s a glimpse of what is going through my mind each and every morning that Marc and I have this exchange. And while some of it may lack logic, I do believe I have some valid points woven throughout this tapestry of crazy.^[4]

For real, getting dressed in the morning should not be such a humbling experience, yet here we go again. One should not sweat while getting dressed, yet clearly you are. How is it that you can get up at 3am to go for a run, but you can’t say no to cake? Why is it that you’ve never met a baked good that you don’t like? You know you aren’t hungry, yet you shovel that shit in anyway. Also? The haikus about dessert need to stop^[5]. Dessert is not an acceptable muse. What the hell is wrong with you? You used to look so good, your clothes used to fit so well. You. Are. Fat.

Okay, before you get all judgy, you have to admit I do actually make some excellent points here. Getting dressed most definitely should not be an exercise in humility. Sweating while getting dressed is unacceptable unless it’s 90 degrees in the room or you are putting on compression pants, neither of which are happening these days. Jury is still out on the dessert-themed haikus. But, I will concede that I’m a little hard on myself in the other capacities. If we’re being all reasonable here, I know that I am not technically overweight. My clothing size still falls within single digits, and I known that dessert should not fall under the category of forbidden fruit when I’m running 60 miles a week (FYI: Legs are stupid and no running is currently taking place). Logically, I know those admissions to be true. But, do I believe a single word of this pile I’m shoveling? Nope. Not a damn one. Because I don’t feel it.

I am not happy with where I am with my body. I am not at peace with my body, nor do I reserve any kind of happiness for it. I hate it. I have lost fitness and gained some serious el-bees^[6] thanks to an overindulgence in snacks. I am not in racing shape, or even training shape. My body is less “temple” and more “garbage dump”. I don’t feel good. And as unhappy as I am with my current physique and level of fitness, you’d think I’d be all eye of the tiger and what not when it came to knuckling down and getting back on track. Well, guess what. I’m not. For whatever reason, that doesn’t seem to be enough for me to say no thanks to extra dessert this, or baked good that. I’ve tried giving myself an incentive, like a new pair of shoes or a fun day out with friends, but it’s not enough. When I’m hungry these days, my brain whispers, “Girl, get those shoes anyway.” How am I supposed to argue with that?!^[7] So, then I start thinking...what would really motivate me to get back in shape and eat right again? The answer is pretty simple, but I doubt I’ll get any takers, so I won’t even bother asking.^[8] And don’t even get me started with the whole “What about for your own health and well being?” argument. I’ve tried that one, too, and apparently it’s not enough of a motivating factor. So, as a result, I just keep downing the junk food and continuing with this nasty downward spiral. I feel stuck.^[9]

Now, this may come as a shock to some of you, but I struggle with moderation from time to time. So, embarking on a new paradigm of nutrition and fitness can be tricky for me. Enter the part of this story that is pretty sensitive and might even be a little TMI.^[10] The years 2014-2016 were a little rough for me. The universe delivered me some pretty devastating blows that really hurt and knocked me down. And while I was down, this allowed other things to catch up with me that I had otherwise been able to outrun. It stung real bad, friends. I was in a very dark place. Anywho, in the midst of all this I may have whittled myself down a bit too much. And by may have, I mean I totally did. I recognize that now. I didn’t at the time though.

In the summer of 2016, my 5’5” frame got down to 103 pounds at its lightest. My hair started to fall out. I missed three periods. My heart would sometimes do funny things after I went running. My skin changed. I could count every single rib and my thighs no longer touched^[11] when I stood with my feet together. But, I honestly didn’t see myself as too thin, and as a result, many arguments arose over this. After much debate, I relented and went to see a nutritionist at Marc’s insistence, which, for the record, I hated with the fire of a thousand suns.

On the day of my appointment with the nutritionist, I may or may not have done a little shadow boxing in preparation for the assault of questions that I knew she would be hurling at me like heat seeking missiles. I walked in and conducted myself in a manner that was a delightful little blend of defensiveness, combativeness and resentment^[12]. But, despite my cardinal rule of never getting on the scale for anyone ever, I did get on the scale for the nutritionist.  I was so sick and tired of my weight being a constant issue that I thought getting on the scale would put this issue to rest once and for all. I’d show her.

I got on her scale. It read 107 pounds. I choked back tears as I stepped off, which the nutritionist could readily see. She told me that everything would be fine as long as I put on 10-15 pounds, though 20 would be better. What she didn’t realize, though, was that the tears I was so desperately trying to hold back were not because I was shocked at how low the number was on the screen, but because it was four pounds higher than the last time I had weighed myself^[13].

Even after the visit to the nutritionist, I was still adamant that my weight was fine. I mean, I was running about 60 miles a week and freaking killing it. I was faster than I had ever been and I was nailing every speed workout and every long run. Physically, I felt better than I ever had. Plus, when I looked in the mirror I didn’t see a damn thing wrong with me save for a pooch in my stomach that shouldn’t be there, or a fat roll when I bent over. So, I worked to get myself back down to 103. Which I totally did, by the way.

It wasn’t until one afternoon some weeks later that I wondered if maybe I had a distorted image of myself. Lily’s birthday is in March, but one August afternoon Lily spontaneously announced that for Christmas and for her birthday the only thing that she wanted was for me to not be vegan for the day. Perplexed, I asked her why. I eat a vegan diet, but I have never imposed that on Lily. Her reply stopped me dead in my tracks. Her reply was this, “If you aren’t vegan, you will eat whatever you want and you’ll gain weight.”^[14] I asked her if she thought I was too thin, and she said yes. Gulp. Say it with me...Out of the mouths of babes.

Later that night, long after she went to bed, I texted a friend and told her about what had happened, and then asked her if she thought I was too thin. Sure enough, she said yes and dropped some serious truth bombs on me. Sad and dejected, and still feeling like there was nothing wrong with my weight, I surrendered to the arguments of those around me and I began eating more. The problem is, I haven’t stopped eating. I am still eating like I have the intention of gaining weight. Where I was in the summer of 2016, on that end of the spectrum, is the opposite problem of what I am having now. Now, in the spring of 2017, I am going in the other direction and I cannot slow the momentum. I cannot stop gaining the weight.^[15]

We’re going to pause this party train for just a second so I can take us on a bit of a digression, okay? Marc insisted I add this paragraph into this post even though I think it's a bunch of nonsense. But, since I'm such an easy going person who loves taking advice from others, I've agreed to do it. So, I’ve had this masterpiece^[16] written for some time now and have seriously oscillated back and forth about putting it out there for public consumption.^[17] I had Marc read it, as he is often the more level headed of the two of us, and he was like, “So, are you going to admit that you have an eating disorder?” And I was like, “Uh, no. Because I don’t and didn’t. Case in point, we’re just operating under the assumption that I have ribs because you can no longer see them. Plus, I was thin but not anorexia thin, and now I eat more than you do. My nickname at work should be, What is she eating now? So, no. No eating disorder here.” Then he mumbled something about alcoholics being 20 years sober and still being alcoholics, to which I replied a counter-argument to end all arguments. I said, You’re wrong.^[18] So, while I will concede to having a tricky relationship with my body and food, I will not concede to having an eating disorder. Not then, not now, not ever. But, if that’s what you believe after reading this, to each his own. You are entitled to your own beliefs, I just ask that you leave me to my own as well.

So, anyway, let’s get this party started again. As you can imagine, 103-pound Jessica is pretty pissed off with Stretchy Pants Jessica right about now.^[19] 103 is like, “WTF?! You were so close to double digits and then you just threw it all away! And for what? A donut?! Unbelievable. Just pathetic.” But, Stretchy Pants says to 103, “Oh my God. If you knew what the donut tasted like you’d be all stretchy pants, too. So, shove it 103 and eat a sandwich already.”^[20] Unfortunately for Just Jessica, who has to moderate the bickering that goes on between these two, I’m in a constant war with my body. Sometimes 103 yells louder than Stretchy Pants and I respond cantankerously to compliments. Sometimes Stretchy Pants makes a pretty convincing argument to eat a whole sleeve of Thin Mints when my tender heart breaks on the daily. Sometimes Just Jessica just throws her hands in the air and doesn’t know what to do.

So, here we are. I know technically that I’m within the normal limits of a healthy size and weight. I know technically that my fitness level is probably better than most. But, I also know that I could eat better, be fitter - which would make me happier - and still be healthy. I totally get that 103 needs to go. But, Stretchy Pants also needs to go. Neither of those two crazy bitches are healthy, which leaves us with Just Jessica. So, this is my public declaration to try to find some balance and get back on track because I am all about the public declarations. The last time I made a public declaration was to qualify for the Boston Marathon and that one worked out pretty well for me. So, it’s my hope that this one will, too. And also because people aren’t always what they seem, and maybe I’m a little tired of the assumption that they are. Part of what got me into trouble in the first place was trying to maintain appearances and act like everything was fine, when it clearly wasn’t. So, I’m calling myself out, owning my shit^[21], and being publicly and unapologetically authentic here.

So, how am I these days? I’m pretty good. But some days I’m not, and I work pretty hard at making sure you can’t tell when those days are. Because they are just days, not months, and I am entitled to just smile through the rough days if it makes them a little easier to let pass. But, I have way more good days than I do bad, largely because I’ve worked my ass off to get here.^[22] I’ve written down hundreds of pages of my thoughts, and that seems to help. I listen to my friends and family and won’t let myself withdrawal from them. I stay busy, and every week I go and talk it out with a professional. I adore him and I can’t even begin to put into words how much he has helped me. Even when I’m perfectly self-actualized and I have all the answers to life’s great mysteries^[23], I’m still going to go see him each week because it’s a place to go where I can just talk about everything, or nothing at all, with someone who understands me so well that I sometimes think he lives inside my mind. But, that’s a big one to admit, especially given my profession and the fact that I am largely responsible for the mental health of many kids. I definitely feel like there is an expectation to have my shit together if I am going to be working in this field and with kids who need mental health support. But, flip side, what kind of a person am I if I tell my kids at school that mental health issues are nothing to be ashamed of, and seeking help for them is not an admission of weakness, if I cannot do it myself?^[24] Drop the mic. I think I made my point.

So, now that I’ve made it sufficiently weird, I’m going to wrap it up. Originally, this was supposed to be witty little missive that I was hoping others in my community would read and help keep me accountable in my plight to get a little healthier.^{[25] [26]} Clearly, it became more than that, but I’m just going to roll with it. Because, hey. We aren’t always what we appear to be, but maybe we should be, and a little more often.^[27]

---

^[1] I am so easy to love.

^[2] Lies. I will not be fooled.

^[3] Okay, 37 if we are being literal.

^[4] So there!

^[5] Oh delicious cookie!

   You make me smile daily.

   Is that cinnamon I taste?

^[6] el-bees=lbs=pounds=weight gain.

^[7] I totally should have been a lawyer.

^[8] Basically, Lily’s life needs to depend on it. That’ll motivate the shit out of me.

^[9] Sad face emoji.

^[10] Like I said, moderation is a foreign concept.

^[11] aka thigh gap

^[12] Again, so easy to love.

^[13] I guess I didn’t really show her after all.

^[14] I know, right?! (I’m assuming you just went, “Wow.”)

^[15] Stupid moderation being all smug and what not right now.

^[16] Join me in an LOL, won’t you?

^[17] You know that pun was so totally intended! Air high-five!

^[18] Again. Lawyer. Me. Should have been one.

^[19] You didn’t really think I’d list my current weight, did you? I don’t even know my current weight because it makes me sad and mad. So, I’ve put the scale under my bed where it can sit and think about what it’s done.

^[20] Obviously these two didn’t get the memo that they are one in the same. Two sides to the same coin. They aren’t known for their intellect. Clearly.

^[21] Hey, guess what. I also have 5 tattoos. Betcha didn’t see that one coming.

^[22] I  mean, technically I haven’t worked my ass off. Quite the contrary, actually. It’s bigger now than it has been in years.

^[23] He insists that that will never happen because no one in the history of ever has ever done that before. But I’m like, “Watch me.” And then he just takes a heavy sigh, and shakes his head, because he’s met me and knows that I can be stubborn on rare occasions.

^[24] Hypocrite. Hypocrite is the kind of person I’d be.

^[25] If you see me eating a whole sleeve of Thin Mints, please promptly ninja kick those mo-fos right out of my hand.

^[26] I will also accept public shaming. It’s controversial, sure. But, ten bucks says it works for me.

^[27] And just because I wrote all this mature stuff down, don’t think for a second that I’ll agree to fruit for dessert. Thin Mints? Yes. But not a whole sleeve of them.

An Evening Walk

Something happened earlier this week and the longer it sits with me, the more it upsets me, and I’ve got some thoughts on the matter. But first, I should probably catch you up on the details.

Last Tuesday I was in Calistoga for an appointment. I left my appointment around 6pm and, instead of getting into my car and driving immediately home, I had to run an errand. Despite it being cold and dark outside, I elected to walk to my destination. It wasn’t a long walk, probably less than a half a mile. I arrived at my destination, took care of what I needed to do, and started to walk back to my car. Perhaps because it was a Tuesday evening, or perhaps because it was cold and lightly raining, very few people were out walking . But it was still early, so I felt no hesitation to make the trek back to my car.

I was walking along, minding my own business and thoroughly inside my head, when something caught my eye. I turned to look over my left shoulder and saw a man on a bicycle. He was wearing a black hoodie, and trailing so close behind me that he was easily within arm’s reach. When I turned to look over my shoulder, I met a gaze that was so intense and fixated that it told me he had already been watching me well before I noticed him. When our eyes met, his stare sent a wave of such acute panic through my veins that I felt like I was going to be sick. I call it the “2 o’clock in the morning phone call feeling”. Yeah, you know the feeling. It’s not good.

So, despite it being just the two of us on the walkway, and despite that fact that the walkway was quite wide and completely unobstructed, I immediately moved over. It was my hope that his glare and his proximity to me were in response to his frustration for not being granted a swift passage. But this man, he stayed at my shoulder, and he did not divert is stare. He did not pass me. Instead, he kept the speed of his bike at just the right tempo to match my walk and just hovered. When he did not pass me, I looked back and encountered his glare again, and it became abundantly clear that his proximity to me had nothing to do with any attempts to pass me on the walkway.

Immediately, I felt tears well in my eyes. Fear replaced the blood in my veins and made me feel sick to my stomach. My legs felt weak and unsteady, and then a little voice in my head whispered, “Oh god. This is really going to happen.”  I wish I could say that the fight or flight response kicked in, but it did not. Instead what kicked in was submission; the third and lesser known option in the flight or flight response, which is freeze. I no longer felt like my mind and body were working symbiotically. As if on autopilot, I just slowed my pace, unsure of where my legs were taking me. I felt like I was awaiting command.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably not more than 30, maybe 45 seconds based off of how far I walked from when I first noticed this man to where we were now, he rode right up next to me. He was now parallel to me, and even though I didn’t turn my head to look at him, instead keeping my gaze down, I could see in my peripheral vision that he was looking at me. Very briefly, he rode silently beside me before mumbling something. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded like a threat. It sounded like he said, “You’re going to get it.”  I don’t know if this is actually what he said, or if this was my fear jumping to conclusions, but this is what I thought I heard and it sent the next jolt of terror through my body. My response came swiftly as I choked out a shaky demand, “What did you just say?!” Again, the little voice inside returned, only this time with the scolding command, “Be polite!” And immediately I felt bad for using such a sharp tone with this man.

This man, he trailed parallel to me for a few more seconds and then rode ahead of me at about arm’s length. He looked back at me a few more times before answering my inquiry. Finally, he said, “You’re beautiful.” Despite feeling scared and so vehemently not wanting to encourage this man, the little voice inside my head compelling me to be polite overshadowed my instinct and I whispered, with a giant lump in my throat, the following response: “Thank you”. This hooded man rode in front of me, but just at arm’s length, for a short while longer and taking the opportunity to look back at me a few more times. Then he increased his speed as mine tapered off, and then he was gone.  I just stood there shaking, fighting back tears, and not really sure what had just happened.

I wanted to call someone, or tell someone, but I didn’t. Not right away, at least; I waited quite a while. The origins of my hesitation were twofold and equally weighted. First, I wasn’t sure what happened. I know exactly how it felt, and it felt terrifying. But, was my emotional reaction justified? Was there a real and imminent threat, or do I just see sexual assault everywhere I go? Was this just some kind of really messed up transference placed upon some well-intentioned young man who was just trying to pay a lady a nice compliment? And if that was, in fact, the case, then I am such a bitch. I mean, it’s not like I got hurt or anything.

Or, let’s entertain the idea that I was just in the crosshairs of a sexual deviant and I, somehow, managed to dodge that bullet for reasons unbeknownst to me. No one will believe me. You probably overreacted...It wasn’t that bad...You’re too sensitive...I’m sure it didn’t really happen that way...It was probably nothing...It’s interesting how bad things keep happening to you…

Okay, there is so much that is messed up with this whole thing! Like I said, the longer I sit with this, the more it upsets me and I’ve got a few things I’d like to say. First of all -- and I’m going to apologize in advance for the frequent use of expletives that are about to follow, but I think it’s appropriate in this situation -- what the actual fuck?! I don’t even really know where to begin, so we will begin with my part in all of this.

Regardless of whether or not my assessment of the situation was on point or not, it felt like I was headed for an assault of the worst kind and my reaction was to submit. The voice inside of me scolded me to be polite when my tone became sharp. I thanked him. Let me say that again, I thanked a man who I genuinely felt like was about inflict serious harm. That, friends, is really, really, not okay. And I’d like to say that my reaction to all of this is of the minority. But, I’d be willing to bet it’s not all that uncommon. I bet there are a few of you out there reading this who just went, “Yep. I reacted the exact same way.” When, in reality, our reaction should have been, “Oh, hell no! I am going to fuck this mother fucker up if he even so much as high fives me!”

Now, friends, I am not advocating violence in any way -- I need to make that explicitly clear. My point is that, for whatever reason, my response to this situation was terribly wrong. It is not okay that my brain and body are programmed to simply accept that kind of treatment from anybody. That needs to change. My body deserves better than that even if I need to give myself a hard reboot to actually believe it. And I accept that my paradigm needs to change in order to fully embrace this belief of self respect, but I’d also be willing to venture that some of our social norms and expectations need to change it up a bit, too.  So, there’s that point. Now, let’s examine the next level of this giant mess.

I really wavered even mentioning this event to anyone...ever. Maybe I really did misjudge this man’s intentions. Even still, several days later, I’m not entirely sure I even gave this an accurate assessment. There is a large part of me that feels like it was nothing; that I was never in harm’s way; and that this was just an overreaction from someone who sees assault everywhere. As many of my friends and family will attest, I can be fairly persuasive. I am not fun to debate against because I can draft a bulletproof argument discrediting anything to the contrary of what I believe to be the truth. So, if I want to convince myself that this event was all just a giant overreaction or transference gone awry, then I’ll be able to do it. But those feelings....they make a pretty convincing argument that my instinct was totally on point. And then I think of how many times I wish I had listened to my instinct when I originally discredited it. So I then I say, yeah. I’m going to say something about this. This was not okay. For just the briefest of encounters, I was not safe.

So now let’s address this whole hesitation to not disclose for fear of not being believed. I really can’t control this one, and let me explain why. People will believe what they want to believe. I will talk about this and others will either believe me or they won’t. They will either dismiss this as an overreaction from an overly sensitive prude, or they will believe every part of this and join me in saying how frightening and not okay that this was. Furthermore, I would like to believe that those who orbit around in my close circle would never doubt something of this nature and magnitude, just as I would never doubt them. But, really, that’s not the point. The point isn’t whether or not people will believe me. I hesitated saying anything because there is the assumption that I won’t be believed. And that, my friends, is the point.

So, there you have it. I haven’t written anything here for quite some time, and this certainly isn’t polished, or poetic, or my best work. Far from it, in fact. But, I didn’t write this for the entertainment value. To be entirely honest, I’m not even sure what my agenda is. I just felt like I needed to say a few things, so please just hear my voice. And be careful out there.

Modesto Marathon Recap: No Really, It's Okay.

About a month ago, I raced the Modesto Marathon. It was my first marathon in over a year and I was itching to run. I was excited partly because I enjoy the slow torture of running over 26 miles, but also because it was going to be a first of sorts. Prior to this marathon, I had completed five marathons. I had never set a time goal before, as my only intentions thus far were to simply finish, preferably alive, and without vomiting or otherwise soiling myself. So far, I was five for five. (Woot!) But for Modesto? Well, Modesto I wanted to race. And I didn’t just want to race, I wanted a PR (Personal Record) that doubled as a BQ (Boston Qualify). I had scored myself a pretty respectable half marathon time in January (1:38:03) that set me up nicely for, what I thought would be, a solid marathon. So, for marathon number six, I was going to race it. And if you’re well trained, how much different could racing a marathon be than running a marathon?  Spoiler alert! A lot. That’s how much. A whole freaking lot.

Running a marathon and racing a marathon are two totally different things. Regardless of effort on race day, you’re still covering over 26 miles. Which, even still, blows my mind. But, to race that distance? Holy crap. That’s like saying, “Please kick me in the teeth over and over again for a few hours. No, really. Go for it. Just totally kick the shit out of me. And really make it hurt, okay? Let’s see how much I can take. Then when I’m really hurting, when I’m begging for mercy, I want you to set me on fire. Yes, I said ‘fire’. And when I’m really ablaze, try putting out the fire with gasoline. And if that doesn’t work, try smothering it by rolling me around in shards of broken glass. Oh, man! So much fun!”

The marathon gets a lot of hype, presumably for two reasons. First, for many it’s hard to understand why anyone would want run for 26.2 miles. Because, also, before the 26.2 mile race comes the 3-6 months of training that precedes it. And two, unless you’ve run a marathon, you really can’t see how it’s much different than any other kind of race. Really, just how is it different? Well, in the immortal genius of Hal Higdon, marathon champion and coach, “The difference between the mile and the marathon is the difference between burning your fingers with a match and being slowly roasted over hot coals.” Yep. That sounds about right.

So, we’ve established that on a good day the marathon is like being burned alive. And to race a marathon is like being burned alive, on purpose, begging for more, and paying hundreds of dollars to do it.  Sounds like my idea of a good time. Let’s review how that went for me, mkay?

Not well. It went really, really not well.

I’ll spare you some of the gory details, but suffice it to say that there was a lot of vomit and a lot of misery. With about 8 miles still to go, I wanted to pull over and beg for the DNF (Did Not Finish) at every aide station. For every Bike Marschall that rode past me and asked if I was okay or if I needed help, I wanted to confirm that, yes, I was in need of A LOT of help. But, I wouldn’t let myself. I wasn’t injured. I still had several hours to complete the race; in theory, I could walk the entire rest of the way and still finish before the race was over. I would finish, dang it.

Despite the dark and miserable place that I found myself, I kept reminding myself that no matter how miserable I felt, I was still moving. I was alive and able. I could think of so many people who kill for this opportunity. So, like hell was I going to take that for granted. I also thought about my daughter. I wanted her to see what hard work looked like. I wanted her to see that her mom doesn’t give up just because things get a little tough. I needed her to see that even when your plans get totally derailed and you feel so disappointed, and you want to cry and give up, that is the time when you work harder. And so, I kept going. I may not have liked the outcome, but like hell was I going to let it stop me.

So, I trudged along oscillating between walking (no puke) to running (puke). Finally, at mile 25.5, I forced myself into a run and would not allow myself to stop until I crossed that finish line. By the time I could see the finish line, I could feel the vomit at my molars and I using sheer will power to keep it down. As I pushed it in, I could hear the announcer calling my name. And just before I crossed the finish line, I stopped. Dead in my tracks, I stopped. Then, slowly, I walked across the finish line with my hand covering my mouth and just praying this was as bad as it was going to get. People started to swarm me and I motioned for them to stay away and give me some pace. We were in a very delicate situation and if I could have just a little space, it might, MIGHT, end well.

Well, it didn’t be cause someone yelled, “Oh my God! She’s gonna puke! Get her a bag!”

Sorry, friends. No action shots. But we all know what's coming.

And just like that, the power of suggestion released the kraken from the depths of my gut and it was the pie eating contest scene from Stand By Me all over again. I vomited all over my shoes and finish line, and all in the accompaniment of a few hundred people. Then, I went ahead and filled up a plastic bag, too. I was so, so sick. I had a screaming, pounding headache. I was exhausted. I was so disappointed.  I was 17 minutes over my time goal, which is basically an eternity for a marathon. The months and months of hard training that went into this race were for not. And so, covered in a mix of sweat and vomit, I made my way out of the finisher’s area.

Apparently, when you vomit with the commitment that I did, they like you to swing by the medical tent for a little visit. A very nice man told me to come inside, lie down on a cot, and enjoy a nice, warm Gatorade with salt. And naturally, the only open cot among the walking dead was situated right between what appeared to be two sub-three marathon champion-type immortals who, I’m sure, set new records with both their super fast times and their ridiculously chiseled abs. And here I am, just barely screeching under a 4-hour marathon but vomiting like I broke the world record. And chiseled? Not even. I’m more…sanded to a nice, round finish. I must admit that I didn’t even feel like I earned my spot in the medic tent. Just prop me up behind the dumpsters, turn on the hose for me to drink out of, and let’s call it good. That’s how I was feeling.

Tricia <3

But, I drank my salt and Gatorade (so yuck, by the way), and then my thoughts started to firm up and I started to see clearly again. My sweet husband, Marc, and daughter, Lily, were sitting on one side of me, and on my other side, my dear friend, Tricia. And guess what? They were super proud of me and had nothing but love. They felt the loss of my BQ and told me that I ran like a champ anyway. And the way that they said it leads me to believe that they actually meant it, too; they weren’t just being nice. Then Marc said to me, “Hold on. There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

Then, all of the sudden, I look up and in walks my other dear friend, Grace. Unbeknownst to me, she had been planning for a while to come and watch me finish. She drove over three hours to watch me vomit and totally miss my mark. But guess what again? You know what she did? She rushed over, sat down beside me, gave me a huge hug, kissed my cheek and said, “I am so proud of you.”

Grace & Company bringing street cred to Modesto.
Or, as Grace calls it, "Thug Life".

And then there was my coach. She understands my drive on an entirely different level than most because, well, she lives it, too. She works me hard, she encourages me, keeps me focused, and when needed, she snaps the proverbial leash when I get too frisky and need to mellow things out. One of the many things that I love about her is that she’s always straight with me. When I need to chill out, which is often, she reminds me to breathe. When I’m feeling insignificant, she reminds me of the progress I’ve made. When I’m feeling unsure, she reminds me of all the workouts I’ve nailed. And when I totally bonk in a marathon, she reminds me that it was just one day, that I’ll get them next time, that it wasn’t for lack of fitness or trying, and (most importantly), that she’s super proud of me. Funny how hearing that never gets old, no matter how old you are.

So, all I can say is, WOW. I bonked hard at this race. I totally crashed. And I am literally surrounded by so much love and support. These people are truly proud of me. And just like that, it was okay. I was okay. Sure, I was and still am very disappointed in how I ran Modesto. I would have loved a BQ. But, you know what? Let’s review for a moment. I got to run a marathon, which I freaking love to do. I finished without getting injured. I have the strength and vitality to run again and again and again. I was surrounded by nothing but total love and support. So, really? Maybe it wasn’t the day I had hoped for. But to say it was a bad day is entirely inaccurate. It was a pretty freaking great day when you really look at it all.

For the rest of that day, everyone exercised the same slow and deliberate movements that one should do around unpredictable, rabid animals. I am not typically known for my muted reactions to important events, so I can see how my even keel threw them off. Are you okay? Are you sure? No, really…are you okay? And the answer is always, yes. Yes, I’m okay. You can have a disappointing day and a day that’s also good. I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t cry in the shower afterwards, or that I didn’t buy myself a new, fancy purse to soften the blow of a missed opportunity, because c’mon, people. It's not like I’m not dead on the inside. But, overall, I was feeling awfully lucky.

The next morning, I awoke early, around 5am. The first thought that came to my mind was not about how sore my legs felt, or how badly my race had gone. But instead I thought about how many training days I had left before my next attempt at the BQ. What could I improve? What could I do differently next time? When can I get started? For some, maybe the defeat of the day before would have deterred from future attempts. But for me, it’s only heightened the crazy and increased my focus. I am more determined and motivated than ever. I look at posts and blogs about the Boston Marathon the same way in which a starving lion watches an unsuspecting gazelle. I’m hungry.

So, presumably, there are a few things that went wrong at Modesto, and a few things that I know I can improve upon. First, the vomit party was likely a result of Hyponatremia, which is basically a really difficult word to spell and a fancy way to say that my sodium levels were too low. Between the excessive drinking on an unseasonably warm day and the excessive sweating from running for almost four hours, this caused an electrolyte imbalance of epic proportions, thus resulting in the fatigue, the vomit, and the headache. A pretty easy fix, I’ll start training with salt tablets and keep an eye on fluid intake.

Secondly, and not necessarily a deficit, but instead an area to sharpen up, I’m focusing on more strengthening and speed. My coach drafted some new speed workouts that would surely kill me, then she backed it off just a smidge and said, “This will work nicely!” as well as incorporating greater race pace mileage into long run days. She knows I’m crazy and up for the challenge. Plus, I trust her inherently, so if she told me to gargle with raw sewage, I’d totally do it if she said it would make me a better, faster, stronger runner. 

As for strengthening, you all remember Grace? She was my friend who surprised me at Modesto? Well, like my coach, she knows my crazy and is nothing but loving and supportive. She’s also wickedly strong, uber smart, and has a high tolerance for the kind of energy that I bring to this relationship. A few times a week, Grace and I get together and work on strengthening of hips, core, and upper body. She writes detailed plans and we work it out. At first, I was worried that the differences in our ability levels would phase this out fairly quickly, as Grace is able to do twice as much in half the time. For real. While Grace is lifting 15-pound barbells, I’m rocking two-and-a-half pound wrist weights that, I’m fairly certain, are actually Maxi pads that she just spray painted orange and grey so that I wouldn’t feel so bad. But, Grace is super awesome and she’s found ways to draft plans that meet both our strengthening needs. She encourages me and makes me feel like a champ, even if her seven-year-old daughter and I have the same weight-lifting tolerance. She’s helping me get stronger, which in turn helps me get faster. But even more than that, I so look forward to our workouts because we have fun, and because she inspires me in so many more ways that she even knows, and because it reminds me that even if I never BQ or even PR, this is what it’s all about. It’s about becoming strong, healthy, happy, best versions of us.

In just under a month, assuming I can remain healthy and uninjured, I’ll be making another attempt at a BQ. Already, I feel differently about this race. I went through a pretty hellish experience at Modesto and survived it, so I know I can endure a lot. Plus, I’ve got a different perspective. Sure, I’ve got some nerves when I think about the race, but I’m more excited and enthusiastic than I am nervous. I get another opportunity to do what I love, to do what so many would love to be able to do but can’t, and to see just what I’m made of. That’s thrilling, my friends! How often do we get to really do that? As cliché as it sounds, that really is a gift. I’ve got a ton of people in my corner, all of whom will applaud me no matter what the outcome, and the only one I’m racing against is myself. It’s a win-win with tater tots at the end.

So, that’s my recap. Lessons learned are:

1. Marathons are hard.
2. Vomiting is no fun.
3. Warm Gatorade with salt is gross.
4. I have a little bit of crazy inside of me.
5. The only difference between a bad day and a good day is perspective (most of the time).
6. My friends, family, and coach are super awesome and help harness the crazy into good.
7. I’m super lucky.
8. Yes, even with the bad, this is fun and I have no intention of ever stopping.

Until next time, my friends! Keep on, keeping on!