Equinox leaves

When I think back on the Equinox, I see in my mind the trails covered with yellow leaves. The memories I hold are like the brightest leaves along the way, shining spots in the midst of that carpet of fall colors. I remember the trail itself as pure gold.

Random thoughts and images I want to capture before my flaky memory erases them:

Being so nervous at the start. I was uncomfortably anxious probably all the way till the musk ox farm (about 5 miles in). I’d taken out my earphones and turned off my iPod shuffle so I could talk to my teammates as we went along, but Betsy said, “Play your music. The familiarity may make you feel better.” She was right.

Seeing my friends Jim and Liz unexpectedly at the beginning of Ballaine and what a big boost they gave me.

Being totally surprised to hear “Go, Carol!” at the most unexpected place, in the woods on the trail off Ballaine. It was my physical therapist, Denise Jerome, and she gave me a big, encouraging grin that lifted my heart.

Looking for and seeing Dave at every stop. I needed nothing much of the time, but I was always so happy to see him. Knowing he was there every step of the way was a big deal psychologically. It made me feel safe and watched out for.

The playlist Dave made for my iPod, and being delighted each time I heard a new song he’d added to the mix. Every song was so perfect for the run. (And having Andrea run alongside me to the finish chute with my favorite song playing on her 10-pound boom box was perfect, too!)

The top of Ester Dome. The view was awesome as expected, but the warmth was an unexpected gift. There was just a breeze, no chilly wind! It felt like a party up there, and not just at the chute. There were places all along the out-and-back that I’d point out to Betsy and say, “How about a house just there?” and we’d talk about the view it’d have, or where to put a garden, or how you could have two views (north and south) at once.

Betsy saying we were “Equinox  Lipizzaners“ as we sidestepped down the washed-out road on the out-and-back.

The superlative oatmeal cranberry cookie I got at the turnaround. Wary of my persnickety stomach, I started nibbling slowly at it. After we turned around, Betsy and I would wave our cookies at outbound folks and tell them it wasn’t much farther to the turnaround, but I was still working on my cookie for a long way back up the trail. Folks would see it and think the turnaround was close and I started feeling really guilty.

Kathy Fitzgerald’s sign to Andrea, Peggy and me at the top of the chute. It blew me away. What a great feeling to start down the chute with.

Picking our way down that crazy chute, sometimes sidestepping, sometimes practically tiptoeing, thinking it looked pretty good till we got to the gnarly parts at the end, but taking comfort from the two people with smiling faces waiting for us at the bottom. Turns out they were paramedics, and they were probably smiling because they weren’t going to have to patch us up.

Betsy, of whom I cannot possibly say enough. I had settled in my mind before the race that I was going to run my own race. I knew that doing so would mean I’d cover the course alone, and I thought I was ready for that. But race day brought those ridiculous nerves, as well as a legitimate fear that I’d go out too hard at the beginning and reinjure my leg. I needed company in the worst way. So I decided early on to hang out with Betsy and our teammates Tammy and Ricky for a while. The four of us laughed our way through the miles, and they ticked off painlessly. Then, at the top of Ester Dome, Tammy and Ricky took off running. Here was another decision point for me, and for a brief moment, I thought I might follow Tammy’s lead and try to pick up the pace.

But what I wanted most in all the world was to cross that finish line. My calf injury was not fully healed, and the last miles were where I hurt myself some 25 or 30 years ago when I didn’t finish this same marathon.

My intuition and my heart said to stay with Betsy. I knew I could have no better company, and that her indomitable spirit would carry me along if I faltered; more than that, I was certain that if we stayed together, neither of us ever would. It ranks up there as one of the best decisions of my entire life.

Three more days…

Tonight was supposed to be a short, easy run. Instead, I’m sitting on the couch with an icepack taped to my ankle, which has been aching all day and has begun to seriously irritate me. It doesn’t hurt very much, but it itches and throbs in a truly annoying fashion.

The annoyance is almost welcome, as it diverts my attention from my nerves and my short fuse. My goodness, I’ve been grumpy. Tonight, trying to find the lid to a pot, I caused a minor avalanche in the cupboard that so aggravated me I staged a little hissy fit right there on the kitchen floor. Every single lid and every pot ended up thrown out of the cupboard and strewn around my feet.

My little tantrum resulted in a very orderly cupboard and a good laugh afterward at my own expense. But I’m not very happy with my temper. Can this all be nerves and taper crazies?

Nerves are certainly a problem. Worrying comes naturally to me at the best of times; now, it’s threatening to go into overdrive. Will my leg be all right for 26 miles? Will I be able to get enough fuel into myself during the 8 hours I estimate it’ll take me to finish? Hydration is no problem, but calories may be a big problem. There’s no comfortable way to carry my cell phone; what if Dave, as my support crew, misses a rendezvous?

Ack! my sensible side hollers at me. STOP THINKING! It’ll all be fine. And my worrying side even obeys for a little while. And then it gets back on that squirrel cage and starts going around all over again.

The only way I know of to ease the nervousness is to be prepared. So my plan is to do a “test” run early tomorrow morning, pretending it’s the morning of the marathon. I’ve yet to have to dress for 35 to 40 degrees F, and that makes me nervous, so it’d be good to have a trial run in warmer gear. I’ve already started making lists, jotting down items for Dave to have in the car (note to self: add ace bandage and ice pack to that list), thinking of food to snack on during the run, figuring out layers that can be shed without undressing.

Part of me wants this race to be over, one way or another, and my mind freed from the lists and the fears. Part of me doesn’t ever want this summer of running to end. Part of me—a big, crazy part of me—wants to meet the team next weekend and go for 20.

Home

The UAF ski trail that wanders from campus down to Ballaine Lake was brown and gold—a carpet of wood chips strewn with yellow coins. The surface was still slightly damp from all the recent rain, and it felt soft and springy underfoot. Several runners passed me coming and going, all of us likely grateful for the sun and the 65-degree temperature. Perfect weather for one of the last training runs before the marathon. We only have four more runs to go; can that really be possible?

I used to run here a lot during early training, but I’d been on vacation for most of August and had not gone down this trail for more than a month. I’d been in beautiful places in between—our cottage on the coast of Maine, the rolling hills of Western Massachusetts, the lush green suburbs of Baltimore. This little leg of the Equinox trail seemed simple, even slightly plain in comparison. Just a nice, almost nondescript trail through a mixed forest of birch and spruce, except that the yellow leaves made it luminous and charming.

It felt as if with each step, some part of me sank deep into the earth. I thought about the miles of trail I’d be running in another week, about the climb up Ester Dome, about that wonderfully wicked hill at the start (and maybe now the finish, too?) of the marathon. These pieces of trail have become part of me. My feet sank deeper yet, became roots, became connectors between my self and this place I call home.

I can’t really explain why Fairbanks is my chosen home, why a 21-year-old girl from New England would have fallen so deeply and permanently in love with a place 3,000 miles and a few gazillion light years away from the place she’d grown up in. It’s not the prettiest town in the world, but when I look at it, I see so much to love. Nor can I find the words for what happens to me when I walk/run. I’m not fast, and I can’t run for more than a few minutes at a time, but I can go farther than I ever dreamed, and there’s a fountain of joy in the act of going. It’s like being given wings.

I wrote once that I’d found my stride in Alaska. Now those words have a double meaning.

Who could be luckier than I? To be able to run, here, now—with these slightly older legs holding up pretty darn good, and the boundless inspiration of Team in Training to tap into, and the kind of fall weather that illuminates the back corners of your heart with its beauty. To have Fairbanks as my home and a marathon in my back yard is a truly wonderful thing.

Nothing right, nothing wrong

On Tuesday, September 7, nothing was going right. I’d left work at 4:30 so I could get in a run while it was still early, and now it was nearly 7 p.m. and I hadn’t even gotten out of the house yet. I was tired and jet-lagged from the flight back to Fairbanks the night before. Exhaustion made me inefficient beyond belief. I couldn’t seem to organize myself for the run. We had not yet unpacked, and finding my gear seemed to take forever. Then I had to decide what I should wear. Should I put on my jacket to keep warm in the light rain? It was not yet dusk, but pretty gloomy out—should I wear my reflective vest? Did I need food? Where was the sweatband I have to wear under my GPS because of my skinny wrist? What did I do with my GPS and my iPod shuffle? I must have gone back to my suitcase a hundred times.

I wanted so badly to just skip the run. My leg was feeling much better, and I wanted to keep making progress, but was this run really so important? I hadn’t done any real training since Saturday, and it was now Tuesday, but maybe I could run Wednesday and Friday. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and that was several hours ago, and I was really hungry. The dogs hadn’t been fed yet. I’d be gone more than an hour, making an early bedtime pretty unlikely. Couldn’t I just stay home, eat some supper, feed the dogs, and fall into bed?

But the marathon is only a week and a half away. I could whine all I wanted, I could think of many reasons not to go, but I couldn’t get around that one.

I scarfed down some sunflower seeds and made myself half a sandwich of peanut butter and ginger preserves. In the process, I burned the bread in the toaster. When I put on my running shoes, my toes discovered forest flotsam in them, and it took three tries and a great deal more grumbling to get the annoying bits out. By the time I walked down the front steps, I was one gigantic ball of frustration and grumpiness.

I stretched my calf muscles on the stairs while my GPS found satellites. As my heels dropped and my body relaxed downward, something else began to stretch out, too. I walked to the top of the driveway, started my GPS timer and my iPod, and took the first couple of steps.

Misty raindrops fell gently on my Team in Training ballcap. The wet gravel was soft under my feet. Early fall colors—damp leaves of gold and green on the birches overhead and bright red blueberry bushes at my feet—lit my way. I could smell rain-soaked earth and fallen leaves. My body settled into the walk as if it had been waiting for this all day.

My 15-minute warm-up walk took me nearly to the top of Willow Run, where I began my 40-minute walk/jog along Goldstream Road. Time slipped away as I alternated jogging with walking, each jogging interval lasting so much longer than it would have a month ago. My focus was on mechanics when I  jogged: leaning forward slightly and stepping lightly, being careful not to pound the pavement, monitoring my legs and making sure I didn’t push them too hard. But I also had time to appreciate the familiar scenery of home. I’d been away a long time.

No pain. No fear. No sore calf muscle. No twinges, no unusual tightness. Nothing but the insignificant aches and pains I’ve come to expect from being a 54-year-old runner. At the end of those 40 minutes, I felt fine. No, more than fine.

My workout ended with another 15-minute walk. I was so full of energy and happiness that it was hard to suppress it, terribly difficult to just walk. My iPod began playing a lively song, and my feet started bouncing of their own accord. Dance-walking is not on our training agenda, and certainly not the most brilliant thing to be doing so close to the race, but I couldn’t help myself.

I didn’t get to bed on time last night. The dogs were fed just before dusk. My “supper” was the sunflower seeds, the half-sandwich, a packet of Chocolate Outrage gel and 18 ounces of water. And all’s right with the world.