Back to Where It All Began for Me
Lake Moraine: not a grand lake, but I felt grand after my swim there. (Photo taken post-shower on our way out of town.)
When women we meet at races or on our Facebook page mention their “runiversary” (the anniversary of their first run), I get a little envious. I’m a big record keeper, but I don’t remember the first time I ran for exercise. I’m pretty sure I was a junior or senior in high school, but I can’t say with certainty. While I don’t have a date to celebrate, I do have a location with great sentimental value to me.
My personal ground zero, the place where I became an athlete, is Lake Moraine, a small, manmade body of water in central New York. Three slightly uphill miles from my (and Dimity’s) alma mater of Colgate University, Lake Moraine is where the Colgate rowing team practices. The run out to Lake Moraine wasn’t my first, as I’ve said, but it was the first recurring run that sticks out in my mind. I signed up to row as a freshman more out of boredom than athletic drive (and lust–the captain of the men’s team was a hottie!) so the run out to the lake was tough for me. But running there, then learning how to row, ate up a good chunk of those otherwise-dull autumn afternoons—and the guys and gals on the team quickly became my closest friends. Lake Moraine quickly became the epicenter of my college experience.
So when Jack and I spent a night at Colgate two weeks ago, I was drawn to the lake. I love few things more than open-water lake swimming—it’s my ideal mix of liberating and slightly daring. With Jack soundly asleep in our hotel room, I drove our rental minivan out to the far end of the lake. I had been looking forward to this swim ever since I dreamt it up a few days prior, but standing on the shore, I felt gun shy. Other than a canoe with three boaters about 200 feet away, the lake was deserted at 8:15 that Sunday morning. But I knew the remorse I’d feel if I bailed would be greater than the trepidation I was currently feeling, so I tucked my hair under my swim cap, licked my goggles, and started walking down the boat ramp. The water was surprisingly warm. I took a calming breath, then my first stroke. I immediately felt at ease yet energized.
Left, right, left, right, breathe. As I crawled straight out away from shore, rowing memories flooded my mind. Mental movies of following Patty, Jill, Lisa, and Lindsey, experienced, upperclass rowers, in an attempt to learn proper technique. Of crazy Coach Phil yelling at me to get my shoulders down from up around my ears. Of breaking ice with our bare feet as we carried our boat into the water for a “spring” practice. Of heavy rain making the wooden oar handles slick and callous-making as we practiced for sprint races. For a moment I thought how foolhardy it was to be swimming with no one watching me and Jack nowhere near, but I felt strong and confident, filled with memories of my athletic birth.
Wanting to end the swim on a high note, rather than exhausted and panicky, I turned around after 15 minutes and made my way back to shore. The sun felt warm on my dripping body as I pulled off my cap and goggles, and I radiated pride. As the cherry on top of this athletic sundae, I changed into my running clothes in the van, then ran the 4-mile loop around the lake. I might have harder workouts this summer, but even as they were playing out, I knew this swim and run were going to be my best session of the season.
It’s Time to Run Like a Mother!
They write, they blog, they Facebook, now hear them talk! Listen to Dimity and Sarah share how to run like a mother. Hint: All that’s required is the right attitude, not necessarily ankle-biters.
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Even with a BFF, This Running Thing Is…Tough!
Courtenay and I exerting less effort at farmer’s market the evening before our run
With her in Maryland and me in Oregon, Courtenay and I rarely get to run together. The last time my bestie and I trotted side-by-side was the first few miles of the Philadelphia Half Marathon. Half a year later, and here we are in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, for a gal-pal getaway. Far from 13.1-mile shape, I have to ask to rein in pace and distance due to my healing-but-not-100% foot. Ever-obliging, Court doesn’t mind. “As long as we’re together, that’s all I care about.” My thoughts exactly.
The terrain couldn’t be kinder to my plantar fasciitis-ridden paw: The seaside road is tabletop flat. Court, ever-cute in her Oiselle tank and Moving Comfort shorts, and I set out across a causeway in search of Katherine Hepburn’s former beachfront home. It’s not yet 9 a.m., yet the sun beats down hot on our shoulders. We both immediately comment on the humidity (later we learn it’s 88%). Our conversation quickly shifts to her 6-year-old son’s debut swim meet the day before—he got tapped for the invitational meet after a mere three practices. A far cry from Courtenay and I being the sole students cut from our high school girls’ lacrosse team.
My foot feels pretty dang good, but my lungs are working hard, sucking in muggy air. We’re both Garmin-free, yet I know we are barely running 10-minute miles. Still, my quads, lungs, and head feel like I’m pushing my race-pace. My heart pounds hard beneath the sports bra I had to borrow from Court (a true friend!). I’d said we’d turn around after 15 minutes, but our quest to find the Hepburn estate—and stunning views across sun-drenched salt marshes–keep us going a few more minutes. By the time we spin it at about 18 minutes, my body feels as challenged as it does at about mile 11 of a half-marathon. Goodness, have I really lost so much fitness in six weeks away from the road?
Redwing blackbird: a welcome distraction
Retracing our steps, our sweat flows much faster than our conversation. I point out a red-winged blackbird flitting across the cattails, and Court barely murmurs in reply. A billion years ago (okay, in the mid-1990s), we were running near my old house in Wellesley, Mass., and Court paid me what I took to be a supreme compliment: “I love running with you, Sarah, because you can talk the whole way.” Ack: Two decades later, I’m not sure I can clear that bar.
Rather than admit the exertion (and humidity) is kicking my butt, I recount an anecdote from the final miles of the Ogden Half Marathon, after Dimity had caught up to me. I tell Court that, in Utah, I knew Dimity had planned to run the final mile of the race the fastest, but that I was already running full tilt. I say it would have taken Dimity and me too much breath to admit to each other that we had no more to give, that maintaining was the most we could do. So Dimity and I had just occasionally croaked out, “This is the best I got,” or “Going as fast as I can.” Or my it-seemed-inspired-at-the-time, “I’m already in fifth gear.”
I wrap up my Ogden tale as Courtenay and I hit the midpoint of the causeway; we can just spy our stopping point. Deep breath in, and I muster up my last bit of chatter, saying, “Moral of my story: I’m dying over here.”
At the hotel driveway, I stop my Timex at 35:38, depleted beyond belief. For now, I’m all talk of half-marathons, no action.