On the Road to 50

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

How to Look Like An Athlete When You're Not

(originally published January 6, 2015. My original blog, on Wordpress, was hacked in early 2016. All of the original posts, through January 2016, have been re-posted here on Blogger.)

"Berman, get your hands out of your jacket and start looking like an athlete!"

What does an athlete look like, I wondered. But I didn't ponder the question for long, as Mr. Wilson's fiery gaze remained pointed in my direction.

Gym class - outside - at 8 a.m. - on a late fall day leaning into winter is not any fifteen-year old's idea of fun - especially not this fifteen-year old who cared only for playing clarinet and piano.

I do remember chuckling as I thought of Woody Allen's famous line, "Those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach, teach gym." But I just fell into line with the rest of the class, since I was pretty sure Mr. Wilson would not share my amusement.

Ok, I wasn't exactly participating in the class when Mr. Wilson barked at me. I was standing on the sidelines with a fellow refugee from the band, hands stuck deep in my jacket pockets for warmth, speaking disparagingly about the class full of jocks who were only too happy to run endless laps around the track.

I ran reluctantly, just enough to get Mr. Wilson to focus his gaze elsewhere. I did the minimum in gym. I participated in no high school sports. I was not interested in anything resembling physical activity. In my high school year book, I was not voted "Best Athlete," "Best Runner" or "Most Likely to Run Five Marathons at Age 50."

In fact, at age 15, the idea that I would run any farther than the distance between my house and the school bus stop (I was always late, thus the need to sprint to the bus stop), would have seemed preposterous. At age 15, I wore only certain kinds of shoes with over-the-top support, designed for people - like me - with orthopedic issues.

While barely in grade school, an orthopedist had pronounced my feet to be problematic, with the apparent problem extending all the way to my hips. The doctor told my parents that off-the-rack shoes were not for me. He then kindly offered that, due to the nature of my problem, I would likely experience severe back pain by the time I hit 40.

With such a positive outlook to guide me, it's no surprise I didn't envision a bright future for myself as a runner. Yet . . .

I didn't have back pains when I hit 40. But I did run a half-marathon or two. At 50, I don't have many back pains either. I'm running full marathons instead.

Not that I don't have any aches and pains - it's hard not to when you're training for marathons. And I didn't go from special shoes to 26.2 miles in the blink of an eye. It's taken almost thirty years.

The first time I needed to run anything beyond the house-to-bus stop route was in the Air Force (somehow, I managed to pass the physical, despite my almost-flat feet). In basic training, and in the annual physical test, I needed to run all of 1 1/2 miles. At the time, that seemed like a marathon distance to me.

Then I met my wife, who was already running three miles at a clip. So I set to work on doubling my distance - which at the time seemed like running an ultra. Several years went by before I attempted a 10K, and many more before I worked up the courage and the running chops to try a half-marathon.

After that, I had several false starts at the marathon. I wanted to go the full distance, and I trained hard, but my legs just weren't interested. Finally, five years ago, I completed my first marathon in Jerusalem.

A few days before the marathon, I waited nervously in line to pick up my bib with my running number. Standing there, feeling kind of proud that I finally had managed to get myself in shape to run the full distance, I struck up a conversation with the guy next to me. He was visiting from Finland, and since he seemed to be an experienced runner, I asked him if he had run a marathon before.

He thought for a second, and then said, "Oh, I've run about eighty of them."

I'm still trying to get my head around that one.

Five marathons, even in one year, isn't in the same league as running eighty. But considering that I was the kid with the special shoes who was destined for a life with crippling back pain, five marathons in a year isn't bad. I think even Mr. Wilson would be pleased.

I am writing this not to brag, but to point out that if I can do it, then just about anyone can. And they have. People with over 200 pounds of excess baggage have managed to run it all off and finish a marathon. People with artificial limbs have managed to do it. When I ran the Jerusalem Marathon the first time, I came across two people running, tied together at the wrists. Curious, I got a little closer and heard one giving details to the other about the turns and elevation changes ahead. The other runner was blind, and he had found a way to run a marathon, despite not being able to see any of the 26.2 miles his legs were taking him.

Whether running a marathon, or attempting virtually any other goal, obstacles - even seemingly insurmountable ones - can be overcome. It may take time. It may take many attempts. It may take tuning out the experts who say it is impossible. It may take new approaches that haven't been tried.

But it can be done.

_________________________

I am running these five marathons for the amazing children and adults at the Israel Sport Center for the Disabled. We have set a goal of $5,000. Every donation of any amount makes a difference. Click here if you want to help us get to the finish line!

Finishing What You Started

(originally published January 1, 2015. My original blog, on Wordpress, was hacked in early 2016. All of the original posts, through January 2016, have been re-posted here on Blogger.)

Invariably, when people learn that my wife and I are running marathons, they ask, "What's your goal?" – as in: Within what time frame do you hope to complete the marathon? They are trying to gauge what kind of runners we are. The top Kenyan runners complete marathons in a bit over two hours. Very serious runners do it in less than three. Under four is respectable. Over four is still good, but no one will mistake you for an elite runner

When asked about my "goal," my answer is always the same:

"My goal is to finish."

I'm not trying to be flippant. "My goal is to finish" is the most sincere answer I can offer. While I have a sense of how long it takes me to complete a marathon (hint: the Kenyans do not tremble in fear upon my entering the race), crossing that finish line – in whatever time it takes – is what matters most to me.

A marathon – 42.2 kilometers/26.2 miles – is a long haul. Five in one year (but who's counting) is even longer. It's not that speed doesn't matter – I've managed to get a bit faster and each marathon represents a new opportunity to set a PR (that's "personal record" for the uninitiated). Rather, I'm happy that I've managed to acquire the ability to cover this distance at all.

I ran my fourth marathon of five in San Antonio a few weeks ago. I did what I set out to do – I finished. In truth, not much more than that. I didn't set a PR, not even close. I was grateful just to get over the finish line.

Around mile 22, I hit what is known in marathon circles as "the wall." Often, a runner encounters "the wall" without much advance warning – everything is going fine, and then all of sudden, moving those legs becomes awful challenging.

I have no idea why it happened. San Antonio was hardly the toughest marathon I've run. It didn't have the non-stop hills of Jerusalem. Nor the mud-filled cow paths of Geneva. Nor the seven-mile ascent of Athens. In theory, San Antonio should have been my fastest marathon. Only it wasn't.

So what did I do? I tried to tough it out, moving each foot one labored step at a time. I tried to talk myself through it, reminding myself that I had run harder marathons. I consumed another energy gel. I poured cold water over myself to blot out the effects of the tough Texas sun.

Nothing worked. I was barely running. Each step became slower, more painful. And then – my feet just stopped.

Only four miles to go, I told myself. But at that moment, four miles may as well have been forty.

I determined I would cross the finish line, no matter what. I would keep moving forward, even if it meant walking. And I would try to run whatever portion of the remaining distance I could.

The next four miles were a combination of running and walking – although by that point, a casual observer might have been challenged to discern much difference between the two.

This walk/run shuffle wasn't my ideal way of finishing the marathon. It certainly wasn't my idea of a good time. But it did get me – eventually – to the finish line.

As with other marathons, on the other side of the finish line, I was given a marathon medal and a bottle of water. A little beyond the finish line, they were handing out cans of Michelob Ultra (I haven't had mass-produced American beer in years – and I must say that calling it "beer" is a stretch – beer-flavored water would be more accurate – but I digress).

And then, I was given something else that is not usually part of the marathon package, but that seemed appropriate for what I had just done – a marathon Finisher's jacket.

I finished. Perhaps not a great finish. But a finish, all the same.

As in running, so in life. Much is made of the importance of starting. How we start our day sets the tone for its remainder. To beat procrastination, we must get in the habit of starting. The first few minutes of an interview (or less) often determine how the person across the table views us. And so on.

But as important as it may be to start and to start well, finishing is at least as important. All of us can name a multitude of projects that we started yet never finished. The follow-through is one of the most important components of a good golf swing, as it is in baseball and tennis. When we extol someone's ability to "get the job done," we are praising their ability to finish.

"Hitting the wall" is not unique to marathon running. Not infrequently, when we attempt a worthwhile project, we start off well and then build momentum. Everything is humming along. And then, just as we are nearing completion but are not quite in sight of the finish, things start to go wrong. We uncover hidden obstacles or lose enthusiasm.

It is at that moment that we must dig deep and find a way to press ahead. We may not finish as quickly or as well as we had hoped. But – wall or no wall – success in life belongs to the finishers.

_________________________

Celebrating Life One Marathon At A Time

(originally published November 30, 2015. My original blog, on Wordpress, was hacked in early 2016. All of the original posts, through January 2016, have been re-posted here on Blogger.)

I'm grateful I can run. Truly grateful.

That was driven home to me over the past week. Not because this past Thursday was Thanksgiving. Rather, because of something far deeper.

Not everyone can run. For some, physical disabilities or health issues pose significant hurdles – often not insurmountable, but challenging nonetheless. For others, running will never be in the cards. Nor standing. Nor sitting. Nor anything else.

I am referring to those who no longer walk this earth.

The Thursday before Thanksgiving, at a crowded intersection near my home in Israel, a Palestinian terrorist swept past the line of cars stuck in traffic, peppering them with gunfire like sitting ducks. Several were injured. Three were murdered – Rabbi Yakov Don, a beloved teacher who had had a life-changing impact on thousands of students; Ezra Schwartz, an American student just out of high school who was in Israel for the year and had just returned from delivering food to hungry soldiers; and Shadi Arafa, an innocent Palestinian bystander who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A few days later, while out for a run, I heard sirens screaming from the nearby highway. Only later did I learn that Hadar Buchris, a 21-year old college student, had been stabbed to death in almost the same spot.

It's strange, almost surreal. People are with us today. They raise families, teach students, give of themselves to others. And then, tomorrow comes and silence envelops the place where they once stood. One little turn of events and suddenly the families, the friends, the students, the recipients of goodwill all face a world where those people do not exist.

I'm not going to try to explain the unexplainable. I'm not going to try to understand it all. Some things are simply beyond human comprehension, and we can drive ourselves crazy trying.

On the macro-level, I can do whatever is in my power to oppose the terrorist madness that is sweeping across not only the Middle East, but the entire planet. One person is limited in their reach, but we all have an obligation to do whatever we can.

On the day-to-day micro-level, however, there is something that is fully within my power. I can remember. Not merely in my mind or in my words, but in how I live my life.

Because they are no longer living, I must do everything I can to live the life I've been given as fully as possible. Even by doing something as mundane as running.

In one week, I will run the marathon in San Antonio, Texas – number four of my five marathons. All I'll be doing – for 26.2 long miles – is putting one foot in front of the other. But that's not as mundane as it appears – it's a gift I've been given, part of the gift of being alive. I'm running this marathon, and the four others, to celebrate my turning 50. Rabbi Yakov Don was around 50. Ezra Schwartz and Hadar Buchris will never see 50, or 40, or even 30.

I must run for them. I must run simply because I can. I must celebrate the gift of being alive.

In 2013, a terrorist claimed three lives at the BostonMarathon finish line, including an eight year-old boy named Martin Richard, whose home was just around the corner from where I had lived in Boston years ago. As I wrote then, I ran here in Israel just a few weeks later, with Martin Richard on my mind the whole time.

Next week, when I run in the United States, in San Antonio, I want to run to remember those here in Israel who no longer can, who have been taken from us, whose loss is felt by so many.

I'm also running for those who are alive, but cannot so easily take for granted such routine activities as running. When I started my five-marathon journey, I knew this project needed to encompass something beyond myself. So I've been using the marathons to raise money for the awe-inspiring disabled athletes at the Israel Sport Center for the Disabled.

Many of the athletes at the Sport Center swim, despite missing limbs. Many play basketball, despite being confined to a wheelchair. Many excel at all kinds of sports without the benefit of physical abilities most of use unthinkingly every day and assume will always be there.

Some of these athletes were victims of terrorism just like Martin Richard or Ezra Schwartz – the difference is that they came out of it no longer physically whole, but alive nevertheless. And because they are still here, no matter their disabilities, they continue to strive, to improve, to excel.

I'm running for the dead, who no longer can. And I'm running for the living, who are transcending their disabilities and inspiring us all – and who need and deserve our support.

I'm still simply putting one foot in front of the other. But it's no mundane act. It's a celebration of life.

_________________________

Be Authentic

(originally published November 15, 2015. My original blog, on Wordpress, was hacked in early 2016. All of the original posts, through January 2016, have been re-posted here on Blogger.)

I ran the Athens Marathon and lived to tell about it. Not everyone is so lucky. Certainly not Pheidippides, the Greek messenger who ran the original route 2,500 years ago. Pheidippides (try saying that three times fast), so the legend goes, ran all the way from Marathon to Athens, a distance of some 25 miles, to announce that the Greeks emerged victorious over the Persians on the Marathon battlefield. Pheidippides reached the Athenian assembly, proclaimed, "We have won," and then promptly collapsed and died.

Not an auspicious beginning for what has become the world's most popular long-distance race. In fairness, Pheidippides had several strikes against him. Unlike most modern marathoners, he hadn't trained for such a long run. He started the run immediately after having fought a battle to the death with the Persians. He didn't get to wear a dry-fit t-shirt, shorts, and specially designed running shoes. In fact, he ran the entire distance in full battle gear.

Even worse, he had no water stations along the route, no isotonic drink, no energy gel, no medic stations, and no cheering fans to urge him on. It's hardly surprising that he didn't survive the run. What is surprising is that he managed to complete it at all.

Compared to Pheidippides, I had it pretty easy. Just one week ago, I followed the same course he did. The modern marathon is about 26.2 miles (or 42.2 kilometers), just a bit longer than the original route. It was hard enough with the energy gel, water stations and my favorite running shoes. I can't imagine how he ran it with no training, no support system, and weighed down by a heavy uniform.

The organizers have entitled the modern incarnation the "Athens Authentic Marathon." "Authentic" perfectly captures the feeling of this race. There is, of course, the sense of history. Not unlike Israel, everywhere you turn in Greece you will find reminders of a glorious past thousands of years old. When I ran the Jerusalem Marathon in March, I also encountered history with virtually every step.

At the starting line in Marathon with 17,000 other runners

The difference with the Athens Marathon was that the history I encountered with every step was all about the marathon itself. I started off – along with about 17,000 other runners – just steps from the Marathon battlefield where the Greeks fought the Persians over two millennia ago.

Each kilometer I completed was the same kilometer Pheidippides had run. When I started running uphill at kilometer 20 only to discover that the hill kept going and going and going until around kilometer 32 (approximately 7 1/2 miles), I imagined what it must have been like to do that in an ancient Greek military costume (Ultimately, I couldn't imagine; I had enough trouble in shorts and a t-shirt). As I came to the end of the race after several hours of running – or torture, depending on one's perspective – I crossed the finish line inside the Panathenaic Stadium, the site of the first modern Olympics in 1896 and reconstructed from what had remained of an ancient Greek stadium.

After Athens, any other marathon is just a 26.2 mile/42.2 kilometer distance that happens to take place in one locale or another. But Athens isn't a marathon – it is the marathon. It is the course. All the others are copies. Athens is, as the organizers say, authentic.

When I run a marathon, many thoughts dart in and out of my head. After all, traversing 42.2 kilometers offers lots and lots of time to think. At some point around kilometer 25, I started reflecting on what this course represented, and how it felt different – more authentic – then other marathons. Suddenly, I remembered a slogan I had seen on someone's t-shirt while running the Geneva Marathon back in May:

RUN YOUR OWN RACE

In running and in life, "run your own race" sums up what it means to be authentic. Athens feels authentic because it is not like any other race – it just is – and it came before all the others that copied it.

While pondering how essential it is to "run your own race," a guy well into his 70s barreled past me, and then sped off into the sunset with no sign of slowing down. For a second, I felt annoyed and a bit defensive. How can it be, I thought, that a guy at least a quarter century older than me is running that fast?

Coming in for the finish
at the Panathenaic Stadium

Then I remembered: run your own race. I wasn't running his race. I was running my race. Maybe I'll learn to run faster someday. Maybe I'll improve to the point that I'll be running that fast when I'm in my 70s. Or maybe not. Whatever my pace, my job isn't to be him, but to be me.

That's what the Athens Marathon is all about. That's what authenticity is all about. Too often in life, we are trying too hard to be like someone else, or to be the person we think other people want us to be. We forget that our job is to be who we were meant to be – as authentically as we can.

Run your own race. At that moment, I realized I wasn't running the same race as that guy in his 70s. I wasn't even running Pheidippides' race, even though I was taking the same route. I was running the race that only I could run. Maybe slower than some, faster than others, but uniquely mine.

Think of the people you know in any field who are the most successful. It's a good bet they are running their own race, living their own life – being authentic.

_________________________

Monday, March 7, 2016

Testing Your Limits - A Tale Of Two Bumper Stickers

(originally published October 26, 2015. My original blog, on Wordpress, was hacked in early 2016. All of the original posts, through January 2016, have been re-posted here on Blogger.)

I may have come across someone with more miles on her feet than her car. While stopped at a light in Jerusalem recently, the fender of the car in front of me boasted about a dozen bumper stickers. Not the usual bumper stickers with a political agenda or a catchy saying. Rather, bumper stickers that bore testament to the driver’s devotion to running.

At many a marathon, the runners receive oval stickers with “42.2” printed on them - 42.2 is the total number of kilometers in a marathon. These stickers then find their way onto the marathoner’s rear bumper.

The car in front of me had one of those 42.2 bumper stickers - but not just one - multiple stickers blanketed the back fender. And not just “42.2” stickers. There was a 50K sticker and a 100K sticker, among several others. The owner of that car doesn’t merely run multiple marathons. She also runs “ultras” - those races that range from slightly longer than a marathon to ridiculously longer than a marathon.

A few days later, I was again stopped at a light in Jerusalem behind a car with one of those oval bumper stickers. This time, however, the bumper contained only one sticker. And the text deviated from the norm - “0.0” the sticker proclaimed in large print, while the smaller print underneath said, “I don’t run.”

While slightly amusing, I pondered what would cause a person with no skin in the running game to go to the trouble of affixing a “0.0” sticker for all the world to see. I presume this person is either a couch potato curmudgeon who has grown weary of all the active people around him, or else the spouse of a devout runner who pointedly does not share their partner’s enthusiasm.

How does one person run multiple marathons, and distances well beyond, while another won’t run around the block? It all comes down to limits - or rather, what we perceive our limits to be. The “0.0” person may well have big goals in other realms. But I suspect not.

Haruki Murakami, a best-selling author who also happens to be a marathoner, wrote a wonderful book about his running life, entitled What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. While the book does discuss the physical side of running, it mostly delves into the mental side.

Murakami tells of his sojourn into the ultramarathon world - completing a 62-mile race at Lake Saroma in northern Japan. At the 26.2 mile mark, Murakami passes a sign that says, “This is the distance of a marathon,” a distance beyond which he had never ventured. He is now in new territory, or as Murakami puts it, “a Strait of Gibraltar, beyond which lay an unknown sea.” As he racks up the miles, various parts of his body begin to hurt more intensely. He starts to feel more machine than human. By the 47^th mile, he feels as if he has “passed through” some barrier and is on the other side of his previous reality. From there to the finish line, he runs more or less on autopilot, without thinking, without his muscles complaining.

Murakati then goes on to wax eloquent about how in the weeks and months following the race, he “felt covered by a thick film, something I’ve since dubbed runner’s blues . . . After this ultramarathon, I’d lost the enthusiasm I’d always had for the act of running itself. . . I don’t know why, but it was undeniable: something had happened to me.”

I think I know what that something was. It wasn’t a “thick film.” Quite simply, Murakati had run a ridiculously long distance, and he had had enough. He had reached his limit. He didn’t want to go any farther.

But hey, if you don’t hit your limit until 62 miles, that’s a pretty impressive limit. For me, I feel like my limit is a marathon. I cannot imagine running an ultra. I don’t see myself running one step beyond a marathon.

Yet, I know that the marathon isn’t really my limit. Once upon a time, when I first ran a 5K, completing a 10K seemed impossibly out of reach. Then, I ran a 10K, and it was the 1/2 marathon that was beyond my limit. Then, the marathon. Then, multiple marathons within a short time frame.

Now, none of those are beyond my limit. So I know that if I really wanted to run an ultra, I’d find a way to run it. At this point, the only thing stopping me from running an ultra is the mental limit I have put up - I don’t have a desire to run that far, and I don’t really want to put in the kind of training it would take.

And that’s ok - as long as I acknowledge that an ultra isn’t impossible for me. I’m simply choosing not to do it. When I’m done with my five marathons, I’ll have to pick some other goal (perhaps something more sedentary this time).

Too often, though, we put limits on ourselves without realizing that we are the ones creating the limits. Truthfully, we can do much more than whatever limits we place on ourselves. That is true of physical activity, career, family, or anything else. If we think we’ve done everything we can do professionally, there is probably much more we could accomplish if we mentally set our limit at a higher level. If we think our relationship with our family is great, it could probably be exponentially better if we started to imagine the possibilities.

In the end, it’s really up to us. Sometimes, genuine barriers do block our path. But more often than not, it is we who get in our own way.

It’s worth testing our real limits. That’s the only way we can know how far we can go. Would you rather have a car bumper that says 42.2, or 13.1, or even 10K or 5K (or whatever life goal you’ve set for yourself)? Or would you rather it say 0.0 and announce to the world that you didn’t try?

_________________________

The Secret To A Happy Birthday

(originally published October 14, 2015. My original blog, on Wordpress, was hacked in early 2016. All of the original posts, through January 2016, have been re-posted here on Blogger.)

When your birthday rolls around, you might celebrate by eating in a nice restaurant, or throwing a party, or taking the day off from work and relaxing around the house. Or - you might get up before dawn and run a near-marathon. That’s what my friend Noa did.

As I train for these five marathons, I’m discovering that, well, it’s not so easy. There are times when I’d rather not run. There are times when the weather doesn’t cooperate. There are times when I feel exhausted.

One of the the ways I overcome the obstacles is to hang around others who are pursuing big goals. It’s hard not to be inspired when you see someone else striving, pushing, growing beyond the ordinary. Noa is one of those people.

A couple of weeks ago, Noa turned thirty-six. So, on the morning of her birthday, she ran thirty-six kilometers - just a few kilometers short of a full marathon. Noa ran the first ten kilometers or so in her hometown of Efrat, south of Jerusalem. She then traversed the long road from Efrat to Jerusalem, finishing her thirty-sixth kilometer half-way through the city, conveniently located next to a great brunch spot.

Still Smiling After 36 Kilometers

Not content simply with a solo birthday run, Noa invited all her friends to join her for any part of the run or all of it (full disclosure: my wife, who is training with me for the five marathons, ran the full distance with Noa). I’ve found that people with big goals often include others in their goals.

A native of Pittsburgh, Noa has been living in Israel since 2002. Here in Israel, she met her husband, Bryan, who is also a runner. They are one of the few other couples I know who both run. When not running, Noa works as a nurse and cares for her three children (which can involve a lot of running).

Many people shy away from big goals because they think it’s too late - had they started years ago, they reason, then it all might have been possible. But not now, at this stage of their life. It would be natural to assume that someone like Noa has been running for years. Yet, she only began running a few years ago.

Her first attempt, like many people’s first attempts, was challenging. She tried a single sprint triathlon while six months pregnant (I can’t imagine) and suffered the whole way, hating every minute of it. But a year later, when a friend asked her to run in the Jerusalem Marathon’s 10K to raise money for her sister who had just been diagnosed with ALS, she decided to give it a go.

With six weeks of training under her belt, she still found she couldn’t run the full distance and needed to walk substantial parts of the course. While some would have called it quits at that point, Noa told herself that she’d come back the following year and run the half-marathon. She didn’t need the full year, however, running her first half-marathon just four months later. By the time, the Jerusalem Marathon rolled around, she was ready to go the full distance -all 42.2 kilometers. Since then, she has run about a dozen half-marathons, as well as her thirty-six kilometer birthday run, and is now training for her second full marathon in Tiberias in January.

How did Noa come up with the idea to run thirty-six kilometers on her birthday. “I’d heard of another running group that runs 50K,” Noa told me, “and it started in honor of one of their member’s fiftieth birthday. This year was the first year that I was more or less in shape to run my age in kilometers. Last year, I hadn’t trained enough to run thirty-five kilometers at the time of my birthday.”

Noa sees her running as a way to take more control of her own life and move beyond the genetics she was given. “Obesity runs in my family and I feel happy that I can celebrate my years on earth this way.”

We can all learn a few lessons from Noa, whether or not we want to run our age in kilometers. It would have been easy, and quite natural, for her to give up running, after her first grueling experience with the triathlon. It certainly would have been easy and natural to throw in the towel when she couldn’t run the full 10K distance in Jerusalem. Many in her situation would have reasoned to themselves that they only did this for charity as a favor to a friend, that this wasn’t their thing, and they were now finished.

Yet, Noa did what every successful person does when faced with an obstacle. She regrouped, set an even higher goal and determined that she would reach it. In the end, she not only reached her goal, but far surpassed it.

Birthdays can simply be time-markers, letting us know that we’re a year older. They can also be a time to indulge - throw a party, have some cake, relax a little. Neither are bad options.

But there is a higher level, beyond the milestone, beyond the cake. Ultimately, birthdays should be a celebration of life and an affirmation of life. There are many ways you might do this, depending on your interests - as affirmations of life go, running your age in kilometers is a pretty good one.

_________________________

Finding Your Weak Spot

(originally published October 4, 2015. My original blog, on Wordpress, was hacked in early 2016. All of the original posts, through January 2016, have been re-posted here on Blogger.)

About six inches stands between me and my next marathon. I plan to run the Athens Marathon in just over a month, the third of my five marathons. I have my plane ticket. I have my hotel reservation. I’ve been training for months. I’m ready to go - except for about six inches of tissue at the bottom of my right foot.

There’s something almost poetic about having an Achilles tendon issue while training for the Athens Marathon. The Greek hero, Achilles, for whom the Achilles tendon is named, figured prominently in Homer’s The Iliad.

Except that it didn’t feel all that poetic when I started to develop a distinct pain in the area of my right ankle a couple of weeks ago. The pain arrived out of the blue and uninvited, nearing the end of one early morning run. Having never experienced this particular injury before, and thankfully having experienced very few running injuries in general, I ignored it. That is - until my next run when the pain became more insistent, forcing me to call it a day just minutes into my run.

Still not sure what was wrong, I turned to the experts - or at least whoever claimed to be an expert and came up on a Google search. None of the standard reasons given for Achilles tendon problems applied - I hadn’t stepped up my training dramatically, or suddenly started running more hills. And I assure you that I wasn’t wearing high heels. I suspect that a new pair of running shoes may be the culprit, but I can’t be sure. As one web site noted after listing every possible reason, sometimes no specific reason presents itself.

Yet, here I am, with a marathon to run in November and an Achilles tendon issue in October. I’m determined to run the marathon. I didn’t come this far to throw in the towel. I’m also determined not to do something stupid. My Google experts emphasized that the Achilles tendon is serious business. They also gave me all manner of exercises, stretches and massage remedies to speed up the healing process.

Mostly though, they recommended rest. Which poses a dilemma - the most effective way to get over this would be simply to take a break from running for about a month. That would get me to Athens with a recovered Achilles tendon and no ability whatsoever to run the marathon. Or, I can continue to try to run as if everything’s fine, compounding the injury so that I will have no ability whatsoever to run the marathon.

I’ve developed a “hedge my bets” strategy, and discovered an important life lesson along the way. My strategy is simple - I took one week off and am now gradually returning to running with the hope of being up to speed (pun intended) in time for the starting gun in Athens. I’m doing every expert-recommended stretch, exercise and massage that exists to recover quickly. So far it seems to be working. I’ll let you know how it turns out - a future blog post will either proclaim that I ran the Athens Marathon despite an Achilles tendon injury, or explain why I didn’t run the Athens Marathon because of an Achilles tendon injury. I’m strongly favoring the former result.

In the meantime - strange, is it not, that I’m devoting so much thought and effort to a six inch band of tissue that resides above one of my feet? In the larger context, it’s a marginal part of my running. There’s picking out running shoes, focusing on running form, the mental game of running, protecting my knees, planning my training schedule to maximize my running ability, performing exercises to strengthen my back and core, working on correct running posture, etc. etc.

And then there’s this little tendon at the bottom of my right foot that right now is pushing all that aside and clamoring for all the attention. But that’s how the Achilles tendon has always worked - In the Greek story, Achilles was killed by Paris, who shot him in the heel - thus the phrase “achilles heel” - with an arrow. Ever since, the Achilles has been the metaphor for a person’s weak spot, often seemingly inconsequential and even hidden from view, but ultimately determinative.

Years ago, a certain self-help book made the bestseller lists – Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff and It’s All Small Stuff. Sometimes, this can be sound advice - look at the big picture, don’t get swept away by the details. But often, the seemingly small stuff turns out not to be so small - at least if the small stuff turns out to be your weak spot. One incompetent minimum-wage customer service representative can lose hundreds of customers and thousands of dollars for a company. One little defective spark plug can render an entire automobile immobile. One errant cell can multiply into a fatal cancer.

Sometimes, it can be unproductive to focus on the tiny details at the expense of the big picture - but it’s critical that we identify those little things that, when properly cared for, can make a big difference, and when not cared for, can derail us. Often, success in any field comes down to a few basic principles or a couple of skills. Often, it is the small changes we make that can have the biggest impact on achieving our goals.

So I’m going to start thinking small. I may still be running five marathons over the course of a year - but for the next few weeks, I’ll be focusing on those six little inches of tissue that will either help me reach my goal or stand rigidly in my way.

All of us have a weak spot. It may be “small stuff,” but if we want to move forward, then it’s worth “sweating” over it.

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