Tag: Mill City Running

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Sutures, C-sections, and Bowties

HELLO. Thank you for reading – it’s been a minute (Months? A year?). Since the start of the pandemic it’s started to really sink in just how allusive the human conception of time is. Scrolling back through the log, it looks like there is mention of a race and there is a clear absence of cloth over my face in a public venue, and it looks like summer…so we’re talking at least a year. Well – what a year it’s been! And what better to do on a Sunday morning (it could honestly be any day of the week the salience of time has been abolished) as a 4th year med student, with residency interviews completed and my application submitted, than to digest, reflect, and verbal (is it verbal if it’s written?) diarrhea the product of this exercise for us to enjoy. How’s that for a damn sentence. I’ll spare expounding details of current events other than to say maybe the rapacious nature of late-stage capitalism did not, in-fact, prepare America’s public health infrastructure for a global pandemic. And maybe, just maybe, America could have a little less police-state and a little less prison-industrial complex, and a little more reparations for its most exploited minorities. Maybe. Who knows. I digress. Let’s start a few weeks after my last race.

One of my best friends got married last fall. I was a groomsman. It was awesome. And there’s something to be said about a Lutheran wedding service, even from the perspective of an atheist (I’m digging this term ‘optimistic nihilist’ however – it at least alludes to spirituality and using the term makes me sound like a smug jackass, so it’s right up my alley). They are quick. And there’s nothing more enticing to an infinitely distractible mind than a short ceremony, punctuated with actually funny commentary from the priest.

It’s difficult to write, sometimes, when there is an audience. Even if it amounts to the dozen people subscribed to something I update apparently once a year. It can sort of unconsciously change the flavor or the content of what I put down. Or very consciously change it. Though I will say, there are as many parentheticals in my written private journal as there are in this. So, I clearly do just make myself smile at stupid ways of writing all the time. But I will write, even if it requires some deconstructing heterosexual norms, that I love my old friend Eric and was elated to be in his wedding. And of course I love his wife too. Hell, if the only thing I knew about her was that her first reaction to watching him break his wrist on a basketball court was to laugh, I would be sold. There’s a solemn happiness to see one of my oldest friends be happy. An appreciation of other people’s joy not sown unless you develop just a modicum of maturity, which hopefully now being much closer to thirty than twenty (!) affords me.

As would be expected of (I was going to make a snarky comment about how my generation doesn’t know how to tie bowties, but who the hell actually does?) a group of twenty something, midwestern, largely middle-class men, none of us had any idea how to tie these freaking bowties. YouTube to the rescue. Mine was in fact tied for the ceremony by yours truly, along with everyone else’s seen in the photo – about 10 minutes before we headed out to take pictures we were already late for. This wasn’t the first time I had seen the internet employed to learn techniques requiring some level of dexterity and precision in a time sensitive situation – it’s not uncommon to see this being done by med students and residents before entering surgery. How else would I have had the skills to suture c-sections in the OR during my OB rotation the month before the wedding? Tying bowties became a cakewalk.

 

Fast forward a few months from this wedding. I had a sort of epiphanic realization that changed my career intentions in medicine, earlier this year. Rather than try to (re)elucidate all of the points I’ll just copy and paste them here:

TL:DR Changing career pursuits, and I like sleeping in. Eat your damn fruits and veggies. But impossible burgers are also good on occasion. 

Slushy start to the morning which I had off of clinic. Wanted to do some strides, but, where tf am I supposed to do those when the consistency of every hard surface is that of the frozen pop you get at movie theaters. Wait, do you adult age people still buy those? Am I the only one?

I took the morning off of clinic to meet with one my attending surgeons I had during my surgery rotation to go over career planning. How to get into surgery programs, doing research, all that stuff. And as I’m writing this – I’m coming to terms with the fact that it truly isn’t for me. Or at least, not enough of me to justify it. I think because I came into medical school thinking, hell KNOWING, this is what I wanted to do, I was able to find endless reasons for why surgery was better than medicine. And found countless reasons why, even though I absolutely loved medicine, and peds, and now loving primary care, that surgery was still the career I wanted. I blinded myself from the fact the residents I worked with during surgery were constantly tired, had some interest in teaching but were too busy with operations and consults to actually do it, consistently staying late, taking crazy call, and overall living a lifestyle that was just not compatible with longevity. Don’t get me wrong, all residencies are difficult. All of them require long hours. But operations are long, the length of cases range from unpredictable to down-right ridiculous, and the early mornings, are well, ungodly early. The nights are long. The sleep is nil. I saw it all first-hand and still, I was (unconsciously) desperately holding onto my preconceived notion of how sexy the career was.

It really isn’t.

Yes, absolutely, removing tumors, saving lives after trauma, it’s. awesome. Totally badass. And wonderfully exciting. And so far from the routine of any given day, that thinking I could justify a 7 year residency averaging 80 hours of work every week to do it is unconscionable to me now. After two weeks working in primary care, I can no longer really deny what really motivates me in medicine. It’s not taking lumps, bumps, and organs out of people. It’s utilizing learned medical knowledge, both from school and my own about nutrition, as well engaging in people and having active role in either saving and/or changing their life. It’s teaching. It’s finding meaning in my work and knowing I can advocate for things that are for the betterment of the health of my patients and the planet. I see every opportunity to do all of that in medicine, with less training, better work-life balance (I know it’s a cliche phrase but fuck it it’s true), better relationships with colleagues and students, and a deeper connection with patients and their families.

And every minute of my personal life, every curious fiber in my body, even all the interactions I’ve had with friend and classmates, lends itself to this realization that should have been obvious to me well before I started even medical school. I have talked more highly of the ICU than I ever have of the OR. I run and exercise, (a lot, duh) and know that lifestyle and nutrition are the components to actually getting people and their families healthy. I have listened to thousands of hours of podcasts on how diet can treat, prevent, and even reverse essentially every chronic disease across the world, while simultaneously making the planet healthier and saving sentient animals from rape and murder. I have had patients in both medicine and pediatrics that I’ll never forget due to the relationships I formed with them, yet I can’t remember even the name of a single one of my surgery patients.

And most of all, my personal story is wrought with reasons to pursue medicine. Overcoming binge-eating disorder, managing my stress and anxiety, changing my diet, these are all things that I did to (firstly, not kill myself, bye-bye binge eating) in order to achieve and pursue longevity in my life and career. The opportunity to help share in that experience of positive, scientifically based growth in people’s’ health and happiness is afforded by a career in medicine, not surgery.

Few things get me fired as much as talking about medicine. I’ve had quite a few conversations (including this morning thank you Mike Koski) where I’ve tirelessly monologued (this is not a real word but fuck it) about nutrition, medicine, and the horrid state of the american healthcare system. Why I hadn’t taken these countless conversations as signs of where my true passion lies is beget in my stubbornness and the all-too-human experience of believing whatever the fuck we already believe, even at the (almost!) expense of letting it dictate our entire career path. In the WRONG direction.

Perhaps I’m just fickle (this is absolutely true, I just hope not in this instance), or perhaps I just enjoy the work hours more (this is also absolutely true and is in no small part playing in this decision), and maybe I’ll regret this later on. But my highest potential as a provider will not come from being a surgeon (if I ever had the intellect or capacity to get into a program anyway, which is very doubtful). If I ever have power as a physician, it will come from my love of medicine, science, nutrition,  and being a force for positive change in my patients’ lives.

This was very much a ‘stream of consciousness’ thread I wrote on Strava in January, writing on the fumes of endorphins following an undoubtedly wonderful (read: fucking freezing) Flapjack Friday run with my teammates whom I miss dearly. I spent much of my younger adult life planning on being a surgeon…so it’s unsettling (read: existentially terrifying) when those best-laid plans change seemingly overnight. The short of it is: I’m applying to internal medicine, and I really love the ICU. For the non-med folks, those are all your docs in the hospital treating the sickest COVID patients, among others. It’s a privileged place to be in medicine, at the intersection of life and death. Perhaps only second to the ED (I thought about that too) is that intersection so chaotic as it is in the ICU. Pulmonary/Critical Care is a 3-year fellowship after a 3-year residency. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my 3 years of med school (hopefully more than just this), it’s that I LOVE the damn hospital and I love taking care of really really sick people. 

 

I would be absolutely remiss to talk about friendship and not my mention my most serendipitous one. You could run through all iterations of every timeline in the universe and I guarantee you only get this result once. Acquaintances (enemies?) in high school from polar opposite social circles, re-introduced as a result of her reading this blog, and an impossible instinct to realize compatibility in friendship. Her offer for a friend-date two years ago turned into a 6 ½ hour conversation and immediately we became the most boisterously loud, obnoxious, painfully hilarious, and disturbingly dark people in any and every environment we’ve found ourselves since. Another best friend in my back-pocket. You couldn’t make it up if you tried.

I travelled more this year than I have any other year of my life. By plane no less. Not ideal during this time but when Uncle Sam pays for your school (and hotel and food and car) you do what you’re told. First made my way to San Antonio in June for 6 weeks of…training? Sitting on my ass and watching lectures in a hotel room? It’s a blur – and justifiably so. My brain was more or less non-functioning having taken my boards the day before I left for Texas. At least I was paid very well. Anyway, I came back in July, and began interviews for residency spots across the Army via zoom. I hate interviews. There’s nothing like trying to ‘sell yourself’ on a computer screen when you already hate the very essence of ‘selling yourself’ to begin with. I would be more comfortable selling my damn body. But they went fine (I think? Hope?). Intermixed with those interviews were school rotations, and two, one-month rotations at my top choices for residency. First in El Paso (I got choked up reading another horrific article about the situation there just yesterday) and then in Tacoma. I love the mountains, and I love the idea of a small program. 4 years of undergrad and 4 years of med school at the U, and I think I’m ready to not completely blend into another sea of bodies as a doctor. El Paso and Tacoma have both mountains and small programs. But the Pacific Northwest, and the west coast in general, is incredible. As I anticipated it would be. But somehow my time there beat even those expectations. I was hooked. In about 5 weeks, I’ll find out if I get to enjoy my residency in Washington. While having basically no time to see or explore any of what I enjoyed out there spending 80 hours a week in the hospital…I shoulda stayed in the restaurant biz…

I’m spoiled to have made friends that planted themselves all over desirable places to visit in this country. Lucky me, Tacoma provided weekends off and I was blessed to have my own personal tour guide to Portland and the PNW. There’s a preternatural ability my friend Courtney possesses to express views on, well, anything that resonate so profoundly that, whatever the idea may be, just clicks. And I can say unequivocally no one I know has more warmth and genuine compassion for the human condition than her, and it’s not even close. A source of infinite inspiration as I try (and fail) to match that level of empathy. Usually working in (American) healthcare forces you to trade your initial desire to heal for callous cynicism. But much like the “adults” that told me I would trade my liberal ideology for conservative “realism” as I grew up, it seems time has only strengthened our resolves.

 

I got back from Washington, and immediately I travelled for me. I was on vacation all last week – I went to California to see two of my closest friends in the world. Probably the least advisable thing one can do in the middle of a pandemic is to get on a plane for leisure…after spending most of the summer flying already. It’s hard to justify. And I think in different circumstances it would have been a no-brainer to stay home. But as competent as I am in my ability be alone, it’s exhausting as a non-voluntary exercise. And honestly a little precarious when you live alone with a history like mine.  All that’s exponentiated when, between classes, board exams, prepping for interviews, rotations, and applications, I haven’t had an opportunity to give myself more than a weekend off in two years. Practicing isolation is not a lifestyle, and I wanted to change the weather on my terms for the first time in too. Damn. Long.

I almost feel bad that I’m including Mollie in a frame that also contains this monstrosity (marvel? marvel.) of a moustache, but I couldn’t pass the opportunity to self-deprecate and there’s no way even appearing at her sister’s wedding would have forced me to shave. On principle.  No matter how many times life puts me in a position to be with one of my oldest friends in their time of need (while still able to provide ME sound reassurance and advice during such times) I will never repay my gratitude for our friendship. And for tolerating our near-death tandem bike rides…suffice to say, I  couldn’t imagine a better confidant or friend.

 

It was worth it. Of course it was. It would have been worth if it meant never seeing the beach or the mountains or the sunshine (I did all of those things), or just being present through my friends’ heartbreak or anxiety (I did those too). The company of friends far exceeds any visual aesthetic or adventurous journey I could conceive. I don’t know how or why I’m so lucky to have so many friends to lean on for insight, learning, and just plain fun. I’m spoiled rotten to have the friends I keep, and I can only hope that whatever constellation of factors that makes my friendship tolerable to them is maintained for as long as I can keep it. And wish I had more space (and brain energy – I’m such a slow writer and thinker) to include all the other wonderful people that I owe everything in my life to. 2020 can suck a fat one for a whole host of reasons, but I’m interminably grateful for my friends to help me enjoy so many bright spots in an otherwise god-awful shitty mess of a year.

I spent my last four days in California with my oldest friend Rebekah. At this point over half my life (!) I’ve had an indispensable best friend – always able to pick up right wherever we left off. We literally did whatever the hell we pleased. Mountains, beaches, fancy Italian food, burgers and malts, car jam sessions, conversations ranging from bullshit to poignant and real, you name it.  I feel…weird, even guilty (almost), to have had so many highlights in a year that really, truly, sucks. But I also know that I’m responsible for an infinitesimal amount of what happens to, for, or against me. I do not deny the insanely privileged life I live nor take it for granted, but I also do not renounce it. I’m (mostly) just along for the ride.
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The Peace Within the Struggle

The North Face Endurance Challenge: Wisconsin 50M – 7:45:11

Hello. Hi. Buongiorno. Good morning. Good afternoon. CIAO. How are you my friends?! What’s new with you? It’s been a minute (and then some). I hope you’re well. I hope you’re more successful at keeping up with your writing goals than I am. So much has happened between now and my last post. Rather than try to play catch up, I can sprinkle in some updates throughout the next few posts. Which I promise will be more regular and not just entirely dependent on my racing! Having said that – yesterday was a big day. A (Type II) fun day. One of those rare days where I smash a lofty goal and surprise myself at the same. A day where the universe conspires perfect weather, a previous night of ACTUALLY getting some sleep on an overnight shift, and a previous weekend of inspiring runs at the Superior 100 to help me get my dehydrated and undertrained ass from zero to 50 miles in a time I was damn proud of. Now, this is not a distance that’s new to me. But two years ago I was much more prepared, ran on as flat of a route as you can going for 50 miles, and was pushed only by completion. There is nothing that pushes the mind and the body like racing. Two years ago it hurt, but yesterday was suffering. In the good way 😀

I fell asleep about 10pm, got up at 3am, dipped a Cliff bar in an almond/cashew/chia/flax seed spread (thank you Holly Reiland and your Costco membership), guzzled some coffee, zombie drove 40 minutes to the start and found myself in front of the brightest flash camera known to humankind 5 minutes before the start of a 5am race. And my ridiculously stupid ass is still finding a way to smile.

 

But let’s back it up a little more. This last year of running has been met with some heavy training, breathroughs in fitness, but overall, a lot of frustration. I was knocked out of this race last year after coming off a fantastically fun mountain trail marathon in Colorado Springs at Pike’s Peak. I thought I was all set and ready to go for TCM Marathon weekend to bounce back into racing a month later, but those injuries cropped back up in a big way. A month or so of recovery and I was back-in-business with Boston training. And, as if predestined by some malevolent force in the cosmos, a similar ankle injury perked up to knock me out of that race too. Needless to say I was disappointed. Especially considering that I’d made it the last three years of consistent running without more than a sprained ankle. And that from just being careless! So, rinse and repeat, I scaled back the mileage, again chalked it up to overtraining and too many hills, and got ready to start my first medical school rotation in May (gasp!). I had made the adjustments of actually warming up before ALL runs, putting some strength training in the weight room, and drawing the alphabet with my toes for quite literally hours a day in an effort to strengthen these seemingly weakened tendons. And, once again, things got better. And the malicious sin wave of destiny threw my IPOS (injured piece of shit for those less familiar with the running lexicon) back onto the bike and out of the running shoes for a THIRD TIME IN LESS THAN A YEAR, this time with plantars fasciitis. And even then I was finding a way to get hurt! A spill on my bike in late July trying emulate a long run meant that not only did running hurt, but the vice-clamp headache and nausea of a concussion made just living a challenging. Being me is weird.

Time trials on 5 year old, $200 bike are unsafe as it is. But put that bike underneath a foolhardy and treacherously untalented injured-runner-turned-cyclist and you have a recipe for disaster. The moral of the story is to always, always wear your helmet. Someone like me has only precious few brain cells to spare, and they aren’t worth being transected by the road or by the bumper of a moving van (or in my case, both). Though that flimsy helmet will do nothing to save you from a month of horribly painful showers. Such is life.

This time, however, the variables had been narrowed to all but one. The one variable I thought absolutely I was immune to having to deal with. Shoes. As much as I loved Altras, they did not love me back. I tossed them for some Hokas and like magic, the ankle pain, plantars fasc, and everything else disappeared. And I was back to running as far and as fast as board studying would allow. Some late mornings meant I didn’t get to the trails as often as I wanted, and a small overuse pain (legitimately overuse pain, I know the difference now) meant a slightly earlier taper and shorter long runs than I needed to feel confident going into yesterday’s 50 miler. That, and working 6p-8a shifts the entire week preceding on my OBGYN rotation meant absolutely chaotic sleep. I might have slept 20 hours between Monday-Friday before the race. For some of you 4 hours a night might be plenty – for me that is barely more than a week’s worth of naps. 

I seem always to miss at least one thing in preparation…for every single thing that I do. Leaving to the grocery store? Forget my wallet. Going to a friend’s house to exchange some baked goods? Forget the actual baked goods. Heading out for a shift at the hospital on my bike and in my running shorts? Forget to pack UNDERWEAR in my backpack. Fully admitting to you all that I have inadvertently gone commando in scrubs. Yesterday was no exception. Jersey, shorts, shoes, socks, nutrition, all packed and ready to go. Even brought my headlamp…but forgot to check the batteries. For almost two hours I had never been so scared to fall on my face in my life. Just something to stow away mentally for next year. Hopefully remembering that doesn’t displace another key item. Here’s looking at you ‘Murica shorts.

 

But having not raced since March (a 10 mile tune-up before Boston that made me VERY confident of my abilities to do well out there…before the aforementioned injuries), I’d be damned if something like a little grad school was getting in the way of me heading out to Milwaukee. So I ran the 8.5 miles home on Friday morning from the hospital, showered, breakfast, hit the road for the 5 hour trek to Milwaukee, hit the sac, and woke up a few hours later to make it happen. I really didn’t know what to expect. I had run 50 miles before, but that was almost two years ago, and bum flat on the urban roads. I hadn’t run more than 20 miles in over 6 months. I hadn’t been on ANY trail in at least a month. But for everything I felt uncertain about, there were things I KNEW without a doubt. I knew I had friends who had just run 100 miles on the Superior Hiking Trail in the face of completely stupid elevation change and terrain. I knew that I myself was no stranger to suffering, and overcoming said suffering. And I also had a goal. To finish in less than 8 hours. For no other reason than it sounded more difficult than anything I’d ever done, but just in reach enough to try. As it turned out, as it always turns out in a race, someone’s trying to do the same thing you are. I’m lucky I found a few of those folks along the way.

Everything actually started pretty well – despite the fact that I was half blind for a few hours due to bad preparation. Even past 20 miles I felt well energized. Like I could keep up that pace all day. However, it wouldn’t take too long after hitting the turnaround just how weak my climbing legs are. A 70+ mile/week marathon roadrunner making a swan dive into even a moderately hilly ultra meant searing quad pain at every incline. The pre-race and early race smile had mostly been replaced by an exasperated and destitute grimace that was too dumb, hungry, and thirsty for the next aid-station coke to give-up.

 

The first of my newfound friends I found along the first half of the course. A wise ultrarunner a few years my senior, and with much more trail and ultra experience than me, provided wonderful conversation fodder along the sunny horse trails and cool, canopied paths within the state park. Our conversations rambled from admiring the beautiful weather, divulging our own paths into the sport, and our shared cynicism of the overzealous 22 year old who’d left us in the dust early in the race (he did NOT slow down like we predicted, and went onto to take 3rd). We paced each other all the way through the halfway point, where it would be my turn to let my unjustified ego take the reins and pull ahead.

This did not help me.

Running up those steep hills was relatively easy the first time around. But realizing the pain of doing them twice 30 miles into the race is something you just don’t anticipate when you’re as undertrained and foolish as me. I was going just fast enough to maintain an uncomfortable pace when I caught the next man in front of me. With over 20 miles to go I was not about to drop this pacer, lest I end up in a crumpled heap on the side of a trail begging for another handful of pretzels and some ice cold mountain dew.

This experienced ultrarunner and 50 miler beast was my damn guardian angel through the last half of the race. There’s no way I would have been smart enough to walk up the hills, and not a chance I’d have had the motivation to keep going by myself for 4 more hours. Another man trying to break 8 hours and with his help we crushed it. There’s always power in numbers folks.

 

Once again I found myself trading introductions (albeit with a much more subdued attitude and far less words), exchanging some minor life details (and perhaps a few major ones, I honestly don’t remember), and cheering on and congratulating not only the marathoners and 50k folks, but a few of the 50 miler racers we would trade spots over the next 15-20 miles. Even with the inspiration of my friends, the camaraderie on the course, and my quiet, burning desire to achieve my goals, the last 1/3 of this race, right up until the last aid station en route to the finish, was touch-and-go. Although the morning started perfectly, at 55 degrees and not a cloud in sight, things were warming up. And so was I. I was drinking 32 oz water every 3ish miles, as well as some coke at every aid station, and I was still completely dehydrated. In medical school we talk about innumerable ways in which the kidneys can receive damage, but ultrarunning is not on that list. Peeing painfully hot, brown liquid immediately after the race meant that I had to assimilate my medical knowledge into some guesses as to what in the terrifying hell was going on in my body. Accumulation of uncleared lactate from low glucose stores that was now acidifying my body (and therefore my pee)? Renal hypoperfusion due to blood shunting to my trashed quads in an attempt to eliminate waste products? Who knows. Simply put, I needed more fluid than I could have ever imagined. Put that on the list of things to not forget for next year…

After almost two marathons worth of running, seeing the finish line from a mile away still gives you some kind of 2nd (or probably at this point, 11th) wind. I’m normally pretty emotional at finish lines but the extreme dehydration and no less than a pound of salty pretzels ruminating in my intestines made anything other than moving almost impossible. Just the way I wanted to finish.

 

But through all that pain and exhaustion, thinking I might just pass out if I had to hit another uphill, the words of a fellow racer (and now course record holder and ultimate badass) Justin Grunewald came to my mind. If you don’t know the man, him and his wife’s story is heartbreaking and inspiring. I remember reading one ofhis post a few months back that described his wife’s battle with cancer. Buried in that post was a quote I wrote down immediately – ‘It’s okay to suffer, it’s not okay to give up.’ I’m not sure a day goes by when those words don’t resonate with me. From menial tasks like not wanting to take out the trash when its full, or folding clothes, to the physical and mental demands of studying medicine or racing an ultra, the mantra is a manifestation of everything it means to not only run, and race, but to experience life. Life is an endless serious of obstacles that are wrought with uncomfortable, dark, tiring moments that cloud our judgement and strangle our will and motivation. That’s okay. Suffering is the overall foundation to peace and contentedness. Happiness doesn’t exist in spite of suffering, it’s because of it. But only when you persevere. Only when you don’t give up. To be able to send my well wishes to the owner of this quote a few seconds before the gun went off emblazoned those words deeply into my mind for the next 8 hours. They would reemerge, tacitly, in my head, at the foot of each hill as I trudged, bent over, gasping for air, knowing that not giving up was the secret to finding that peace. 

I had a conversation with my best friend just a week ago that best summarizes this winding recapitulation of yesterday’s events. In essence, it was a rejection of the notion that anything we do in this life is truly ‘on our own.’ Or, that anything we do on our own is made vastly more efficient and more rewarding with the spirit of others with us. I’m no more responsible for achieving my goal yesterday than my friends generously hosting me the night before and after (and for the pedialite post-race that was next-level recovery). Nor would I have even imagined myself being able to do this without inspiration from the likes of the world renowned and local ultrarunners that give sustenance to the idea of, ‘Why not me?’ There is no doubt I would have found a way to suffer AND give up had it not been for my compatriots on the course with wisdom and pacing, and I wouldn’t have made it even a fifth of the race without each and every volunteer to help along the way. Yes, it was ‘my’ two feet that finished, but the ability to do so is credited entirely to every friend, colleague, and faraway inspiration who exude such devotion and serve as such powerful examples as to act as a proverbial springboard into a level of self-confidence I cannot achieve on my own. Each footstrike along the trail is given to those whom I’ve learned from, and continue to learn from. Especially when it hurts. Because at the other end of the hurt, at the crest of the hill, at the end of the treeline, is peace. Is the downhill. Is a finish line. So long as you don’t give up.

‘Til next time everyone!

 

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Fast Friends and Flapjacks

Mill City Running – Every Friday

 

I participated in a research project the summer going into my senior year of college. Basically, a grad student at the U of M was looking for runners who would volunteer to come into the labs, get their VO2 max tested, their body fat measured, and their blood drawn. I’d come in once or twice a week to foam roll and run on a treadmill, or run on the track. I can’t tell you which one I hate more. But overall it was a pretty easy way to make $150. This grad student and myself chatted about running and marathoning. I mentioned to her that I was training for the Twin Cities Marathon that fall (2014) and that I had found a training plan online that I thought was helping me get into pretty great shape. I also mentioned that I used MapMyRun to map most of my routes online to get an idea of where to run to fill out my daily mileage. She, being a much more accomplished and talented runner than myself, suggested I invest in a GPS watch. I sheepishly admitted that I had absolutely no idea what that was. Like, the driving navigator thing with the stupid commercials? Nope. Just a watch that tells you how far and how fast you’ve gone. How have I not heard of this? I had no idea the technology existed. Luckily for me, I lived about 4 blocks from a family owned and operated store. They cater to every and any individual looking to buy, well, anything and everything about running! Yes, even for an amateur like me. Enter: Mill City Running.

This place had been up and running for about a year since I had moved so near to its location. I’m sure I’d passed it dozens, hell, maybe over a hundred times and had never stepped inside. Mostly just never had to. There is not much I’m good at it, but if there is something I do well it’s use the fuck out of my running shoes. The shoes I was training in that summer up until I stepped foot into this amazing boutique had seen well over 2000 miles. Two thousand. And they’re still around, for sure. Albeit with their fair share of holes and completely worn-down soles. Alas, I was determined to qualify for the Boston Marathon (that post is coming soon), and if knowing, instead of guessing, my time and mileage was going to help me, then it was time to get a watch. And probably some new shoes.

It was inviting. Warm. I was greeted by many friendly faces (who I’d come to know with some familiarity as the months progressed) who were eager to help me. I said I needed a watch – a GPS watch. Oh shit, was I ever getting fancy. They probably thought what I really needed was someone to dress me like a human being. My normal garb of worn out flip flops, stained t-shirt, and athletic shorts unquestionably looked profoundly stupid. My wardrobe has matured since, even if I haven’t. While watch shopping, I made sure to replace my worn-out, filthy running shoes too. I was introduced to some new Asics styles (my favorite) and some that were on clearance. I found some that I liked, and there I was with some new Asics Gel Cumulus 16’s and a Garmin Forerunner 10 GPS watch. As I readied to check out, I was told about running events that the store put on just about every day of the week. Most of these were in the afternoon, but I was NOT about to get my sweaty ass out in muggy Minnesota with the sun blazing at 90 degrees with 100% humidity. But one day did catch my attention. Flapjack Friday – 6:30am. Growing up I used to have pancakes just about every day before school, and I often ate them on long-run days for breakfast pre-run (my nutrition has matured as well). They were and are still my favorite meal ever. And at 6:30am, I couldn’t pass that up. What could be better than running a few miles in the morning and eating some free pancakes? I’d come next Friday for sure.

And I was more motivated than ever to do so. The next day I took that watch out for a workout. I still remember it like it was yesterday. The workout is still in my google calendar: Marathon specific 17M w/ 14M @ marathon race pace. One mile warm up and BLING. My watch vibrated: 7:39min/mi. Not bad I thought. Now it’s time to bring it down. I needed to average just about 7 minute miles to achieve my goal of qualifying for Boston. I clicked the next 5 miles off with only one above 6:55min/mi. Holy shit. Maybe I’m not as slow as I thought. And I felt great! So I picked it up. I finished with my last 5 miles at 6:37 or less. Did I just run that fast? Granted, this is NOT fast for anyone with real talent, but it was much faster than I thought I could move so comfortably. I loved this little watch! And, I think I’d earned some pancakes.

So I jog out from my apartment and waltz into the store on a hot, sticky, Friday morning just as the sun is rising. A handful of serious looking (and some with rather casual demeanor) athletes stood around and chatted, drinking coffee. I modestly poured myself some and introduced myself to a handful of others. I was met with the some gracious and warm environment as I had when I first stopped in to buy my shoes and watch. After a few minutes, a tall, scruffy man stood himself up on a podium. He introduced himself as Doron, a ‘friend of the store,’ and welcomed the ultimately drowsy crew of a few dozen stalwart runners to ‘Flapjack Friday!’ The routes were simple (and later I would learn, simply beautiful). A four, five, and seven mile route were offered, with pace leaders to lead groups of varying speed. With the good vibes still running through me from my marathon pace workout, I thought it best to jump in with the 7min/mi group for a nice and easy 5 mile route along the river. I was initially a little shy, but opened up just a little bit every mile. I learned the stories of some phenomenal athletes. An Olympian even worked at this store! And there were tons of people talking about the Boston Marathon, and this 100 mile trail race, and all these other crazy events. I was in good company. We made our way back to the store and I was introduced to perhaps the most important and life-changing idea I’ve ever encountered in my existence. Pancakes – with peanut butter. They were incredible (though I can’t say I have always had a great relationship with peanut butter in the past, read more of that shit here). More importantly, I started making friendships. I started learning about other types of races and events. I learned about this ‘Mill City race-team,’ and during the winter I learned about a little something called November Project (read that shit, I promise you’ll love it). I made it to as many Fridays as possible, and was always so interested in learning about other people’s goals, ambitions, and race plans. I loved the camaraderie. And there was an absolute abundance of fast and talented, yet humble, athletes. So many inspiring souls from all different backgrounds. I wanted to be friends with all of them. And I was! How unfortunate it was when my injury, and ultimately my eating disorder, brought me so much shame, change in weight, speed, and guilt about my disgusting habit, that I would again not permit myself to return to a wonderfully supportive group of people for the better part of 3 fucking years.

I was running a tempo run in June 2015 when I got a terrible pain in my hip. I was about 5 or so miles in and was a pretty far ways from home. I kept trying to run through it, but the pain kept getting worse. I ultimately ended up walking 2 miles back home, and that was a struggle. Having been at in the grips of a binge-eating disorder (I do implore you to read my first post for more info) for a year and a half, I went back home and dealt with that stress how I naturally trained myself to. I bought a frozen pizza, doughnuts, a pop, and a pint of ice cream from the convenience store I lived above. You can imagine how fast it was gone. That was a pretty typical occurrence, 2, 3, 4 sometimes even 5 nights a week. It was hell. And all the while I was sidelined from the roads due to this nasty, debilitating pain in my hip. I couldn’t even walk normally. It would be months before I got over that injury. But it would be years before I got over that disgusting habit. The binge-eating. And since my last binge over two months ago, that’s exactly the way I’m going to keep it forever.

This is Jeff, he is awesome. He and his awesome wife Bekah run this place.

This week has been the most emotional of my entire life. I have cried more times (out of happiness) than I thought I was capable of. To this store, November Project, and all of my dearly missed friends, I have a message: Thanks for taking me back like I never left. Thanks for not judging me, for being supportive, for listening to my story, even if you didn’t ask for it. Know that if I ever enter those dark moments again (I won’t), that you won’t be the last people I see. I’ll look to you, for you, for help. And support. Running is the language in which I speak most fluently, and to have so many passionate and empathetic listeners is what brings me so much joy in the conversations that we share. Even if it’s fucking freezing outside. ‘Til next Friday – and flapjacks. With peanut butter, of course.