Catt Scratches

My second marathon goes off in 14 days, less really, if you go by hours. Training for a marathon is an extremely personal business, especially if you do it alone, like I do. That is, I run alone but I train with Edith, who inspires and directs me through it all. She wouldn’t want me to say, I couldn’t do it without her, I could but I might not. 

I started training for this run in February. After the last one, my knees were pretty well blasted. It took a number of healthy massages and exercises to get them back. I did two 10Ks in in March and started back running three to four times a week. In May, I went back to Bar Harbor for a week and did a few ten mile runs along the marathon route. 

But the summer training was plagued with mishaps and missteps. It was brutally hot in Chicago all summer and I am constitutionally unable to get up at 5AM to run. I had to run on an indoor track often and my upper limit for running around and around in an LA Fitness facility is sixty laps. I had two stomach mishaps and two miserable colds which took two and a half weeks out of my routine. I had a trip down south where the running was brutally hot too. 

But otherwise, i’ve been great physically. Edith has shown me how to get strong and how to get faster. I’ve been doing progressive sprints and I have actually run at the speed of 11.5 miles per hour for 20 seconds. Eleven point fucking five! To me, that’s like flying. I felt like I was liquid when I was doing that speed. 

But my speed isn’t what it should be. It took me 4 hours to do 16 miles today on my last long run until the marathon, hereafter called, just the “race.” My heart’s desire is to do the next one in 4 and a half hours. Clearly, that is not what the odds tell us what my likely final time will be but I refuse to say that it’s impossible. I have learned that Impossibility is just an opinion. 

More tomorrow. 

I entered the  2011 Mount Desert Island marathon for a number of reasons. I thought I was ready to run one and I had been coming to Maine about twice a year for five years. I knew the Mount Desert Island marathon was the most geographically challenging marathon in the country: a big hill at the beginning, about ten smaller hills up and down in the middle and a big one at the end. All along the spectacular coast of Maine. I believed that if I ran this race, I would become a part of the Maine downeast coast that I loved, much as I am part of the streets of Chicago and Long Island.  I brought my daughter Gina with me for moral and strategic support.

The day before the Marathon I had  a hollow feeling in my stomach, like there was something out there that was going to eat me. And for the last few days, I kept catching my breath. I was a being of pure apprehension and anticipation, living in a future of dread. I was able to get back to the moment and enjoy the present from time to time. But still, my eyes were focused on the door, waiting for what came next.  The night before, I kept writing in my journal: I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

I woke up that day to do a pre-marathon breakfast run which I needed. I wasn’t used to the air, and I wasn’t used to the cold and I hadn’t run for at least a week. It was a rest week on my training schedule. My last run was a two miler through the woods. It was a good thing to do because it reminded me why I liked to run. It is my dance to honor the world.

Breakfast was a great carbo cholesterol feast: scrambled eggs, pancakes, french toast, sausage, oatmeal, fruit, bagels, muffins, danish, croissants.  I sat at a table with a woman named Maggie from Maryland. She was a walker. She had walked marathons in the past but was now back on track after changing her life around. She had two major surgeries, front and back and then gained weight that she didn’t want. She sold her car, walked every day to work, and lost the weight and was here to walk the 26.2. She was really sweet, kind of shy but friendly and open with very alive eyes. We were joined by three women from Kentucky who were walking a relay. They were all cool and they talked the way polite Southern ladies talked sounding vaguely like late nineteenth century novels with a hint of amusement and seduction in their voices. Contemporaneously, three men, also Southerners, joined us. They weren’t connected before today; they were Virginians, two brothers, one in his seventies the other in his sixties and the third man was probably in his late sixties. He looked like Jimmy Carter if you stretched him out to 6’5″ without adding a pound. He had run Ninety Four marathons in his life. Ninety Bleeping Four marathons. Fifteen minutes after that fact was disclosed, one of the Southern women said, “I’m still trying to wrap my head around Ninety Four marathons. How did you do that?” He said, “I don’t know. About two or three a year. ” Sure, it’s easy. Just do the math,  I thought.

The younger of the brothers said that he would like to say that he was a marathoner but he had quit at 18 miles the time he ran one. His older brother was walking. They kept talking about the Wake Forest foot ball game they were missing to be here, proud of the fact that they were foregoing something dear to their hearts for the run.

So the runners expo opened, and I looked around for stuff to buy, runners gloves, a hat maybe, and something for my knees. I wound up buying some gloves, two knee bands, a 26.2 magnet for my car, an orange colored running jacket to go with my Miami Dolphin running colors. I put a silent auction bid on a banner which showed animals running the marathon. The birds were winning, followed by rabbits, foxes and lastly, a moose. (I won the bid, if you want to know)

I ran back and encountered Maggie again and we chatted as we came back into town. I told her that she would probably pass me walking and she laughed. We parted and I calledmy daughter Gina and picked her up a cup of coffee.  I was really proud that she had come with me to watch me run. I love Maine and this was my first opportunity to show it to her. We went to Brewer to get cash from the closest Bank of America. We went to Bangor to goof around,. We found the most expensive hippest place to have lunch in Bangor. It was called Giacomo’s and it had a good location, great soup, reasonably good coffee and outrageous prices. Or maybe we were just making stupid purchases. We walked around and shopped and took pictures. We found a cool comic book store. 

At night, we went to a pre-race pasta dinner at the high school. The food was way below ordinary. The pasta was barely edible and for dessert they had brownies made of cotton. We went back to my room. I was really nervous. I put together every thing I needed for the run. Picked out my clothes, put my racing bib on, packed my dry clothes for after the race. I re-read the instructions. We had to drop our dry clothes off at the bus by 7:25 and be at the starting line by 7:35. I remember how much I fretted about the No Ipods rule until I found out that they didn’t enforce it. I got my Ipod, armband and ear phones set up.

Here is what I actually wrote in my handwritten journal on Saturday night:

“Yes. I cannont deny that I am nervous and scared. What makes me nervous and scared is the funky pain in my right knee. I can’t understand why it moved from my left knee. I don’t want pain to keep me from finishing.

” I can do this. I can do it. I’m strong. I worked at it. I trained for it. I’m a fighter., a warrior goddess amazon. I’m limitless. I’m loved. I can do it. I will do it. ”

I slept well. I fell asleep easily. I woke up a couple of times but I fell back to sleep without trauma. When the alarm went off at 6:25, I got out of bed and just kept moving. Grapefruit juice, vitamins, banana and yogurt. And anticipatory ibuprofen. I cleaned up. Put on a little bit of makeup so my eyes had some definition. I put my orange Met tank top on under my teal top. My shorts were teal with Orange trim. Dolphin colors. I like the Dolphins because of their colors. I knew it was a little chilly so I put my tights on under the shorts. My white asics with pink stripes because they were a scotche looser that my blue striped asics.

I didn’t realize how many runners there were staying at the hotel. There were two guys on the stairs and a woman by the door. Chris, the hotel owner, wished me luck. I went back to Gina’s room to wake her up and give her the car keys. She looked so sleepy and reluctant to wake up. She asked if I really wanted her to watch me start the race and to take pictures. I didn’t have the heart to force her to wake up so I let her off the hook and said, no, go back to sleep. Just make sure you pick me up at the end.

I went out towards the starting line. it was chilly and grey and moist. Mount Desert Avenue was busy and full of people.  I made my way towards the starting line. I found a place to stretch. I was looking at people but not really seeing them, I was seeing parts of them in bits and pieces. It started to rain, fine, shifty little raindrops, just thick enough to be annoying. I started to feel alone and resentful about Gina not showing up. I thought she should want to be here to see me off. I shouldn’t have to beg her to wake up and be present for me. I moved under an awning out of the rain. took off my orange racing jacket and put my teal shirt on over it. I looked like one of the members of the Legion of Super-Heroes, Colossal Girl, I think. I started to set my mind and get positive when Gina found me. I warmed up instantly. I was proud that she figured out how much it meant for me for her to be there. We hugged and she took some pictures. We both noted that we were seeing the most shapely, muscular calves we had ever seen in our lives.

Gary, the RaceMaster, was calling out every few minutes in a very Woodstock kind of voice what a great day it was and what great humans we were for running, this, the greatest of all marathons. He announced that there were a few people who had run in all ten marathons up to today and as a reward, they were going to get lifetime entrance fees comped. At about ten to eight, he introduced the guest speaker from the pasta dinner to say a very few words, which were:
“Pay no attention to the imaginary rain.” Then he introduced a fine young animal of a man who had run a marathon in Hartford the day before. He had historically run a subfour minute mile.

A single horn played the National Anthem. A few people sang the words silently, a few people including me hummed the tune aloud. It sounded eerie and reverent. I got emotional about the Star Spangled Banner for the first time, maybe because it was honoring me as an athlete. It made me think, what an incredible country! What a beautiful state and what strong, stubborn and adventurous people we were to run 26.2 miles through a hilly terrain on a cold wet day just because it was a challenge. Awesome. There were about 1200 people running and walking the marathon.

I had this image of being in the control tower of my body which was a robot. I was directing the robot to move. I didn’t actually hear the cannon shot that started the race but everybody started moving and I moved along with the crowd in the middle of the street.

In the first mile, I trotted slowly and regulated my breathing. It was hard to get started. I felt a bit jumbled; stunned that I was doing it and that the day was here. Everybody passed me. Everybody as I have learned, is faster than me. As one guy passed me, he said, “Dolphin colors! I’m from Miami!” I told him I was wearing dolphin colors because I was mad at the Mets. I’m not really. I just borrowed the anger of my friend Angel a co-owner of my favorite coffee shop in Bar Harbor.

People lined the streets cheering. I confess to having the cynical thought, yeah you’re just glad that the Marathon extends the tourist season into October. I’m not really that jaded, I just like to pretend that I am. As we finished the first half mile, I noticed a woman holding up a sign that said “YOU CAN’T FIX DEAD!” Wow, I thought. A sobering sentiment.

When I say everyone passed me, I mean that. EVERYone passed me. An old man while passing me said I was “looking good.” I said I was right where I wanted to be, heading for last place, he said, “No, you’ll pass me. I’m 78 years old.” I yelled “So you don’t get smarter when you get older!” He said, “I been gettin’ dumber!” and moved on.

The first couple or three miles passed quietly. It is a spectacularly beautiful run and it starts being beautiful right away. The first big landmark is a mountain lake on the right called “The Tarn,” or with local inflection, “The Tahn.” It is supposed to be about 10-15 degrees colder here than on the rest of the run and it was indeed colder. I had a couple of people in front of me and a few in back. We passed the first Gatorade/Water stop and drank deeply. I watched a guy a half mile in front of me go to the side of the road and urinate.

I was keeping a good, steady pace in the first five miles. I felt great. I was pretty well outfitted for the temperature and my own body heat was maintaining. I passed the Otter Creek Market which is the Five Mile mark. There was an old guy with a beard out front and we said hello to each other. About a mile before, I had heard some music, no identifiable song but a good rock beat, a drum and a guitar. It was kind of on a loop, the same pleasant riff played over and over. As I passed the musicians, I laughed and thanked them. I signalled to them with my hands and shouted, “Who nee ds an IPod?” I thought for the first time, hey, I’m running without my Ipod and it is not that bad. I’ll go as long as I can without it and I’ll use it if I get bored or distracted or desperate or suicidal. As it was, I never needed the Ipod. I ran through listening to the beat and music of nature.

At mile 6, I started to feel confident. I said, historically, I’ve done 20 miles, before and I have 20 left. I know I can do 20 more even if Iwalk it.  At mile 7, I started to feel pain especially in the left knee. Which makes sense: that’s my old sciatica side. When I had back surgery, that was the part of my body that hurt the most and the disks that served that leg were decompressed. So I hit the emergency pain reliever: one 50 mg cap of tramadol left over from dental pain. I had three with me, and I thought i’d start with one and increase it if need be. I kept experimenting with the little knee bands I bought as Dumbo feathers at the expo. They did feel better in a sense but by this point, my knees were swollen from running, so they were too tight.

Just after Mile 7 there was a volunteer directing runners to the next leg of the path. She said, like all the volunteers said, “Good Job! You’re doing great!” I said, “Can I help it if I wasn’t born Kenyan?” In Mile 7, the ocean is  on the left. There are boats docked. There are nice houses on the right. The road slopes upward, not always gently. I liked running up hill; down hill was more difficult because gravity kind of pushed me where I didn’t want to be pushed. I’m sure that once I master this sport, I’ll get better running down hill.

At mile 8, there are challenging hills. My knee pain persisted but Isaid to myself in my best Monty Python voice, “F#*% your pain. Keep running.” I dosed again. I didn’t feel like the first tramadol kicked in and I wanted to have two working on me at the same time. Speaking of time, I lost track of it. I knew when an hour had passed, but after that, I just kept track by the sun as I watched it travel west. Oh, wait. I forgot, the sun doesn’t revolve around me. It’s the earth that’s moving.

The miles ticked off. People passed me and honked, shouted encouraging words, gave me a thumbs up. It felt good. But at one point, around mile ten, a big SUV with a family passed by me and an eight or nine year old boy looked at me and yelled, “You’re Poky!” My first instinct was to yell the obscenity about sexual intercourse at the kid. My second instinct was to accuse him of being a female body part used for that procedure. I imagined the parents stopping the giant yuppie mobile and getting out and berating me for cursing at their little imp. I would then direct my anger at the parents for raising a miserable brat who would criticize others engaged in a worthy physical pursuit while he sat on his bony little ass in the back seat of  a gas guzzling monster. Were they actively engaged in oppressing the poor and the working classes? Or were they just tools of the ruling class themselves?

I considered whether physical exertion produced hallucinogens as well as endorphins. Shortly thereafter, I passed the Asticou Inn, one of the legendary inns of the area. People were outside taking down signs in anticipation of the end of the season. An older guy said, “Not much further. You’re about half way there.” I said “Slow and steady wins the race.” This was around Mile 11. I was about to pass the houses of Dick Wolf and Martha Stewart.

The pain persisted. I kept on. I knew that eventually I would have to start walking if I wanted to finish. I was about to take the last of the tramadol figuring that the first two hadn’t made a dent in the leg pain. Both knees were screaming by now. I was praying on and off. I had made a deal with the Almighty that I’d start believing again if he or she or it would get me through this damn race. But when I opened the case with my ibuprofen and the last tram, the pills spilled out and were lost. I wasn’t going to crawl around looking for them so I figured that guts alone got me here, guts would get me to 26.2.

I hit mile 13. Then I hit 13.1. I allowed the feeling of Cautious Optimism to flow through my body. I took a picture of the 13.1 sign with my ChuckBerry and sent it out to a few friends. I was now convinced I was going to make it. I ran. I ran some more.

It was a long time before I saw another runner. I was amazed at myself. I thought about all the doubts I had. I looked at the woods. I looked up in the sky. At one point, I saw a hawk or a falcon, just a beautiful full wing spreaded bird, and felt related to him. Just full out running.

I got to Somes Sound. The only natural fjord in the continental United States of America. I saw the Somes Tree; I greeted it as I went past it. Then I saw the first other runner I had seen for a long time. He was standing at a table where they had been dispensing GU, the wonderful, cake icing like substance that runners squirt or squeeze into their mouths when they need a boost. I said, Oh wow! GU! and grabbed and Espresso flavored package. He said he’d never had it before. He was from Farmington Maine. We chatted about our training for a while and I told him that most of my training had been in flat lined Illinois. He trained in a valley, which was not much better. He had a cramp so he was taking it easy.

I left him so I could run past the next mileage sign.I had developed a pattern by which I would run the beginning of a mile, walk the middle and then run the last third or more. A few miles I ran through or a greater part of the mile. I would make it a point to run up to the mile marker and past it as long as I could go. I pulled up to the next person I could pass. He was a nice guy named Scott from Yonkers, NY. He had run five marathons before today, one of them was Utah. He also ran Chicago.  We talked for a while about cities. We both liked Cleveland and Bruce Springsteen. He said Cleveland had a phenomenal art museum. He had a cramp too, and had decided to walk the rest of the way in. I gave him some salt to help his cramp. He didn’t know that potassium helped.

I saw the 18 mile marker up ahead so I left Scott and passed it. I ran by myself for a long while before passing someone else, a walker. I asked how she was doing and she anwered, “I’m okay. This is hard!” I said, that it’s something we can tell our grandkids . As the day wore on, the quality of my one liners deteriorated.  I was kind of on a roll at that point so I just kept running.

Next I came across a woman, a walker who said she was feeling emotional. I said, I wasn’t allowing myself to feel anything yet. Truth be told, I just didn’t want to know about anybody else’s emotions.  I blew through mile 19 and then 20. Just before the mile marker for 20 is a vicious hill which is as close to straight up as I had ever seen. Earlier, I had told someone I was going to walk up this hill but now, I forced myself to run it. I had run as far as the first 20 before but the next 3 miles were unknown to me. I passed them with two other runners: a woman from Atlanta and another woman with whom I didn’t exchange bona fides. We just talked about getting through.

During the remaining miles, runners who were driving back after finishing were passing me, honking me, giving the thumbs up, yelling “Good Job!” I kept on responding with a smile or a thumbs up gesture. I had a couple of texts from my trainer. Gina drove by on the way to the finish line to pick me up. She yelled out, “Run that shit!”

I had run this stretch before, the last miles from 23 to 26.2. It went up sharply and then down gently the last mile and a half. As I approached the finish line, I could swear I heard my name being called out. It turned out that Gina had gotten there and they had asked her if she was waiting for me and what my name was. So the volunteers and officials at the finish line started yelling, “Come on Jill!” “You Can do It!” “Good Job!” and such. It was thrilling and mildly amusing. Gina was there at the last 100 feet and I tried to hug her but she said, “don’t stop! You might fall down!” They directed me down the middle of the street. I crossed the finish line at 7 hours 36 minutes and  24 seconds. Not a world record of any kind and a lot of walkers beat me. but I crossed. I was the 892nd person to cross. Ultimately, there were 924 finishers.

I got a medal and a shiny blanket. I was in shock. I was so exhilarated.  I made it. I made it. I made it. That phrase kept looping through my mind. I texted everybody and took some photos of me in my Met tank top and finisher’s medals. I looked for food. I realized I was starving. The free food station had already shut down but I got the food purveyors to dig out something for me. I got an Italian sausage, some pulled pork without barbecue sauce and a frankfurter  that was so red it looked like a dog’s erection. As hungry as I was, I couldn’t eat the frankfurter.

The Racemaster spotted me and said good job. “First time runner, huh?” I said yes. He said, “You know how I know that?” I said no. He said, “You have a green racing bib on!” I said, feeling unaccountably foolish, “I bet I can tell where you got your shoes.” He looked at me and said “Okay. Where?” I said, “You got them on your feet.”

My sense of humor was back. For what that’s worth.

I was going to title this ” Everybody Is Faster Than Me.” But then I realized how irrelevant that is. I ran the race I ran. I ran the only race I could run. Nobody trained like me. Nobody picked this goal but me. It was all me. And I only had to please me.

And it wasn’t just the 26.2 miles today. It was the journey here – the seven hundred or so miles that I ran in the forest preserve and the lake front and down Oak Park Avenue that I ran in training. I sacrificed quite a few weekend morning sleep ins to train. Four nights a week, I came home from working eight hours to put on gym shorts and shoes to squeeze in six or seven miles before dinner. I missed a few 90 minute How I Met Your Mother marathons to prepare for this one. I bored my friends with my tales. I learned about Krill oil and Hylauronic Acid andand GU and putting Glide under my arms,  and  my favorite – the oil of the emu.  How many emus gave up their oil to massage my poor aching knees?

Yes,  it’s all in the journey, but the arriving is important too.  I ran for real, for my real life, the life where I achieve and struggle and grow and create. That’s how to live it. For real.

The secret to running is as follows: Put on your sneakers and run. Keep running. Repeat.  Don’t stop until you’ve finished. There are some variations, and some corollaries but these are just fine points.

I’m training for a marathon and if you had asked me a year ago if I would consider such a thing, I would have said absolutely not. Gradually, with the help of a visionary friend, I have come to realize that I can run a marathon and a month or so ago, I decided I wanted to run a marathon. Not just any marathon, but the marathon that takes place in my spiritual home of Bar Harbor. It’s a little crazy for many reasons, but I have never been accused of being ordinary.

On my last full day in Bar Harbor, I decided to run the last few miles of the course. According to the graph on the marathon web site, it looked like the hardest part of the course. It’s a steady incline until the last mile starts then it goes down. I knew I had to do it before I went back to Chicago, so I couldn’t really delay or procrastinate. I just had to do it that day. The weather was cool but not wet. My mind was clear. I found a place to park off the road near the appropriate mile marker. I got out of the car and stretched. I just turned around and ran.

It might have been my best run of the trip. I was consistent. I didn’t falter. I didn’t get discouraged or negative, and I was comfortable the whole time. It was a 6.6 mile run. I felt like a goddess when I finished. Running’s like that. When everything clicks, you think there is no other mode of motion.

Before I continue, I just want to add a couple of things that I have realized or considered while running.

1. I would never last as a follower of Islam. At least not a strict one. Forget about Burkhas, or hijabs in this weather. If my religion prevented me from wearing a tank top or shorts, and or required me to dress in black from heel to toe when the temperature exceeds 70, I am looking for a new religion. I’m not sure I believe in God, but if I did, I wouldn’t believe in one who didn’t want me to be comfortable  when it was hot out. What about a religion which required people to dress naked when the wind chill was five below?

2. I don’t like running on gravel. Dirt either.

3. Don’t eat Pizza before you run, even an hour or more before you run. Eat pizza after running and before your off day, if at all.

4. Cigaret smoke is annoying anytime but when you are running, it is incapacitating. The smell of fresh asphalt can be pretty bad too. I think it’s the petro-chemicals in asphalt. Are there petro-chemicals in Asphalt?

5. Running is personal. It’s individual. It’s freeing.

6. I’m gonna be glad when they get that subcutaneous microchip/communicator thing perfected because I hate carrying anything when I run.

7. What’s the reason we don’t have more public drinking fountains? I  sort of understand the lack of public bathrooms. Local governments don’t want to hire people to clean them and people are stupidly crazy that homeless people will go live in the bathrooms or perverts will lie in wait for people there. Society is stupid. It’s true. We should just admit it. People are stupid, governments are stupid, political systems are stupid. We should lift all the bans on gun and yes, hand grenades, so we can kill each other without restriction or limitation. Seriously, we’d be doing earth, the animals and civilization a favor.

I’m having trouble cracking the ten mile mark. It might be psychological. I remember thinking that if I can do 10 I can do 20 and if I can do 20, goddamn it I can surely do 26.2 but I can’t seem to crack 10. Maybe I am just trying to fail. No, that’s thinking too hard. I’ve been told that I overthink things.  I just am not preparing myself well enough to run. 6 miles is fine. 8 miles is acceptable. But when I get ready for 10, things just get in my way. I get tired. Something hurts. I get thirsty.  

Every run, I learn something new. I guess that’s the point of running six days a week. You get smarter when you run. I better start paying attention. Maybe if I pay attention, I’ll be a better runner and actually crack 10 miles.

I wish I could quit everything else I do and concentrate on my running. Totally stupid, right? Well, after all, I am part of society.

Today, I figured out that fanny packs don’t work. I was running with a small back pack that I I could carry my Ipod and cell phone in and that had limitations, but it worked better than a fanny pack. I wish I could convince myself not to run with a cell phone but I keep thinking if I break something or have a heart attack, a cell phone would help. The Ipod is a good distraction and frequently perks me up. Jim Morrison got me moving again today with When the Music’s Over and Wichi Tai To got me moving in the woods. So the Ipod’s a good thing. I’m thinking of getting an ITouch; it’s lighter. A cheap burner phone might be a better thing to carry than my ChuckBerry.

On Sunday, I learned not to run without a headband. My hair is long enough to be a hindrance but too short to be in a pony tail. It was annoying even when it was weighed down with sweat about 3 miles into the run.

Today, it was too damn hot to run but I did it anyway. Also, I didn’t have a big enough breakfast. The run started out okay but my course was compromised. I got a few miles in and the torrential rains we’ve been having washed out the park trails in quite a few spots. So, I learned to scout out my path in advance so I know what to expect.

I either over think or don’t think about the right things. It’s a learning curve, I guess.  It’s an infinite series because it’s an never ending learning process. More tomorrow.

I’m gone from Bar Harbor, my spiritual home. The weather had been consistently grey and cool until the day I left. The day I left, the sun shined brightly, the temperature was brushing up against 70 degrees. I got to wear my new sunglasses.

Leaving Bar Harbor is like breaking up with someone smarter than you who knows that you should stay together. It just looks at you full of promise of love and adventure and smiles sadly yet with understanding. The road out of Bar Harbor is lined with mountains and sometimes the ocean. It dips, rises, curves and opens up into vistas of splendid beauty. It says, “Are you sure you have to go?’ in nature’s most seductive voice.

The Monday of my vacation, day 5, was 45 degrees with a wind/moisture factor that brought it to 38 degrees. So I was reluctant to go running. It wasn’t that comfortable just being outside let alone running uphill for a few hours. Just thinking about it makes me want to turn the heat up and get under the covers.

I started my day with coffee at the International Opera House Coffee Emporium. It is a unique establishment,
at least I have never seen one like it before. In the front is a coffee bar and tables, and books and games for patrons to read and play. In the back are computers for vacationers to use. Also in the front are a variety of baked goods, bagels, chocolate croissants, danishes, coffee cake and commercial products as well as coffee urns featuring blueberry coffee. And the most astounding thing is that the proprietors, Angel and Matt, run the place on the honor system. You take what you want and tell them what you had and they ring you up. Two other points in their favor: they are Met fans and Deadheads.

From there I did some preliminary souvenir shopping. It’s hard to find people different things every time I come here because this is really the only place I go. This place is heaven for me. The perfect confluence of mountain and sea and food and casual dress. I can spend the week here in jeans and sneakers. I travel to other places of course, but this is where I come when I want to come home.

I packed some gear to run just in case the weather improves and then I headed to Acadia National Park. I haven’t spent as much time here as I normally like to spend. I was here yesterday for the afternoon. I hiked up Mount Norumbega which borders the part of the marathon course I ran on Saturday, Somes Sound. I had talked over the selection of a good trail for the day with one of the forest rangers. I hate to put it this way but he was an adorable young blond headed man, who reminded me of Michael Cera, only more naive. He called one of the trails “Goat Trail” and I said completely deadpan like I sometimes do, “Oh no. I didn’t bring a goat.” He seemed apologetic when he said, “Oh no, ma’am. You don’t need a goat. It’s just the name of the trail.” I felt a little bad about kidding him; and worse that he didn’t realize that I was kidding him.

The trail up Norumbega was not really well marked. In fact, the parking area wasn’t well marked either. There was supposed to be a sign for the parking lot but it wasn’t there. I just divined where it was. Then I had to figure out where the entrance to the trail was by staring at the big map on site. They didn’t make it easy. I had to cross the street to find the beginning of the path. Then the path proceeded through the woods. On the right was the Lower Hadlock Pond. The road kept forking off and I kept taking the left fork. Not just because I’m a liberal, but because it seemed like that was the thing the map guided me to do. The path was pretty well developed; a car could have driven it easily. After about a mile of walking, the path ended in a two lane highway and a small neighborhood. It was goofy I turned around and went back the way I came and took one of the right forks around the lake and found the mountain trail.

It was a moderately easy trail. It was so easy that I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember getting to the top and not knowing if it was the top. The trail markers just stopped and there was no post saying it was the top of the mountain. And it was so foggy, I couldn’t see if there was more up ahead. I also couldn’t see the ground below. So I started to head back down.

So back to Monday. I think I really wanted to find someplace to go inside. I could have stayed in my hotel room all day but I knew I would regret that decision. I could have souvenir shopped all day but I didn’t have enough room in my bags to bring a lot of stuff home. I got into my car to go do something. I had no reason to drive to Ellsworth or Bangor or anywhere else. I went towards the marathon route and drove aimlessly for a while. It’s just instinct at this point. I’m trying to get the whole 26.2 miles into my head like a movie I’ve seen a thousand times. I drove out route 3 and I took the first entrance I could into the park. I needed a bathroom so I headed towards Jordan Pond. There’s a great gift shop there and good bathrooms with running water and trails to hike.

After using the restroom, I started wandering around. I had been up Sargent’s Mountain but not Pemetic. I started looking for the trail that would get me to the top of Pemetic mountain. Again the marking system is not that great and finally, I gave up. I took some pictures of the pond. At one end were the Bubble Tops. Now I know they were named the Bubble Top Mountains to be genteel but seriously, they don’t look like bubbles. They look like the line from a Dave Alvin song, “like a woman lying naked on a bed.” They look like perfectly shaped breasts. As you look at the pond, the bubbles are on one side then there is a valley in the center and rising from the valley is Sargent’s Mountain. Across from this, behind me, is the Pemetic Mountain. It’s really pretty and the fog of the day makes it look surreal and muted. I walked along a bit and then I saw a sign for a trail heading up Pemetic Mountain. The first fifteen feet of the trail were a mud bog. I didn’t want to slog my sneakers through it so I walked through the brush on the side. It was 1.7 miles to the top of Pemetic. It’s a beautiful walk. It starts out quite accessible. Just about everyone could do the first half mile or so, then it takes a sharp turn and becomes a series of rock steps, with each step being of varying height and width. Then for a while the forest staircase is made of tree roots. It’s all wet so you have to watch how you step. You can’t step too hard or move with too much emphasis. You kind of have to step lightly but surely. I call it Elf Steps. In fact, if you’ve ever read The Lord of the Rings, you can’t help thinking about the fellowship traveling to Mordor when you’re in Acadia. Also, I keep hearing “In the Court of the Crimson King” when I round a turn and face a stone staircase. The trail reached a two lane highway, which seemed a little incongruous then once across the road, it got a little more primitive.

Hiking up a mountain involves stages. Hiking a mountain is a mission. And once you’ve been on the mission for a while you get ready for it to be over. You reach a plateau. You think. Ahh the mountaintop. Then you look a little further and see more trail markers and another ridge ahead. And everytime you think you’re done. But you don’t get to decide when you’re done. The mountain tells you when you’re done. And you’re not done until you get to the top.

That day I was done before I reached the top. Down on earth, it was 45 degrees, but 1.8 miles up, it was 30 degrees and misty, wet, and windy. I was dressed okay but I had no had or gloves. So the mountain told me, foolish girl, you came un-prepared, Go back down. I was freezing, it was slippery and I couldn’t see where I was going. There was only a quarter of a mile to go, but I couldn’t go any further. I felt awful about giving up. But I had to leave. The mountain told me to go. I hated taking a B+ in Pemetic Mountain but I had to; I rationalized, hey, I can’t see any thing from the top because of the fog anyway.

It still rankles. I live for hiking in the wilderness and climbing up to the top of mountains. It is my favorite thing to do, ahead of sex, eating lobster, making money. And I felt like I failed myself and the mountain. Which doesn’t care one cosmic whit anyway. But that’s most of life anyway. You don’t always get to win. But if you care, you can plan to fight again.

Next time Pemetic. I’ll get to the top. Stay right there, I’ll be back.

Only I could turn a vacation into a quest. I’m like Kim Novak in a foreign land finding intrigue and peril and nearly getting killed instead of getting a tan. Other people go away to sleep on the beach, drink and eat to excess. Me, I go away to test my physical endurance and capacity for pain.

As I write this, I am waiting for the Aleve to kick in and make me forget about my left hip and leg. Which brings me to my first fear.

Seven and a half years ago, I had back surgery: spinal decompression and fusion. It was the culmination of almost a year of excruciating sciatic pain and experimentation various pseudo medical sciences. Somehow I had developed pain which began at my hip and eventually stretched down the back of my leg to the base of my calf. I could not walk 25 feet without having to sit down. I could not stand for five minutes without an electrifying current of pain shooting down from my left but cheek to my foot. My life was seriously challenged by this pain. I woke up crying a few times. I couldn’t attend any function where a chair was not readily available. I could not travel comfortably for more than five minutes or fifty feet. It was not easy trying a case with that limitation. Indeed, it was not easy to get from the parking lot to the court house with that limitation, or for that matter, to even get out of bed. For the next year, I tried all manner of quackery to ease my pain: chiropractors, acupuncture, massage therapy, pressure point and deep tissue massage, cortisone shots. I even flirted with prayer. Nothing worked. Finally, three out of four doctors said I needed back surgery and I surrendered.

I decided that I would do everything the doctor told me to do for post surgical care and the long and the short of it is that I recovered. But it was a process I would never want to go through again. I would never want to spend five days in a hospital again, I would never want to have a home health care nurse come to my house and change my dressing and make my meals again, I would never want to ride in a wheelchair through an airport again, I would never want to wear a back brace under a blouse again, I would never want to have to depend on friends to drive me grocery shopping again, I would never want to take any opiate based painkiller again. And I would never want that pain again.

So when I run, that fear runs with me. Every time I feel a pain in my hip, or my leg or my back, that fear jumps out and holds a knife to my throat and says, “Listen Bitch, you’re mine. And when I get you again your gonna cry and beg for dope or your mother or death! And there’s nothing you can do about it!”

I see him next to me when I run. He’s either got a grim reaper cloak or a cabbie hat with a leather jacket and greasy gabardine pants. He doesn’t shave. He has cheap wine on his breath and dirt under his nails. And he looks over at me. And he tells me, “That hip pain is gonna get worse. You’ll be with me then.”

Fear’s pretty articulate, isn’t it?

I try to run through it. I can’t always. Some times I am undone by thoughts like, ” Oh, no. The hospital. The poking, the prodding. The noise at 3 o’clock in the morning. The bedpans. The morphine hits. ” But I don’t think it’s the pain but the fear of the ordeal of corrective surgery that is worse. Because pain isn’t all that bad. Pain is a signal from your body that something is out of whack. I always j know that when the pain gets seriously terrible, I will pass out or die. I don’t fear death and my tolerance for pain is high. Physical pain that is. Emotional pain paralyzes me. I stay away from emotional pain, which is really another face of fear. Huh. I just realized that. (And the fear of emotional pain will obviously be the subject of at least one future blog. Or several future blogs. As soon as I get over the fear of writing about emotional pain.)

So fear is what I fear. Terror. Uncertainty. Lack of control. Loss of dignity. There must be a way to deal with fear. Maybe acceptance is one way. Accept the consequences and know that I’ll adjust. No one’s really going to stop me. And even if I became broken, I’d survive and I’d figure out how to make it funny. Because it is all just one cosmic joke. And life, for all of it’s changes, challenges and complexities, is over before you know it. Like Pink Floyd said, life is just a short warm moment, and death is a long cold rest.

I also fear that I won’t finish. This is only Fear of Failure and her, I can deal with. She doesn’t have a knife. She is just sitting at home in her pjs reading a book and drinking Irish Whiskey, saying “You’re never going to be able to do this.” She nags me every few minutes and I can’t kill her but I can ignore her when she shows up. She’ll be with me the whole run, but once it’s done, she’ll find something else to tell me I can’t do. As soon as I find my next impossible dream.

As for this dream, I decided that I was going to shoot for ten miles and I decided that I was going to tackle the toughest part of the run: miles 15 to 20. And I just took a look and realized that I wasn’t quite right. The toughest part is the stretch consisting of five of the last six miles. What kind of sadist would make the last six miles the hardest! Whoever designed this course must have been a writer of mystery novels: things get tougher and tougher until the climax in the last few pages. Okay, be that as it may, I picked 15 to 20, mostly because the Somes Sound Tree is at 15. It’s just beautiful there. It’s like the jewel of the run. Like when you run there, you feel privileged. Like the planet is a beautiful place and you fit right in with the best of it. I started to run with a backpack that had a 4 oz bottle of water in it. I didn’t like the feel of it. I also didn’t like running with an IPod. I don’t know. I had a good song on, CC Adcock and the Lafayette Marquis. But it didn’t feel right to run with it. It’s okay on the track in the gym I guess but outside, it’s not me. Funny, right after I took it off, I heard some bizarre bird calls, so I figured it was like an omen. The hippie girl that I still am wanted to have the sounds of nature. And the birds wanted to talk to me while I ran. I’d like to think they were gently encouraging me. Perhaps, they were taunting me. After all, even a 3 minute mile doesn’t beat flying.

I ditched the bottle and Ipod and ran the first mile. The weather was cool and I was dressed for it. I like the first mile even though it’s a little uncomfortable. You just get used to doing something different. You have it all in front of you. The story of this run isn’t written yet. You play with your pace. You tune in to where you are. You feel your feet and your body temperature starts to adjust. Next to me on my left is Somes Sound which is just enchanting. There are stones bordering the left side of the road and forest rises to a great wall of rock and greenery on the right. I can see the lobster traps floating and once in a while, a cormorant swoops, grabs a wriggling bit of dinner and soars upwards. The sound and smell of water soothes.

The first mile goes okay because it’s all new and you don’t expect much. The second mile is the fear’s universe and you just have to shake it off. “Fear, I will have none of your nonsense today. Go away!” I say in my best schoolteacher voice. The second mile fear is just a bully and it skulks away as long as you’re strict with it. If you give it an inch, you’ll be home eating grilled cheese and potato chips before you know it.

During my first mile, a car passed me with two older women in it and it had Maine plates with the license plate number “1.” Just the number “1.” I thought, Maine’s got two woman senators, I wonder if one of them is driving. It was awesome.

I had a good 3rd and 4th mile. Usually the hip pain kicks in around the fourth mile. Today, it didn’t. It was all woods and some private houses in various states of repair or disrepair. Maine is eclectic; a mansion on one side and two hundred yards later a tar paper covered shack with car skeletons out front.An occasional restaurant or tourist service or boat repair shop. It’s all eye candy to me; I love to look at everything – beautiful or homely. I ran up hill most of the way. There were some dips down, but they were few and short. I didn’t like running down hill which I find odd. It plays with my pace too much. Maybe I’ll get used to it. Occasionally during the run, I felt a breath of raindrops but nothing significant materialized. Toward the end of the fourth mile, it got a little too steep and after it crested, I had to stop for a few seconds. I was on my way promptly and pretty authoritatively through the fifth.

I turned around to go back after the fifth and after I was into it, I had the opportunity and the need to use a rest room so I did. I kept running through the sixth and in the seventh the hip pain hit me. So from that point, I kept stopping and walking a few yards, then back to running. I stretched a bit. I probably ran a total of 2 out of the next four miles. But I don’t feel defeated. I feel like seven miles in Maine is 12 in Illinois. Of course, when I do the Mount Desert Island marathon, I will be doing Maine miles so I just have to work at it. I’m not going to let fear stop me.

Fear is nature’s way of telling you your brain is working. It’s not a barrier. It’s a sign. Fear can rule you if you let it. I remember spending a whole year of my childhood being afraid to be on the second floor of my house alone. It stopped at some point and I don’t remember how. but it ruled me. It made me ridiculous and there was no reason for it other than that I allowed it to win rather than challenge it. When I challenged it, I didn’t even feel proud of challenging it. Just embarrassed that I had let it trick me for so long. Probably, the fear moved on to something bigger and said, “The second floor. You coward! I wasn’t going to really do anything to you!”

This fear is based on loss of power. I have to increase my strength to sap the power of this fear. I have to keep working I have to run and work to weaken this fear.

I am past the point in my life when I can waste time on fear. It’s just a reaction, a signal. From now on, I will disect it. I will examine it and analyze it. I will make fear take its clothes off, take a bath and go into rehab. I will challenge its reason for being. I will sit down and have a meeting with fear, examine its agenda and find out what it will take to make it go away. Because I have things to do.

Today, it rained a most of the day. From around 2:00 until 5:00 I drove the marathon’s route, and followed the mile by mile description from the website.  I confess that I am daunted.

There are some pretty stretches of road. After all, it is Maine. But the part that sticks in the mind is The Somes Sound Tree. It stands on the left side of the road by the water like a promise. It brings a smile to your eyes and lifts up your shoulders. When you see the tree, you want to make it proud by running the next 12 miles.

Maine must have cleaner air than Chicago and maybe that gave me a boost that I didn’t realize. The terrain is different as well but that didn’t make the  physical task of running more demanding than I thought it would. I think what got me was the length. It’s 26.2 miles. That’s one mile after another after another after another after another and then twenty one more anothers and two tenths of a mile more. That’s the challenge. That’s the sneer of the Beast. It’s a goddamn long race.

There is so much here that is psychological. It is in fact, all in the mind, you know. That’s why I keep running. That’s why I keep looking for little advantages here and there.

This morning I bought some more running gear that I thought would help and truly, I think it did. I bought a lighweight jacket with a hood. I mean a featherweight of a lightweight nylon jacket and a couple of stretchy tank tops. I paid too much for them but they seemed worth it. The jacket did keep me warm on my run.  The tank absorbed the sweat without making me feel cold.

So it rained. It drizzled. It fogged. This was no fog creeping in on tiny cat feet; it was a fog wearing Paul Bunyan’s boots. It was beautiful, like they call Ireland: a terrible beauty. Nature in your face. Miraculously, it stopped raining by the time I came home. I thought maybe I wouldn’t get a run out of the day but by 5:10 or so, I figured I could put in a couple of miles. Silently, I thought, if I run, I can have lobster and white chocolate blueberry cheesecake.

I put my running clothes on for the second time that day. I didn’t think about it. I just started running once I got off the stairs. I turned the corner and then I was behind someone who was smoking a cigarette! I cut out onto the street and kept going along Main Street. I kept the pace slow, I thought. Just fighting for endurance. One foot in front of the other. Don’t think about any mile other than the one you’re doing. I passed the hotels going out of town, the gas station, the ice cream store and the baseball field where you can see the stars on a clear night. More stars than I’ve seen in the sky anywhere outside of the Sawtooth Mountains. Then I crossed the street to run on the sidewalk. I felt good really going out the first rise out of town. It was nice. (It’s cool about running that when you think about it afterwards you savor it.) The rise was a little scary to think about but I kept my head down. The woods were beautiful in their wetness and greenness. The leaves looked almost unnatural. So I kept going past the Ocean View Drive In, the condos, the Jackson Laboratory. I saw the Acadia Sieur de Monts entrance and then the lake on the right and Sargent’s Mountain on the left. The book tells it’s cold by the lake and it is. It’s moist and chill. I kept going and I went almost 3 miles. Then I crossed the road and made the journey back.

It was pretty easy to run the three out of town. I think once I stopped and gave a window to my body to feel exhaustion or ache. I started the run back but it was a spotty run, not a thing of beauty at all. I ran and walked, ran and walked the first mile – mile and a half back,  and then  I ran most of the rest of the way. I stopped for five seconds on the edge of town, just to feel my calves. Then I finished.

When I got back to my room, I peeled off my clothes piece by piece. Each article was drenched. My scarf was the biggest surprise. When I peeled it off, it no longer had the qualities of fabric. I hurt from hip to calf on the right side mostly. I couldn’t move for a while.  I ate a  lemon flavored Greek yogurt, some lime taco chips. I drank a blueberry pop. I dropped off while I watched TV and answered emails. Then I went out for dinner.

The first day,  then, went well. Six miles. I faced the beast. I numbered its miles; I contemplated its complexities; I looked at its threat. I took my first swing at it.  I’m still scared. I keep waiting for the fun part. I think, I fear, the fun part is when it’s all over and you laugh at the beast over your shoulder. 

I have to get stronger. There’s always tomorrow. I didn’t get to eat lobster and white chocolate blueberry cheesecake yet.

I’m a work in progress, of course. We all are. It’s so important that we keep progressing but it’s hard. I believe that when we fail to improve ourselves, or when we stop striving to make ourselves better, we set ourselves up for death. Or,what in my mind is worse than death:  depression.

We have to be our own personal heroes. And we have to always work at it. But, it’s hard to do. Because by nature, we are our own worst enemies.

I made up my mind not too long ago to run a marathon and not just any marathon, but the Mount Desert Island Marathon, in Maine. It’s a difficult course. I’ve never run a marathon before. And every other practice run is grueling and intimidating. That’s not how I should feel; that’s not the right attitude. But it scares me. It’s strange. It’s something I want to do. But it hurts.

I want to run this Marathon because I love Maine. And in some weird way, I feel like I can demonstrate my love for Maine by running this marathon. I will become part of Maine once I do this.

Oh well, I never said I wasn’t delusional or self important. I had no ego for a lot of my life; I didn’t really develop one until my mid forties. Now that  I have one, I like to feed it.

And I’m scared about hurting my back again. So I’m glad I have support. My trainer primarily and my daughter who will be with me to watch me run.  I have to find the fun in this transaction. I know it’s there. I bet if I get rid of the fear that the fun will be there. Pain doesn’t bother me. Physical pain, anyway. I’m not a big fan of emotional pain.

So today, it is the middle of the 23rd week before the Marathon on October 16. I can run at this point, eight miles without stopping. I have 22 weeks to get to 26.2 miles.

Early to bed. Early to run. More tomorrow.

A couple of days ago I passed a lifetime marker and I know I need to write something to mark it,  but it’s big and imposing so I have been dodging putting fingers to keyboard.

April 8, 2010 marks ten years since I have had a drink. I am profoundly grateful for my sobriety and elated that I no longer consider getting high or drunk to be pleasant. When I quit drinking, I realized that I had the capacity to feel emotions. It freed me. I drank mostly because it kept me from feeling badly about my home life and my self deception. What helped me to stay sober was my divorce and my resolve to be true to myself.  Sometimes, I can’t believe my good fortune.

Many people know my story because I’ll tell it at the slightest indication of interest.  In my family,  my parents made a point of not making a big deal about alcohol.  It was treated as just another food to be consumed in moderation. I remember having red wine, some kind of inexpensive gallon jug burgundy or chianti, with Pepsi Cola at Sunday dinner at the age of four or five.  So I can truly say that I drank for more than forty years.

At the tender age of fifteen,  I won a poetry contest at school. That night was the cast party for the winter play. I spent some of my hard earned prize money on a pint of Gordon’s Gin (Is there product placement money to be earned in blogging?) and got trashed. I mean blackout walking around the block vomiting trashed.  It was so  embarrassing. The teacher who held the party had to call my parents and tell them that I was asleep because I had “played a lot of basketball” that day.  Well, my parents knew that I was as likely to be playing basketball all day as to be speaking before the United Nations in support of American Foreign Policy so my dad jumped in the car and drove to Brooklyn to pick me up. I remember nothing after the fifth or sixth gulp straight gin over ice until the following day.

I never appreciated the significance of this event until years later. My first serious drunk and I kept drinking until I blacked out. And I hated the taste. But I just kept drinking. A teacher of mine told me afterward, “Jill, nobody drinks straight gin.” Well, nobody but me.

I didn’t drink much for about a year after that. (I had started smoking pot to fill the gap) I smoked a lot of pot over the next eight years. I washed it down with enough beer, Boone’s Farm Apple Wine, and Jack Daniels too.  Pot and booze were significant parts of my life. It’s a wonder I made it through high school and four years of college.

I sharply curtailed my drinking during law school; I drank on breaks and weekends only.  After the birth of my daughter, my marriage just started spiraling downwards and I drank heavily for the next thirteen years to keep me from realizing just how miserable I was.   I didn’t drink in the mornings, or at lunch, but I drank every night starting from when I got home from the office at 7 or 7:30 until I fell asleep at 11:30 or midnight. I didn’t just have a few drinks. I had nice stiff ones and chased them with shots just to get started quickly. I could not pass the time at home without being under the influence.

The reason I drank, and every drunk has a reason, is that it kept me from feeling. Therapy helped me realize that my feelings were valid and needed to be acknowledged, and not drowned.

After my ex moved out, I decided to quit smoking. My doctor prescribed a pharmaceutical aid to smoking cessation and when I got the scrip I read that one shouldn’t drink when taking it.  So I said to myself, being a little hungover anyway, maybe today’s the day I stop drinking. Besides, I wasn’t married anymore. I didn’t need to drink.

At first, I was going to go 28 days but my therapist said, no, they tell drunks 90 days and 90 meetings so I balked and but I made 90 days anyway. I had stopped missing it by that time so I didn’t even realize the 90th day had passed.

So I cannot say I experienced anything more than extreme psychological discomfort when I quit drinking. I never had the DTs or the shakes. I never felt the physical symptoms of withdrawal. I quit before I hit bottom; how I had the sense to do that, I’ll never know or need to know. I did it. There are times when I want a drink but these times are usually linked to frustration combined with emotional exhaustion.  Now when I feel like a drink, I work out.

Cigarettes are another matter. I love cigarettes. I haven’t smoked in 30 days; to be exact, I haven’t smoked in 730 hours and about 20 minutes. But I would smoke if I didn’t stop my self. I had my first cigarette when I was 11 and started smoking on a daily basis at about 13. I kept at it for about 20 years, with two quitting periods mixed in: one for about 10 months and one for about 3 months. I quit right after my daughter was born. (okay, yes. guilty. sorry. call family services on me.) and I stayed quit for 12 1/2 years. Then, three years of smoking followed by seven years of not smoking. Then I smoked for eleven months following a bad breakup; I took a month off from smoking and went back to it in the midst of an enormous professional and personal crisis.  I quit 30 days ago after smoking for seven months.

When you read that paragraph above, did you sense the pure addict talking? The rationalization, the bravado, the arrogance. I can’t write anymore about not smoking because it will make me want to smoke. I fight with the addict in me every day and gradually, she is silent for longer and longer intervals.

It’s kind of easy to write when you are depressed and not so easy when the sun is shining in your life. At the moment, knock on wood or particle board (my computer desk) I am giving myself a moment to mark this mile by patting myself on the back and reveling in the righteous life. I don’t drink or smoke. I work out four or five times a week. I am on a healthy, miserable cupcake free diet, I am working with a trainer who brutally works my hamstring, glutes, abs, thighs core and shoulders. I have a new car,  a satisfying relationship with an affectionate,  sane and sober man, and a couple of dollars in the bank. I am putting money in my retirement fund on a regular basis (even though my retirement plan calls for dying at my desk). My daughter and I are getting along well and I am actually (gasp) learning how to balance my professional life with my personal life.

If only I could put myself in  neutral and coast the rest of the way out of here.  I write this as a memorial to good times.  Things will be bleak again but they can always spring back to this. Every human being has the capacity to change.  The mile markers in our lives give us perspective on that change.