“For some moments in life there are no words” – David Seltzer

This edition is an updated Weblog featuring the final part of a three-part series about the 2017 Smuttynose Rockfest Half-Marathon at Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. Regular readers know that I'm into 'Trilogies,' but I will spare you the first two parts.

This half-marathon (13.1 Miles) was my first and the one filled with the most stress, self-doubt, fear, and anxiety. The reason was it was so unlikely for me to run such a long distance. I had only been running for a few years and even though I had converted my physical therapist into a running coach, I probably had no business shooting for such a goal. It was really too far to go alone, and the story is about the help I had.

ONE WEEK TO GO: Do you remember when you first got your driver’s license? You couldn’t believe that you had it and that the government was really going to let you drive on public thoroughfares. It took a little while to get used to the view from the driver’s side, after so much time in the passenger seat or the back seat growing up.

There was a kind of lifetime achievement element because your life would now be defined as before you had your license and after you got it. In those early days, it was hard to believe that you were really a driver. That’s how I feel. It is hard to believe I am really a runner. How do I know for sure? The day after my practice 12-mile run, my legs didn’t hurt. Repeat: my legs didn’t hurt. They must be in some kind of shape and it kinda happened…right under my nose.

I think that’s how we get better at something: we don’t realize we are getting better until we are there, and then something happens, like legs not feeling sore, that alerts us to the fact that we are better.

I feel like I am engaging in a once in a lifetime experience that tests both my mental and physical toughness. I get that. But what I am really doing is practicing and developing a higher level of discipline that should pay bigger benefits after the race when I go back to relying on my boyish charm for success. I will always remember training for my first half-marathon.

I can’t believe that I am actually going to do it and the race organizers will let me run on public thoroughfares. It has taken me a little while to get used to the view from inside the orange barricades, after so many years on the sidelines.

It seems it will be a lifetime achievement if for no other reason than my life will now be defined as before I ran it and after I finished. It’s hard to believe I am really a runner. That’s how I feel.

This week my training plan consists of a couple of three -mile runs, a little bike work, lots of water and pickle juice (one of my three secret weapons), and of course, plenty of prayer. There are some things we all need a little extra help with, and this is one of them. Wish me luck or pray for me. I am either brave or stupid, and one week from now, we’ll know for sure.

THE NIGHT BEFORE:

I had two significant thoughts this week as I prepared for the half-marathon. First among them was that I felt very strong. Nothing hurt. I was thinking that I have done the training. Boy, have I done the training. I was thinking that I was mentally prepared, although you can never be certain, we all have negative voices in our head that somehow escape to wreak havoc. (Great expression: ‘wreak havoc.’ Can you wreak anything else besides havoc?).

I was looking at Sunday as just another day with about 26,000 steps. 26,000 is a lot of steps, and they might all be important, but I know it is the last step that counts the most. Why? I know that without that last step to cross the finish line, I won’t have crossed the finish line. The other 25,999 steps will have been in vain. (Staying with clichés this week: ‘in vain’ counts). There are a lot of times where ‘finishing’ or taking that last step is the difference between success and failure, glory, and shame, winning and losing.

THE MORNING OF THE RACE

Sitting alone in my car at 5:30 in the morning waiting for the sun to rise over Hampton Beach and the Atlantic Ocean 2 ½ hours before the half-marathon, there was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide, yet.

The traffic, with 8,000 people arriving in this small beach town, was supposed to be brutal, and if you weren’t in place by 6 am for the 8 am race, you were going to have problems.

It gave me plenty of time to think and plenty of things to think about.  As I popped out of the car to get a better view of the sunrise, I was thinking that this journey taught me about three things: Preparation, Motivation and Mentoration.

1.      Preparation: I personally put a high priority on preparation but planning for this event was really at a different level. I logged the time of every practice mile I ran, along with my average heart rate and peak heart rate. I used an emery board on my toenails the night before so I wouldn’t have any foot issues. Me, an emery board? Of course my wife looked surprised when I asked for one.

2.      Motivation: I also personally put a high priority on motivation. After training for this event, I can honestly say that I remembered what a higher level of motivation feels like again. Once I decided to run this race, it was my goal, and nothing was going to get in my way. I thought about the half-marathon morning, noon, and night. I didn’t skip a single workout. Every time someone indicated, in any way, any skepticism that I couldn’t do it, or that I was more stupid than brave, I was more motivated to do it.

3.      Mentoration: Correct, it is a new word that you heard here first. It means being fully, completely, and passionately engaged in the teaching/learning process, as the learner. For me, being mentored was not something new, but not something common either.

In addition to pickle juice (in lieu of Gatorade try it sometime), my second secret weapon on this journey was that I had a mentor, a physical therapist who agreed to help me train. Dr. Sarah Rheault, a no BS trainer who wasn't afraid to tell me what I didn't want to hear, (definition of a good trainer?) had guided my every step throughout the ten month training regimen. Because of the Brave or Stupid issue, she also served as my mentor from her position as founder of Wachusett Physical Therapy & Wellness.

With years of personal mentoring experience, I understood the process, pretty much from the other side of the table, not the-one-being-mentored side. So, my goal was to be the best learner, the best question-asker, the best inquisitive person I could be, so that I could drain every ounce of wisdom, every tidbit of knowledge I could from Sarah. You are correct, I was a pain in the ass from the start, asking some smart questions, but a boatload of stupid ones. 

It didn’t mean taking everything she said and blindly moving forward. It meant understanding all of her recommendations fully before I left the session so that I could turn her knowledge into my performance.

That’s really the short version of mentoration: turning someone else’s wisdom into your performance.

From her point of view, she was tasked with turning this half-crazy pursuit into reality with only her words, her demonstrations, and her feedback. She had to be good, correct that, she had to be great. Could I have done it without professional help? No. Short answer.

To be honest with you, I had a lot of feelings about and during this process, and one of the best feelings was having someone to advise me on something that really stretched me. Someone I didn’t want to let down. I know she didn’t want to let me down either.

At 6 o’clock in the morning, two hours before the race, Sarah and her boyfriend found me sitting on the sea wall as the sun was rising over the Atlantic Ocean and the mercury hovered around 40 degrees. This was not a pre-arranged meeting or place: she knew me well enough to correctly guess where I would be and what I would be doing.

Mentors sometimes know more about us that we expect, because they are focused on us, not themselves. She was there to say one more time: ‘You’ve got this.’

In addition to Sarah and pickle juice, my third secret ingredient for the half-marathon was that I ran as part of Kathy’s Team.

For many years I had a job working to prevent challenging birth outcomes that I frequently summed up as ‘preventing a mother’s tears', because losing a child has to be among the most devastating things that can happen to a family.

I know that firsthand because it happened to my family, and I heard my own mother’s tears when my 10-year-old sister Kathy was killed by a classmate driving too fast more than 50 years ago. She was hit by the car while in a crosswalk on the way home from Saturday confession.

A long time ago, but you never forget.

As I moved to the start line, I was wearing my self-designed race shirt, using one of those iron-on decals. On the front it said, ‘KATHY’S TEAM’ and on the back it said, ‘I RUN BECAUSE I CAN’. Inspiration comes in many shapes and sizes, and different amounts of inspiration are needed for different tasks. Since this half-marathon thing turned out to be one of the biggest challenges of my life, I knew I needed a higher level of inspiration than ever.

That Sunday morning, I was lucky enough to take that twenty-six thousandth step in front of the Seashell Stage at Hampton Beach, with tears streaming down my face, because you never forget.

So, Kathy’s Team had only two members, but just one t-shirt, and somehow, I finished the race. In two hours and thirty-six minutes. I had to have help from my sister. You don’t really think I could run 13.1 Miles by myself, do you? That’s silly, it is way too far to go alone.