Running

I need running more than ever

February 7, 2017 by Lisa Leave a Comment

When things don’t make sense and the world is spinning out of control, when absurdity and malice prevail, I need running more than ever. When I’m angry and sad and confused and despairing for the world I want my kids to grow up in; when the news seems fake and I wish the facts were alternative, I need running more than ever.

In the past few months, I’ve needed running because it is an escape – from reality, from Twitter, from my obsessions and fears. But also because running brings me back to reality – back to the hard and pounding cadence of what is, and what this day – and this day alone – requires. Running wears out any pretense of what I want to be or wish wasn’t, leaving only the heaving, sweaty, tired core of who I am, and what is.

I need running because it reminds me that I can do hard things.

Running teaches me that hard work produces results – and also, that sometimes, it doesn’t. Running teaches me that working for and toward good things is always worth it.

Running forces me to listen to myself, to take care of myself and to treat myself with respect.

Running makes me strong.

Running connects me with fierce, funny, talented women who care deeply about being good people – good employees, mothers, wives, daughters, friends and runners.

Running reminds me that I come from a long line of strong women.

Kathrine &
Grete &
Joan &
Cindy – my mother – who was among the first generation of women given the opportunity to run. When her high school track coach was reluctant to let his female athletes run more than a couple laps around the track, she returned home after practice to log miles on the country roads that veined out in all directions from her family’s Nebraska farm. At the University of Nebraska, she lettered in Track & Field and Field Hockey, the very first year women were able letter in sports.

I need running because it reminds me that women are strong – and we’re getting stronger.

Running makes me feel free and powerful.

Running reminds me of my limitations, and my need for the love and support and friendship of others.

Running shows me the necessity of listening to, loving and supporting others.

Running helps me understand that I matter; my body matters.

Running teaches me that my body is my own and that it is useful. It is capable of doing difficult and awesome things. Running teaches me that my body is not an object of or tool for, others – that the difficult and awesome things my body does, can be for me alone, and no one else.

I’ve needed running more than ever in the past few months because – it’s just running. It’s a privilege and a hobby whose meaning is derived from my use of it, the value which I give it. Running matters and it doesn’t – and it’s beautiful because of that. Running stands in stark contrast to those things which really are a matter of life and death, of a better, more equitable future for all.

I need running now more than ever because it grounds me, and it prepares me to live and work honestly and courageously in the world outside the running path.

running clothes and rabbit

April 28, 2016 by Lisa 4 Comments

When I first started running, I wore polyester basketball shorts, a cotton t-shirt and a sports bra from the juniors section at Walmart. It was your basic P.E. uniform – the same thing I wore to softball practice or when I rode my bike to the Texaco gas station on the corner of Bell and Clarmar, to buy Bubble Tape. A pure and uncomplicated getup that was a little too big, it was for the most part comprised of hand-me-downs. It wasn’t great, but it got me through many formative miles on the sidewalks of Fremont, NE.

I started running before the days of specialty running shops in every town, athleisure and coordinating workout separates. I started running not long after Oprah completed a marathon, but before the recreational running boom she helped launch, took hold. I started running before running was cool (insert hipster meme here) and before social media allowed you to document, share and receive affirmation for every training run and themed 5k you completed. Running wasn’t always so popular, and running apparel used to be much less complicated.

Now don’t get me wrong. While my “early adopter” status is a source of pride, I’m grateful and indebted to the growing popularity of running. In the same way that youth soccer undergirds the success of professional soccer in the United States, the top echelon of the running world benefit in talent and money from the sport’s growth among the masses.

Sure, those clothes from my early days of running were inferior to the engineered fabrics and flattering fits of today’s athletic wear. But they were also pure and easy, simple and functional. They served the purpose for which they were employed – to help me train hard and run fast.

By the time I entered high school and became more competitive in the sport, my mom and I would make the 90 minute round trip trek into Omaha at the beginning of each track and cross country season to buy my training shoes and spikes at a specialty running store. That store was my first glimpse into a running culture and the gear and clothing designed specifically for people like me – people who love to run.

During one of my first trips to that running store, I pulled a pair of billowy shorts off the rack. They were covered in neon geometric shapes, and I was confused to find that they had built-in underwear. Why would you want that?! – I remember thinking. So odd.

Upon discovering that every pair of running shorts in the store had that same feature, I deduced that built-in underwear was a runner thing – a special thing that real, serious runners liked. That day, I convinced my mom to buy me those bright, billowy shorts. I wore them through college, until the elastic wore out. And in time, I discovered that there is a real benefit to lined shorts. I also learned how certain styles and fits of running clothing help me do what I love, easier and better.

Fabrics that don’t sag or chafe, colors that don’t fade, materials that wick away moisture but don’t hold onto smells, and clothes that keep me cool or hot, depending on which I prefer. – This is what I look for in running clothing. I want simple, effective clothes that I can put on and forget about. I want clothes that allow me to do what I love, well.

But let’s be honest, I also appreciate the popularity – no dominance – of activewear. I love me some good Lululemon yoga pants, and I’m scared to join Fabletics for fear that I’d spend way too much money on their comfortable-yet-cute clothing (that can be worn to both happy hour and the gym!). And there’s no shame in admitting that really wish I was cool enough to sport Beyonce’s new Ivy Park line, specifically this number.

Activewear is great. Athleisure is wonderful. But when it comes to running, I prefer simple and functional.

I also prefer running clothes that allows me to easily transition from running to side-planking.

I also prefer running clothes that allow me to easily transition from running to side-planking.

Shortly before the Olympic Trials, I was contacted through Instagram by brand new running apparel company – rabbit. Their product wasn’t even in stores yet, but they were hoping to get a few athletes who were running in the Trials, to wear their racing kit. I chatted on the phone Monica, one of the founders of rabbit, to learn more about the company and what they are doing. She told me that she and her co-founder Jill started rabbit after growing tired of athleticwear that was complicated and impractical. They wanted to create running clothes that were simple and made for one purpose – running.

Ok. I can get behind that, I thought.

I told Monica to send me their racing kit and if I liked it, I’d wear it at the Trials.

The quality of the rabbit uniform she sent me, was high. It was soft and well-cut, stretchy but structured. I liked it.

You’ll remember that Olympic Trials was a tough, hot and emotion-filled experience. So much went through my mind during that long 26.2 mile race, but one thing I didn’t think about was my uniform. I dumped 16oz of water over my head and body every 3 miles, and I didn’t once adjust my shorts. I finished the race without chafing, and my singlet dried out, shortly after I finished.

A company whose mission and values I respect, and whose product is top-notch – I was sold.

And so you can imagine that I was thrilled when Monica and Jill asked me to be an elite-level ambassador of the brand – something they’re calling RADrabbitPRO. (The RAD part stands for “Runners And Dreamers”.)

I’ll admit that in recent years, I’ve been reluctant to associate myself and my running with a brand. Running is an extremely personal and important thing to me. I don’t want to feel that my passion is beholden to a company that treats me as a walking – or running – billboard. With rabbit, I’m comfortable and confident in what they stand for, and what they are trying do. They know me and want to support me, and their clothes are so fricking awesome.

And so, last month I signed a contract and am officially a rabbit – a RADrabbit.

I’m excited about this. I think it could be something pretty great.

If you want to learn more about rabbit, and order their awesome running gear, check out their website, www.runinrabbit.com.

Did I mention that all of their clothes are made in the U.S.A?

Also, Rabbit is committed to supporting running specialty stores – places like the shop where I first discovered lined shorts and running culture. They believe that these stores serve runners, and are the anchors of the running community in each town, and I agree.

I think rabbit is pretty awesome, and I’m excited to be a part of what they’re trying to do. Stay tuned.

The first time I ran a mile

March 18, 2016 by Lisa 2 Comments

The first time I ran a mile, I was 12 years old.

Well, that’s not completely accurate. I ran the “10-minute straw run” in gym glass. But if you were to ask my elementary school self, that didn’t really count. It wasn’t a truly accurate measure of my mile speed. And I cared about that.

You remember how the straw run worked, right? Orange cones marked out a circle in the field behind the playground. There were 10 minutes on the clock and you were given one straw for each lap of the circle you completed. It was the culmination of our physical education curriculum – the most dreaded and arduous undertaking of our 10-year-old lives.

And of course – as I did with all PE and related physical activities – I took the straw run way too seriously. I recall being convinced that people were cheating. I remember scoffing at my classmates who were walking. I also remember approaching my PE teacher after the bell had rung and class was over. I wanted to make sure – to hear it from her – that I had collected the most straws of any girl in my class.

[Remind me to tell you about the time I was the Third Grade Flexed Arm Hang Champion. It was glorious. I couldn’t write for two days afterward because my arm muscles seized up and gave out. I was so proud.]

Yeah, so basically I was that girl in Phy. Ed. that you hated. The one who you secretly hoped would “accidentally” get kicked in the face on scooter day.

The first time I ran a mile as a distance runner was in the summer of 1999. May of 1999 to be precise. I was fresh off a triple crown win at the All-City Track and Field Day. My 1st place blue ribbons for performances in the 400m, long jump and 100m shuttle relay were proudly pinned to the bulletin board in my room – likely next to my latest puff paint creation and the optical illusion JESUS heroglyph my grandmother had knitted on a plastic canvas. The later looked something like this. Grandma Krause made one for each of her grandchildren, and it had taken me several years and a lot of staring to finally see Jesus’ name.

I was 12 years old. I was growing out my bangs – but not all of them. Baby bangs were a big thing in Fremont, Nebraska at the time and despite my greasy, pimple-ridden forehead and inability to properly form them into the single swooping curl that the style demanded, growing out some but not all of my bangs felt like the first real autonomous style decision I had or could make. Those baby bangs made me feel cool and independent. They marked the beginning of my transition into adulthood and self-actualization – a process I’m still working through.

I was 12 years old and I looked like this:

The day I ran a mile for the first time, my mother drove me to the high school. My hometown has only one public high school – Fremont High School – and it sits on Lincoln Avenue between 16th and 19th streets. In Fremont, the numbered streets pretty much end at 23. Beyond that it’s country roads laid out on a grid, corn fields and an intersection every mile.

It was 6:50 a.m. when we pulled into the north parking lot. I was sleepy and nervous. The high school cross country coach had invited me to train with the team several mornings a week during the summer. She had seen my victorious 400m effort at the All-City Track and Field Day and suggested that I give cross country a try. I peered out the passenger side window of my mother’s Chevy Astro van, watching as girls began to arrive. I looked for familiar faces and my stomach tightened. I wanted to be liked and welcomed; I wanted to do well. Like PE class, I cared – maybe too much.

All of the girls at practice that day – except for my friend Maggie – were older than me. I knew Maggie from church. We had gone to different elementary schools, but in the fall we’d both be starting 7th grade at Fremont Middle School. Maggie’s older brother ran cross country and she seemed to know what to expect; she seemed more confident than I.

Coach Hento was organized and direct, kind and clear. After introductions and a stretching routine we divided into groups based on our abilities and the distance we would be running. Maggie and I were the last people assigned to a training group.

“You two will run with me,” Coach told Maggie and I. “We’re just going to go one mile today.”

One mile. OK. I can do that, I thought.

I wore basketball shorts, a cotton t-shirt and athletic shoes. They weren’t running shoes – just basic trainers. And they were a size and a half too big because maybe I was still growing, my mother said. It turns out, I wasn’t. My feet never got bigger and I never grew any taller after the beginning of that summer. That summer was the onset of what I would be for the rest of my life – the start of me growing into myself.

Maggie, Coach Hento and I waited for the other groups of runners to leave before we headed out on our one-mile run. Coach told us that we would go slow and that the key to training for and running long distances is pacing. I let Maggie and Coach take the lead as we left the parking lot. We headed west on 19th Street toward Bell. I was quiet.

“Keep your breathing calm,” Coach instructed. “You should be able to talk while you run at training pace.”

A mile felt like a long way. The idea of a mile felt even longer. In Fremont you can get from one end of town to the other in under three miles. Up to this point, all of my conscious life had been spent in this place – this flat and quiet place. Perspective has taught me that Fremont is small and flat and quiet. But back then, to me it was real and the measure of all that was important and normative.

I don’t remember all the details of that morning, but if it was like most summer mornings in Fremont, it was cool and damp. If the wind was blowing in the right direction, the smell of freshly slaughtered pigs was drifting north from the Hormel plant south of the tracks. There probably wasn’t much traffic and there’s a good chance I saw a few people I knew during that one-mile run. It would have all been familiar, even if the running a mile part was not.

As we headed back toward the high school on 16th street, just as we were passing by the CMA Church, Coach turned back to me.

“Don’t let your feet hit the ground so loudly. Your foot strike should be soft,” she instructed. “And drop your arms. Don’t carry them so high.”

I felt embarrassed and a bit discouraged at her instructions. For the remainder of the run I focused all my energy on quiet feet and low arms. I had so much to learn.

Unlike all of my running endeavors up to that point, this training run did not end in a sprint to the finish. There were no winners and losers that day – just an easy, abrupt stop and encouragement and affirmation all around. I liked that.

Coach Hento and I were the last people at practice that day. We sat on a concrete bench outside of the East Gym of the high school and waited for my mom. Coach asked me what I thought of my first day of cross country practice. Did I enjoy it?

“Yeah, I did,” I replied. “But I don’t know if long-distance running is for me. I don’t know if I can do this, or if I’ll be any good at it.”

I was being honest. I didn’t see myself as a long distance runner. There was a real sense of accomplishment in having run one mile, but thought of doing many more in succession was daunting.

“I think you’ll be OK,” Coach told me. “Just stick with it.”

And I did – obviously. Quitting was a sin in my house, after all. I came back the next morning and the one after that, and again the next week. My arms started swinging lower without me thinking about them. I got real running shoes and my feet stopped striking the pavement so forcefully. I heeded Coach Hento’s advice and by the end of the summer my longest run was a 5-miler. Five miles is basically a marathon when it means that you reach every edge and cross all the major streets of your hometown.

By the end of the summer I was addicted to that unique sense of accomplishment running imparts – that very personal, quiet strength and self-gratification that bubbles up when you’ve done something powerful and beautiful and hard.

17 years later, I’ve learned that that sense of accomplishment never goes away if you’re kind enough to yourself to acknowledge it.

That summer was the beginning and end of a lot of things for me. My feet stopped getting bigger and I started growing out some but not all of my bangs. The following summer I would grow out the rest of them and start buying smaller shoes.

That summer I started gaining perspective on myself and my home. I started growing into and out of my life. I started figuring out the parts of me that are essential, and the things I’m better for leaving behind.

That summer I found my passion and my tribe.

The first time I ran a mile didn’t change my life. But now, with a little more time, mileage and perspective – I can say that it probably did.

What I do when I don’t run

February 25, 2016 by Lisa 1 Comment

I’m in the midst of a two-week break from running.

After back-to-back marathon cycles my body needed rest and my mind wanted a hiatus. This break has been good.

Current mood:

This is me, not running. I'm watching KUWTK, playing solitaire, staying hydrated, not reading Infinite Jest, wearing a Korean sheet mask (they deserve a post unto themselves) and scowling at my husband for taking this picture.

This is me, not running. I’m watching KUWTK, playing solitaire, staying hydrated, not reading the copy of Infinite Jest on my nightstand, wearing a Korean sheet mask (they deserve a post unto themselves, btw) and scowling at my husband for taking this picture.

If I’m being honest, my entire life is constructed around running. What I eat, how much I sleep, when I travel – nearly everything about how I live is at some level, done with running in mind.

What will make me feel good and strong? What will give me energy and fuel me well? These are the questions that drive my day-to-day existence.

Most of the time, living my life in this way doesn’t feel burdensome or frustrating. I’ve run nearly every day since I was 12 and have gotten used to the routine. I’ve also come to view my running lifestyle as a path to self-awareness and self-care. I’m kinder and more attentive to myself when I’m asking the questions above. I’m at my best when I am running.

But, all of that doesn’t mean I dread breaks from running. Pauses in my training are like a vacation, a hall pass or a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. They afford me the opportunity to be lazy and glutenous. They change up my routine in a wonderful way. Breaks from running give my body and mind a chance to rest and heal and re-calibrate.

For the past 12 days I have slept an extra two and half hours each night, set personal records in time spent watching television and consumed a hearty amount of alcohol. I’ve skipped the gym after work to catch dinner with friends, and let myself fall down every internet rabbit hole I’ve stumbled across. Not running is great.

Breaks from running haven’t always come easy. Like most competitive female distance runners, at my worst I’m neurotic and obsessive. Running can be my drug – a way to shut myself off from the more difficult and unwanted parts of myself and my life. A break from running can mean anxiety. It can mean a breakdown in my defenses against issues I’m literally running away from. But now in healthier times, I can embrace a pause in training as a way to appreciate this hobby for what it can be at its best – a source a joy, relationships and confidence.

The Olympic Trials left me hungry and inspired – eager to be fast and strong and competitive. As much as I’m loving this hiatus, I’m looking forward to resuming the routine of my running-centric life. I think I still have a lot of fast times left in my legs and a lot of miles yet to run. Plus, I miss my Twin Cities Track Club teammates and the feeling of my body being a well-oiled machine.

It’s creepy face masks and wasted time for a few more days – then its back to the life I love and the routine in which I thrive.

The Olympic Trials: Race recap

February 17, 2016 by Lisa 1 Comment

On Saturday I ran the Olympic Marathon Trials.

The stakes were higher and the stage was grander, but Saturday’s race was still a marathon. It required the detail and shrewdness of execution that any marathon does. Like every 26.2 mile effort, it demanded all of my emotional and physical strength.

The uniqueness of this race, for me, lied in it’s openness. For the past two and a half years I have chased down the Olympic Trials Qualifying Standard, running marathon after marathon with a concrete, clear goal in mind. My success and failure were simply judged by whether I ran under 2:43. But now I reached my goal. Getting to the starting line of this race was the object of all of my work – thousands of miles, early morning workouts and considerable sacrifice.

As mentioned in my last post, my preparation for the Trials was a bit unconventional. The length, conditions and intensity of my training were modified and as a consequence, I didn’t have a thorough read on my fitness. I trusted that I was in some sort of shape to run well, but I was reluctant to set a specific time goal.

So instead of time, my goals for this race revolved around my attitude and experience of the event. Sure, I wanted to run well. But this was the first marathon in a very long time that I had the opportunity to run without a time goal hanging over my head, without the fear of falling short or not being enough. Saturday’s race presented me with the freedom to focus on the quality of my race – not just it’s quantity – i.e. time.

Prior to the race I established these goals:

I wanted to soak up the experience. This was rare, fantastic opportunity. I wanted to notice and appreciate this chance that I had to compete in the Olympic Trials – the pinnacle of my beloved sport. I wanted to enjoy the festivities and the many family and friends who traveled to L.A. to watch me compete. I wanted to be present and grateful.

I wanted to be positive and proud. I’m a competitor and achiever to my bones –Enneagram Type Three, anyone? When I’m not winning or competing at my best, it’s easy for me to feel inadequate and defeated. I’m my own harshest critic and a cruel and persistent judge of my performance. On Saturday, when I was sized up against the best runners in the nation, it would have been easy for me to feel “less than”. And so, I resolved to be proud of myself and run with joy, knowing that I earned my place on that starting line. As with all things in life, I had the opportunity to choose how I interpreted and responded to the outcome of this race. I wanted to choose to make sense of it with honesty and positivity.

I wanted to be inspired. This past weekend in L.A. was a reunion of the biggest names, and a display of the greatest talent in the elite distance running world. It’s a small world, but an foundational one to those of us who love this sport. I resolved to notice and appreciate the strength, camaraderie and beauty that running produces. I wanted to fall in love with this sport all over again, and be inspired by the talent and dedication of my fellow athletes.

These goals were intangible, but substantive. Their achievement would require presence and focus – not merely sheer physical strength.

The day before the race, my dear friend Jenny gave me a “good luck” card. It was thoughtful and encouraging and contained the following phrases that perfectly summed up my goals for the race:

Be present, here and now. Be strong and proud.

These words became my mantra throughout Saturday’s hot, shade-less, 26.2 mile battle.

The entire weekend was filled with nervous, electric energy. From the uniform check and the special fluids drop-off to the technical meeting and shakeout runs, the atmosphere was celebratory yet focused. Everyone seemed grateful and excited to be there, but subdued and acutely aware of the task that lay ahead.

I was reunited with friends, former teammates and familiar faces from the running community. More than 20 family and friends traveled to L.A. to watch the Trials and cheer me on. Their presence and encouragement kept me calm and positively distracted in the days and hours leading up to the race.

I shared elevators with Galen Rupp and Alberto Salazar, Deena Kastor and Shalane Flanagan. I passed Kara Goucher and Meb Keflezighi on Friday’s shakeout run. These names probably don’t mean anything to most of you, but suffice it to say, I was in running nerd heaven. I was inspired.

The Olympic Trials course was unique and presented some interesting challenges. It was a criterium-style course that consisted of an initial 2.2-mile loop followed by a 6-mile loop that was run four times. You’ll see from the map below that much of the 6-mile loop was run on a single road. The course was contained entirely within downtown Los Angeles, and for spectators, it was a dream.

The sun was high and strong on Saturday when my friend Michelle and I made our way out of the start/finish staging area and onto the course to begin our warm-up. We tried not to notice the heat. But, after a 10 minute jog we returned to staging area and admitted to one another through nervous laughs that it was “so f-ing hot.”

America the Beautiful was sung. The Star Spangled Banner was played.

On the starting line, I resolved to stay calm and savor the large, energetic crowd and festive atmosphere. I poured water down my back to stay cool and shifted my weight from one foot to the other – a nervous tick. Be present, here and now.

From the gun, my legs felt a bit heavy and less lively than I would like. I ran in a large pack of runners, up and around the first 2.2 mile loop. I chose to remain non-judgmental and composed about how I was feeling. I ignored the idea that this race wouldn’t unfold well. Breathe in. Breathe out. Be strong.

Each time we finished a loop of the course we passed back through the start/finish area. It was loud and crowded with spectators. Music blared and an announcer read our names as we ran by. I used this energy and the slight downhill going into and coming out of the start/finish line area, to gain momentum. I reminded myself at the end and beginning of every loop that I had earned my spot in this race, and that I should enjoy it. Be proud.

My main cheering section of 14 family and friends were positioned on Figueroa Street, south of the start/finish area. I passed them twice during each of the four, six-mile loops and came to savor their encouragement and loud cheers. During the first few loops I smiled at and acknowledged familiar faces along the course. On my second 6-mile loop I took a small tangent to the side of the road to high-five my cheering squad. Soak up the experience.

Every three miles we passed a fluid station that contained our personal bottles. With men’s tables on the left side of the road and women’s on the right, I knew which of the numbered tables my bottle would be on. At each station I would grab my electrolyte-filled bottle, transfer it to my left hand, proceed to the “neutral fluids” – i.e. water – table, grab a 16oz bottle of Dasani, open it and pour it on my head to gain some sense of reprieve from the sweltering sun. For the next 400 to 800m I would drink as much of the liquid in my personal fluid bottle as I could. By the second water stop, all the fluids on the course were warm and far from refreshing. Stay calm. Relax. Push forward.

Ideal temperatures in which to run a marathon are 40 or 50 degrees. Saturday’s race pushed into the 80’s. The course – apart from a few small sections on the USC campus – was completely without shade. At the end of the first 6-mile loop I saw my first competitor drop out of the race. From then on, I watched people struggle, collapse, drop out of the race and stop, defeated and crying. The heat was brutal, dangerous and unforgiving.

Be present, here and now. Be strong and proud. – This was my mantra, my running mediation. I rode the waves of pain, tried to remain patient through the more difficult miles, and calmed and regulated my breathing over and over and over again. This race was for me, an exercise in presence, awareness and mental fortitude. I resolved to finish – and to do so with pride and strength.

As monotonous as the Olympic Marathon Trials course was, its many loops helped me visual and break down the race in my mind. I was always aware of where I was on the course and how far I had to go. I knew when I would encounter the next water stop and where I needed to take my next energy gel.

As I finished my 3rd 6-mile loop and prepared to head back out on to Figueroa for the final time, I faced a moment of fear and weariness. I was thirsty and tired. My legs were on the verge of cramping and my stomach wanted so badly to reject its glucose-laden contents. I doubted if it was worth it. This last six miles was going to suck.

I let the achiever in me feel shame at my slowing pace. In one giant, destructive thought I simultaneously felt sorry for myself and criticized myself.

I passed through the start/finish area for the fourth time and almost as if my body was ignoring my mind’s weak and self-pitying protests, I strode out back on to the course – and into the most grueling 6 miles of my life.

It was a sad, slow 6 miles, but 6 miles that affirmed the validity of my pre-race goals. Being present and aware is no small task when your body is shutting down and your mind wants to focus on anything but the pain. Being strong and proud feels like a joke when you are creeping along through a sparsely-populated course, covered in water, salty sweat and Gatorade.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointing by the time I saw on the clock when I crossed the finish line. It was slow – slower than I’ve ever run for a marathon. Then again, most everyone ran slow that day – about 10-15 off their goal. I finished, and that was something.

With a medal around my neck and a bag of ice on my head, I found my fan club. They were so happy and proud. I felt loved. When I retrieved my phone and saw the support that had been pouring in from across the country on social media, I felt so affirmed.

I’ve noticed – in the hours and days that have followed – that the task of fulfilling the goals I established for this race continues.

Remembering and interpreting the events of this past weekend requires less struggle and suffering than the race itself – for sure – but it requires work all the same. It requires awareness – and a choice to be proud of my performance and to acknowledge my strength in finishing.

I’ve come to believe that one of the most important and difficult challenges of life is choosing how we interpret meaning from experience.

Actively and constructively deciding to see and understand life – its events, relationships and people – in a productive and non self-centered manner is hard. Choosing to see things in a way that supports relationships, growth, truth and the value of all people is far from our default mode of operation. But it is a choice that makes us better, more human and more connected to one another.

When I reflect upon my Olympic Trials experience, my default mode is one of self-pity and shame. I wanted to run faster and place higher. On the biggest running stage, I didn’t shine. The critical, competitor in me doesn’t want to feel happy about my performance.

But, in my better, more conscious moments, I can view this past weekend through the lens of my initial goals for the race. And I can practice those very goals. With awareness, I can see that in an intangible but very real way, I succeeded. I was strong and proud and I was able to savor the experience. I was given a fantastic opportunity and supported, celebrated and loved through it – far beyond what I deserve.

And so, I’m carrying the mantra of Saturday’s race with me. Beyond a sloppy, excruciatingly hot and never-ending race, it seems like it could be relevant and helpful to most things.

Be present, here and now. Be strong and proud.

The Olympic Trials: How I’ve prepared

February 8, 2016 by Lisa 2 Comments

The U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials are less than a week away. It’s officially taper time. The miles have been run, the workouts completed. All I can do now is get myself to the starting line healthy, trust that the “hay is in the barn” and hope the marathon gods look favorably upon me.

My training cycle leading up to the Trials has been a bit unconventional. For reasons you may recall, my build-up for this race was shortened – reduced to eight weeks from my usual twelve week marathon cycle. Most elite marathoners race one or two marathons per year, spacing out these colossal, body-wrecking efforts to prevent injury and fatigue. I ran a marathon nine weeks ago.

After running California International Marathon in early December, I took a full week off of running. When I started back up, my legs were jello-y and dumb. It’s funny – and frustrating – how a marathon effort and some extended rest can leave you feeling like you’ve never run before. But after a couple weeks of consistent mileage and a few light workouts, my legs started to gain life and I acquired some confidence, and hope.

My coach and I agreed that I needed to be cautious. Injury is a sure outcome of doing too much too soon. My emotional brain was saying, OMG YOU ARE RUNNING THE OLYMPIC TRIALS IN 6 WEEKS. DO ALL THE MILEAGE!!! But my more rational mind knew I should be kind to my body and trust that its large stockpile of mileage from the past few years would carry me through, and get me to where I wanted to be.

Most weeks I ran 70-80 miles. In a “typical” marathon buildup I run 80-90 miles per week. Most weeks I did two workouts and a long run. I lifted weights once a week and did core and glute exercises 2-3 times per week. I got a few massages, saw my chiropractor and spent lots of time watching Netflix – i.e. “resting.”

The challenges and hiccups of this training cycle were many. To begin, there was the weather:

The average temperature in Minneapolis – where I did all of my training – during my 8 week build-up for the Trials, was 20°. The highest temperature was 43° and the lowest was -15°. With the company of some wonderful Twin Cities Track Club teammates, a few breakdowns, and some self-love, I was able to face these frigid conditions without too much struggle – at least not as much as I’ve encountered in my previous Minnesota winter running attempts. In the end, the goal – the Olympic Trials – was a powerful motivator and perspective-shaper.

Because of the cold, snow and ice, a majority of my workouts were run on the dreadmill. No, I spelled that correctly. It’s the dreadmill:

Anyone who has spent time running on a treadmill knows that its successful use is a matter of the mind. Keeping yourself calm and occupied are most of the battle. I developed a little routine during my treadmill workouts this cycle: Keeping Up with the Kardashians during the warm-up, cool-down and easy miles, and Taylor Swift’s 1989 during the fast, up-tempo parts. Whatever it takes – that’s what I told myself.

Well, it took trashy television and delicious pop music. No shame or regrets. I got it done.

The Olympic Trials build-up was also complicated by a bronchial infection. My sad asthmatic lungs put up very little fight against this cold’s mucus and inflammation. After a trip to the doctor, some drugs, a lot of hacking, a few very uncomfortable runs and about a week, I was – for the most part – good as new.

There was also a small injury scare. During an icy Monday evening run with my husband and our friend Jeff, I felt a small twinge in my right calf. It wasn’t anything big and it didn’t hamper my stride – just a small twitch that dissipated after a few seconds. It happened 3-4 times throughout the run. When I got home my calf felt tight. I rolled it out, stretched it and iced it. Then, I freaked out. I’M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO RUN THE OLYMPIC TRIALS!!!

Was I being rational? No. But at that moment, the weight of all the possibilities of how bad it could be, was just too much. In the end, I took a day off of running, did a pool workout, saw my chiropractor/ART (Active Release Technique) practitioner and was back to training within a couple days. Maybe I overreacted, but it was better to be cautious than risk real injury. That’s what I told myself, at least.

For all of the frustrations, complications and freak-outs there were plenty of good, self-gratifying moments throughout this training cycle. I had friends to run with almost every day – friends that met me in the early, dark hours of the morning and gave me understanding, hope and joy. I had an encouraging coach, a supportive husband and lots of family and friends cheering me on.

The significance of this opportunity that I have to run The Olympic Trials is not lost on me. It was a struggle to get all the training and work in, but I know that it’s a struggle many others would gladly undertake for a chance to be on that starting line on Saturday. In the end, I’m grateful for the struggle. It was and will be worth it.

This cycle taught me to trust my training, be patient, roll with the punches and stay calm. I don’t have a good, comprehensive read on my current fitness and there have been hiccups, but all I can do on Saturday is run and try and savor the opportunity. I’ll aim to run smart and hard, and with joy and some gratitude.

February 1st

February 1, 2016 by Lisa 2 Comments

When my alarm went off this morning I was angry.

I was angry because I didn’t get enough sleep and I was staring down another cold run on icy, snowy paths. I was angry because it is February 1st and realistically, there is so much winter left to face – so many cold, snowy days yet to endure.

I lie awake in bed for ten minutes – trying to calm myself down and pump myself to face the day – before throwing back the covers and stumbling to the restroom. I make coffee and get dressed for my run – long socks and spandex shorts, sports bra, running tights, spandex long-sleeve top, half zip and a jacket – too much clothing. My sleepy fingers struggle to pull on all the layers of stretchy, tight material.

I’ve learned to give myself an extra ten minutes before heading out for my morning run. Ten minutes to drink coffee, scroll through social media, enjoy the stillness of my apartment and the relative calm of the city outside. I send off a snarky tweet about the Iowa Caucuses, channeling my anger into public displays of sarcasm.

Just before walking out the door I grab the apartment key, put on my watch, a headband, a hat and gloves, and locate a small canister of mace (a story for another day). I lock the door behind me. Descending the five flights of stairs to the street, I notice that I’m still angry.

I’m so tired of dark runs. My body is tired and I’m running a marathon in less than two weeks. Last week’s training wasn’t awesome and I can feel winter’s depressive venom slowly seeping in to my mind.

I tell myself, Just a mile and a half. That’s it. Run mile and a half and then you’ll meet Christine.

My legs begin moving at the high-pitched *buhhdoop* sound of my watch starting. It’s a Pavlovian response, really. The watch starts and so do I.

The sidewalks and paths are unpredictably icy due to the recent daily cycle of thaw and freeze. I take short, cautious steps. Down the street, over the bridge, up the hill, down the hill, under the freeway and there’s Christine.

Our greeting is a weary, “hey.” It’s pregnant with mutual empathy, frustration and camaraderie. Another day, another Monday, another winter run. I feel understood. We talk about the weather, our weekends, my recent crappy workout and then a mile later, there’s Carrie.

Out and around the lake and back toward downtown. It’s dark this morning. Christine uses her phone as a flashlight, illuminating our next steps as we navigate the path’s icy patches. We talk about engineering exams and education and writing. Six miles in we stop. Carrie finishes her story about a recent doctor’s visit and we say goodbye to Christine.

Carrie and I turn back toward the lakes. It’s getting lighter as the sun rises behind us. We talk about training and our upcoming races. A mile and a half later I’m two and half miles from my apartment, and it’s time for me to turn around. Before parting ways, I admit to Carrie that I am tired and my mind feels fragile. I’m worried about the Olympic Trials and *sigh* winter is never going to end.

The sky is softly pink at the horizon. The muffled sun is coming up over the frozen lake, through the silhouettes of leafless trees.

Carrie gives me a hug and tells me it’s going to be OK. Her embrace is an odd reminder that I’ve been running with and talking to real, physical beings. On these light-less runs you interact only with a voice and the sound of footsteps. Her touch gives me energy. It gives me hope.

We wish each other “Happy Monday!” as we run off in opposite directions.

My legs feel pretty good. I take note and use this fact as assurance. You’re going to be OK.

It’s a damp morning and as the world around me lightens, I see that the trees and prairie grass lining the path are covered in a delicate layer of frost. It’s beautiful and enchanting. It brings me joy.

For the last two miles of my run I have understanding and hope and joy. That’s quite a bit.

I run up the hill, down the hill, over the bridge, through the park and climb back up the five flights of stairs to home – to begin my day.

For today, understanding, hope and joy are enough. Tomorrow, I don’t know. But today, these are sufficient.

The Olympic Trials

January 20, 2016 by Lisa 1 Comment

On February 13th I’m going to run a marathon.

In my little world of competitive, elite distance running, this marathon is more than a race. This race is more than a marathon. Getting to the starting line is an end in and of itself. For those who get to run it, this race is a culmination of dreams, and a validation of time well spent and efforts rightly directed. For those who try and fall short of qualifying, this race can call in to question fundamental identities and worthiness.

So this is how it works.

Every four years, leading up to the Summer Olympic Games, USATF – the national governing body for track & field, long-distance running and race walking in the United States – establishes qualifying standards for competition in the US Olympic Marathon Trials. For the 2016 Olympic Games in Rio, the qualifying standards look like this:

You can qualify in both the marathon and half marathon, and with either an “A” or a “B” standard.

I qualified with the “B” standard. To be more precise, I qualified with the adjusted “B” standard. Before December 11, 2015 the “B” standard for women in the marathon was 2:43. Due to changes that IAAF – the international governing body of track & field – made to the Olympic Games entry standards, USATF adjusted their “B” standard for the Olympic Trials marathon. These changes came five (FIVE) days after I made my last and unsuccessful attempt at qualifying for the 2016 Olympic Trials. My best marathon time during the Olympic Trials qualifying window was 2:43.38. Not good enough . . . until it was.

Coming to terms with the reality that I had fallen short of my goal of the past four years, only to later learn that I was in fact, “good enough” to be on the starting line of the Olympic Trials, brought into stark relief the fickleness and complexity of this, my chosen and beloved pursuit. That acute oscillation between loss, doubt and sadness – and joy, affirmation and hope, made it all seem more fragile and silly and valuable.

That’s me on the far left, at the start of the 2012 Olympic Marathon Trials in Houston, Texas. I’m somewhat – no, very – embarrassed that I ended up at the front of this starting line. I was nervous. I was naive. I finished way behind all the women standing around me.

Running is, and means more to me than I can adequately express here in this post. I started running competitively at the age of 12 and from the very beginning the routine, demands and joys of this sport became deeply entwined with my sense of self and understanding of the world. Running has given me identity and purpose. It’s been the source of some of my most personal joys and jagged failures. Many of my best and enduring friendships have come as a result of running.

I can’t really convey what running, and more specifically, competing in the Olympic Trials means to me. It’s too fundamental and raw and precious. There will be time and more space in the future to offer glimpses and give you insights into my running life. For now, I’ll just say that running is an important part of who I am, and I’m excited to race on February 13th.

Despite what many well-meaning coworkers and strangers have argued, I’m not going to qualify for the Olympics. I’d have to finish among the top three women in the race to do that, and apart from an outbreak of food-borne illness, a natural disaster or a supernatural intervention, that’s just not going to happen. But that’s not really the point. Getting there – and the process of getting there – has been the goal all along.

Me, running in the 2012 Olympic Trials.

Lisa Baumert

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