Thank you

Sunrise doesn't last all morning,
a cloudburst doesn't last all day
Seems my love is up and has left you with no warning
But it's not always going to be this grey --George Harrison, All Things Must Pass


When I first decided to run this marathon, I knew I wanted to “test my mettle,” as they say. I could never have anticipated just how much of a test that goal was to become.

Tomorrow marks six months since my mother died. Some moments, it feels like eons ago, or someone else’s life entirely. But most times, it feels like I just spoke to her yesterday. Sometimes, I am just overwhelmed by the crush of sadness. Sometimes, I want to scream at her in anger. Some mornings, I wake up so sad, having had yet another dream where I see her but can’t talk to her, and I don’t even want to get out of bed. I just want to stay there, sink further and further into the comfort of my bed with Jeremy and cry until I can’t anymore.

A few days after the funeral, I was struggling to bring myself to do anything. I hadn’t been eating, or sleeping and I felt like I just couldn’t face the day. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was call my mom and tell her some mundane detail about some mundane workday, or talk about the baseball season that had just started, anything. All I wanted was to tell her I loved her.

Instead, I got out of bed and went for a run.

And just like I couldn’t have anticipated the test I was about to endure, I couldn’t possibly have anticipated the extent to which running became my means of coping.


It was right around that time that I first emailed Josh to ask if he would be my coach for the marathon. I had made promises to myself and I didn’t want to give those up, but I was afraid that I couldn’t do it on my own. I knew I needed to be accountable to someone if I was going to get through training and be able to hold my head up and see this through to the end. I told Josh how I was feeling like some days it was just too much for me to handle. He was receptive and sensitive to what I was going through. He encouraged me when I needed it, which was pretty frequently. As soon as I was able to, I joined the Tuesday/Thursday Night Torture Group (Josh’s speedwork group). The first time I ran with the group was the hardest I had run in weeks. And when I got home that night, I had a smile on my face for what felt like the first time in ages. I almost felt like myself again.


Over the next weeks, I got to know more members of the group. I felt, in those first few miserable days after she died, that I was at my best when I was around other people. And here, I’d found myself with a group of people dedicated to bringing out the best in themselves and cheering each other on every step of the way. I needed that support. I needed that encouragement. Whether they knew it or not, they were helping me through the hardest time of my life.

There were, and still are, many many moments and days where I’m overwhelmed. But the more I ran, the more I felt that I was putting distance between me and my sadness. The more I ran, the more amazing friendships I formed with the other runners I had met. The more miles I ran, the more I remembered who I was and what I wanted for myself. The more I ran, the more I discovered strength I never knew I had. The more I ran, the more I realized that though my mom was gone, I was still here, and that my life was full of amazingly supportive, loving and giving people and how lucky I was to have each and every one of them. There are many who were a part of my life before I lost my mom, and many who’ve come to my life since then. I will never be able to properly express my gratitude to them all.

For all the phone calls, hugs, smiles, laughs, and shoulders to cry on. For the miles run, and the adventures planned. For the memories shared, and the ones we’ve yet to make. For cheering me on. For being my friends, when I needed you the most.

I had said awhile back that I didn’t want to ascribe any meaning to my marathon that it didn’t need to have. But I was wrong. With just over a week to go, I realize now that when I cross that finish line, the first words I say will be, “Mommy, I did it.” But when I cross the starting line, I will say, “Thank you.” For my friends. I would never have gotten to the start without you.

The Case of the Exploding Knee

My ITB issues continued through most of last week. It never felt terrible, but I could feel tightness in my knee right at the points where the ITB connects. By Thursday, I felt good enough to run, so i joined Josh and Matt for a fun, rainy tempo run in Central Park. My knee felt a little tight the whole time, but never so bad that I felt I needed to stop, or like I couldn't just work through it.

When I woke up Friday morning, it was pretty sore. Just tight and stiff and altogether not right. I had a 20+ miler scheduled for the next day, but I just figured that as I walked around throughout the day, it would loosen up. On my hilly walk to work, my knee was just not cooperating. After work, I was heading to my cousin's apartment in Manhattan, and as I walked up the stairs to the subway, all of a sudden, like running into a giant blinking neon cosmic billboard, I was in excruciating pain.


Without hyperbole, I thought my knee was going to explode. I literally stopped in my tracks, on the subway stairs, gasping for air and clutching my knee. People stopped to ask if I was alright and I just waved them on, unable to speak through the silent screaming. Rather stupidly, I pulled myself up the rest of the stairs and got onto the next train. When I got to my cousin's apartment, I could barely walk and fell through her apartment door begging her for an icepack. When she put the icepack on my knee, the pain was again horrific. Even just touching my knee caused more pathetic silent screaming. I sent Josh a couple of frantic "ZOMG MY KNEE IS EXPLODING HAAAALP!" text messages, and he called me back a few minutes later to talk me off the ledge.

When I could walk again, I left my cousin's and met Jeremy for a movie (FYI, Red is awesome. Go see it). When we left the theater, my knee felt okay. Sore, but okay.

And...when I woke up Saturday morning, it was like nothing had ever happened. My knee was fine. No pain WHATSOEVER. I went to see Erika perform in an opera and had nibbles and drinks with her and Baker afterwards, and nothing. Not a glimmer of an owwie. As I ran errands during the day, I walked up and down some hills, flights of stairs, in and out of subways and buses. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

I'm still taking a few days of rest, just a precaution but am very perplexed as to The Mysterious Case of the Exploding Knee. I'm hoping that whatever was wrong is now right and when I go for a run on Tuesday, nothing else will explode. Fingers crossed that I don't spontaneously combust.

The View is Good From Here...

For the past month, things have been going well. I've started a new career, been running again, and making progress I am really proud of. The plantar fasciitis hasn't bothered me. I've become faster and stronger than I thought I would. I ran my first 20+ mile run, and finished smiling. Yesterday, at the Staten Island Half Marathon, I set an 8 minute PR. I've hit a small bump in the road. My ITB is giving me a bit of trouble and I'm not happy about it. But, remarkably, I'm not freaking out. WIth less than 4 weeks to go until the marathon, I know I've put in the work. Yesterday, I proved that to myself. I ran hard, but comfortably the whole time, and exceeded my own expectations. I've been icing, Adviling, foam rolling and scheduled a massage for myself later in the day. I'm taking care of it. If I have to take a few days off, or even a week to make sure I'm recovered, I know it won't be the end of the world. I'm pretty positive, at this point, that I can achieve my goal at the marathon. Which, coming from me, with my black belt in the neurotic arts is a pretty big statement to make.

I've worked hard. I'll get to where I want to be.

On the mend

Though I may think I am sometimes, the truth of the matter is that I am not a superhero. I am tough. I am determined. I am stubborn as fuck. But I do not possess superhuman abilities. So, when I get hurt, I have to deal with it.

The plantar fasciitis in my foot didn't get better. It didn't get worse, but it didn't get better. So, I didn't run for 2 1/2 weeks. I started physical therapy and have been doing all the little runner tricks for healing from PF. There has been an improvement. I was able to go for 5 short runs last week, all at a decent pace and with minimal discomfort. I'm still not 100% and I'm doing my best to be honest with myself about how much I can do. But with 74 days until the marathon, I can't say I'm not freaking out a little.

I am not a superhero. But I do have mad ninja skills in the neurotic arts.

Bump in the road

I have not run in a week. And, following doctor's orders, I will not run for one more week. I have a mild case of plantar fasciitis, aggravated by my celebratory 30k. So be it. I'm not happy about it. But it is what it is, and I'll deal with it the best I can. I've started some aggressive physical therapy and in the meantime, I'll bike and stretch and do my strengthening exercises.

Normally, I'm a very positive and optimistic person, but when my apple cart has been upset, and things deviate from my plans I have a hard time seeing the glass as half-full. It's half-empty. And chipped. And I cut my lip on it. And then I dropped it. And cut my hand trying to clean it up. Now, I'm wet and bleeding and I have no water.

Having said that, I know, of course that this IS just a bump. A temporary set-back, and it's better to deal with this now than two months down the road. The logical part of my brain knows all this. It just seems to function better when I'm actually able to run.

But oh well. It is what it is. Suck it up, Paige! Rocky didn't cry (except when he won!).

It's My Party and I'll Run if I Want To

Tomorrow is a big milestone for me. It will be my 30th birthday. Like all big occassions and events these days, it is bittersweet. Smiles and sadness in seemingly equal measures. I continue to marvel at the fact that I've managed to continually surround myself with amazing, loving and supportive people in my life. For that reason, I have so much to celebrate. So, that is what I choose to do.

My plan for my 30th birthday to was run my age. 30k (18.6 miles). It seemed like a fun thing to do, and bonus points for an early marathon-training long run! Since my birthday falls on a Wednesday, though, and the Queens Half-Marathon was this past Saturday, just four days shy of my birthday, I thought it would be fun to kill two birds with one stone, run the half-marathon and then just tack on another 5.5 miles to hit 30K.

On race morning, when I woke up, it was already 83 degrees. I slathered on the sunscreen, got myself together, and woke Jeremy up for some pre-race kisses. He smiled up at me and in his best Adrian-to-Rocky told me, "Win!" I smiled back, "I will!"

After an adventurous cab ride through the uncharted regions of the Bronx, I finally made it to race, where I met up with a few Twitter friends at the start. Amy, Maria, TK, Mary and I started together but after a mile or so, I kind of zoned out, put on my headphones (still feeding my ears a fairly steady diet of Faith No More) and just ran comfortably. It was definitely disgustingly hot and I was really feeling it by the 3rd mile. I made sure to stop at every aid station, sip some Gatorade and water, and dump a cup of water on my head. And wouldn't you know it, by mile 8 or so, I felt like I was cruising. I knew I had a lot more running ahead of me that day and I felt great. Just past mile 9, I saw Erika's bright yellow socks up ahead. I sped up to catch up to her and ran with her for a bit.

I kept running and as I kept running I got more and more excited for the rest of the day, to complete my 30K and then head out for beer and nachos with friends. When I crossed the finish line (2:02:54, 2nd best HM), I was all smiles.

On the subway ride back to Manhattan, I met up with Erika again, and Baker who told me they'd join me later for beer and nachos. I got to Central Park and headed out for a solo 5.5, still smiling. It was hot, I was tired, but I didn't care. This was my celebration, just for me.

Later, over a few beers, several plates of nachos, tater tots, some cupcakes and about 74 glasses of water and lots and lots of laughs, I looked around the table at my friends, new and old, and family that joined me (and did not complain about the fact that I probably smelled like a hockey player's gym bag) for my crazy little party and realized that I am really very, very lucky.

In spite of the sadness of the last three months, I have so much to celebrate.

Batwings: A Memoir

Janeane Garofalo once famously opined that there are two types of women in the world -- those with visible biceps, and those with matronly upper arms. So true, Janeane, so true.

When I was a little girl, I was a gymnast and definitely had the visible biceps. I could lift myself to a handstand from a fully seated position on the balance beam and held the second place record for rope climb in gym class (insert Wayne's World reference here). However, as I succumbed to angsty teenage malaise and suburban drudgery I gave up all athletic endeavors for the less physically demanding hobbies of dyeing my hair odd colors, brooding and writing bad poetry. And that was when I developed the Batwings -- the jiggly flesh where my triceps once had been.

These days, when my fitness is on my mind and I've begun to really test the limits of my discipline, I mourn the loss of my visible biceps. Whenever I watch Terminator 2 (which I do from time to time, because it's AWESOME), I stare in slack-jawed envy at Linda Hamilton's amazing upper body strength.

I mean LOOK AT THAT!

But before I tip my bed over and start doing chin-ups, maybe I should take a more sensible approach to reclaiming my upper body strength. Just have some discipline. If I can make myself run and train the way I have been lately, why I am so lazy when it comes to other things? Why can't I wake up and do some push-ups or lift the weights that have been collecting dust in my living room? In my commitment to running why can't I have an addendum with just an overall commitment to my strength? It's all towards the same goal in the end, right?

I want Sarah Connor arms, dammit. I want my visible biceps back!

"Hello, Dr. Silberman... How's the knee?"

Correcting my Form

When I first started running with Speedy Sasquatch & crew a few weeks ago, one of the first things Josh pointed out to me was the length of my strides. He and I were pretty evenly matched. He, of course, lives up to his moniker and is of rather sasquatchian height. I am practically pocket-sized. My form looked something like this:



No bueno.

I've worked on correcting my form over the last few weeks so that it resemebles something more like this:




Much better! I could definitely feel the difference, in that I was just moving more efficiently. During my 10k race on Saturday, I was running along, doing pretty well, fairly pleased with my pace when I felt a bit of a twinge in my right hamstring. It wasn't too bad, so I powered through and finished the race with a new PR to show for it. I rested on Sunday and ran a bit on Monday and felt the twingey-ness again. Last night, at our Tuesday speed workout, the hammy was BARKING. I did our first mile repeat and felt okay, but definitely tight. By the second one, my left quad had declared mutiny and was clearly trying to undo me. I stretched after each repeat, and finished up the workout, feeling sore but fantastic.

This morning however, I feel sort of like this:




I'm hoping that a day of rest, Aleve and stretching will patch me up just fine. In the meantime, I'll just be sitting here, obviously very busy.

Because it was there...

I run because not too long ago, I could barely do this at all.

I run for the joy of knowing I did better than last time, and the hope that I'll do better next time.

I run because every step I take grants me perspective.

I run because it has made me a better person. It has provided me with an outlet and focus I didn't know I was capable of. Each little goal leads to a greater accomplishment, each little failure can be overcome. It has taught me patience and determination. It has helped me balance my emotions and my actions. It has made me ask, "What are you capable of?" and while I may never fully be able to answer, I know that I will never stop asking.

I run because, sometimes, "Get out of bed and run," is the most I can ask of myself. And because sometimes, it's easy. And because I love it.

The beginning

A triumphant start to marathon training!

I began yesterday...with a rest day.

Having run 11 miles in 90+ degree heat on Sunday, yesterday was a designated rest day. So, rest I did (and then I went to an outdoor Faith No More concert, during which I jumped around, screamed and sweat a lot. Restful? Perhaps not. Awesome? Yes. Worth it? Absolutely).

Today, there will be speed work with Speedy Sasquatch . It's expected to be about 100 degrees. My training schedule for the week has been posted, and I'm really excited to start, and a wee bit nervous. This weekend I have a 10k race, and I'm going to race it's face off. I hope, at least. We'll see.

But, here's to beginnings!
::raises giant bottle of ice water::

And then, I took a step...

I really wrestled with that last post. I didn't know what to say, how much to share, how much to keep to myself. I didn't know whether I should write it at all. Before I hit "publish" I called my brother and asked if he was okay with me posting this.

Ultimately, I decided, I just wanted to be honest. Before my mom died, I had planned to get back to blogging and training and blogging about training, and all the peaks, valleys, pitfalls and discoveries that happen along the way. I have never been through anything as utterly life-changing as this, and it has impacted absolutely everything about me and my plans. I couldn't write about the next months of training and hard work without writing about my mom and how much her sudden absence has effected every aspect of my life. For the most part, "normal" every day activities have resumed. But, really there is no going back to normal after something like this. There is only ache, adjustment, and discovery of what the New Normal means in your life, and learning to live according to that.

It's not yet been two months. Some days, I just don't want to do much of anything. I'm trying to be honest with myself about what I need, without being indulgent, but sometimes I just want to be indulgent, too.

But, still, there is lots to be done. My official marathon training starts in one week, on July 5th and I'll be coached by Josh, aka Speedy Sasquatch. I'm excited and anxious. I have a lot of work to do.

I'm trying not to ascribe meaning to my marathon training and the marathon itself, unnecessarily. But it destroys me to know she won't be there for me at the finish, to tell me how proud she is.

Really, though, as I think about it and organize my thoughts as best I can, I don't think that my planning to run the marathon really had anything to do with anything other than proving to myself that I could do it and do it reasonably well. My mother always was proud of me when I did my best. So, maybe that is the meaning I can ascribe to this now, if it will help me get through those days when Ijustdon'twanna. That this is for me. That this is me doing my best and she would have been proud of that.

And then, I fell apart...

I had told myself that once I got through the semester, once I wrapped up final exams and papers and projects, I would be able to focus more throughly on running and blogging. I wasn't happy with myself for slacking off on those things, while trying to manage work and school. I was excited to kick things into high gear, as I built up mileage and strength in preparation for my marathon training.

And then, on April 29th, my mother died.

I called home that morning. She answered the phone, but I could tell something was very wrong. She seemed confused and wasn't making a lot of sense. I told her to put my father on the phone. He told me that he wanted to get her to a hospital, but she didn't want to go. I hung up with my father and called my brother at work. "I think you'd better go home," I told him. I called a car service to take me to Jersey. I called Jeremy and told him I was going to my parent's house and that we were going to take my mother to the hospital. He told me to keep him posted.

When the car service pulled up outside my apartment, I was barely keeping it together. There wasn't any traffic on the 25 minute drive, but it seemed to be taking hours.

The car stopped in front of the house. As I paid the driver, my brother walked up. We walked into the house together, into the kitchen. My father was there. He put his hands up to stop us from going any further.

"She's gone." He said.

Police and EMT's arrived. It was too late. I started making a mental list of all the things that would now never happen.

She would never see my children.
She would never laugh at one of our stupid jokes again.
She would never sing Beatles songs with me again.
She would never call me after a race, to ask me if I still had all my toenails.
She would never call just to say hello.
She would never celebrate another birthday or holiday.
She would never tell me she loved me again.

The next hours and days are a blur of phone calls, emails, planning... I don't remember much.

I didn't eat or sleep. I had never been so sad or so angry. Nothing seemed real.

Jeremy and my friends rallied around me. In spite of the incredible sadness, I felt incredibly loved.

Somehow, I got through the funeral. I got through the days that followed. I'm pretty sure I even laughed a few times.

I got out of bed every day. I cried when I wanted to. I reached out to whoever would listen. I made myself meals. I did school work. I watched movies. I laced up my sneakers and went for a run. I got through each day, as it came along. I put one foot in front of the other. Every day. The best I could.

The sadness and the anger and the incredible feeling of loss are with me. Every day. But I am beginning to feel a little bit more like myself. I am beginning to laugh with my whole heart again.

While the pain of her absence is immense, so is the joy of all the good memories I have. Every day, I go on with my life and my plans. She won't be there. But I have to do the best I can. For her. And for me.