(so i wrote this Saturday, and i'm posting today, and i'm disappearing into alaska now for a few days. more soon.)


5 a.m. Nik's alarm goes off. I shimmy into my gear: sneaks and little socks, black bike shorts, purple jersey, sunglasses, and Goo belt - a black elastic waistband that, holster-like, holds my energy gel and assorted other race needs. Five is not usually my time of day, but the early sunlight helps my mood and I feel awake and alert, but calm. We munch bagels, bananas, and pretzels, and bus to the start line with the rest of the Oregon team.

Bags are checked, water bottles are filled, and songs are loudly sung by the Oregonians, to the nervous surprise of the other teams. Turns out that our crew of 20 or so Portlanders and Eugenians is just about the most joyful raucous bunch amongst the 3,800 racers stretching and sighing and pacing about wearing trash bags.

We go to the start line. We sing We Are the Champions. And then I run a marathon. And though I am writing this from my post-cold-bath, ibuprofen-laden, immobilized-in-bed position, dare I say it was - fun? Or if not fun exactly, at least not as horrible as I expected? And there was a moose at mile two!

The course wound through woods and over streams, on pavement and dirt gravel trails, and for quite a while by the highway. The crowds were sparse but cheerful. The hills were numerous but thoughtfully spaced, and the other runners came in all ages and styles. The weather was perfection, 60s and partly cloudy.

I ran half way without music, listening to the footfalls and the wind in the trees and the well-intentioned cheers of sideliners misreading my jersey, Go Jean Go! My goal became: run a whole half marathon without walking. My body felt strong and my mind felt clear and there I was at mile 13.1, popping in my new earbuds and cranking up the mixes that my friends had made. The music, like all the other things I tried for the first time today, worked like magic. I just kept running, downing water and sports drink at each two mile station, squeezing foil packets of frosting-like gel into my mouth every four miles, and adjusting my pace to the ground and the beat.

My body creaked and groaned at times - sore toes, tight shoulders, swollen fingers - but most things either passed or were wholly ignorable. All the things that might have gone wrong didn't. My stomach never churned, my sides never stitched, my knee never stabbed.

The miles ticked by. For some I watched the changing terrain, the green and the streams and the distant mountains, or the other runners - their gear and their form and the dedications written on their jerseys. Other miles I spent in my head, thinking about friends and plans. And more miles than expected I spent wholly but happily in my body, relaxing shoulders, holding up my head, pumping my arms straight. I repeated a million times glide glide glide and it all felt like it was supposed to feel, and the surprise of that buoyed my mood. I expected serious pain, nonfunctional legs, and quiet desperation. But at each mile marker I thought ecstatically, It doesn't feel like shit yet!

Since it kept feeling good, I kept running. I decided to run for as long as I could. The uphills were slow and full of panting, and the downhills were slow and full of caution. I think my legs were tired, but as long as I kept moving they didn't feel it fully. The music and the cheering were a constant feed of energy. It felt almost automatic. Fuel in, motion out.

The last four miles were long. Long. But I was so happy to still be running, so high on the long list of unlikely circumstances that conspired to provide a good run, that I was equal parts spent and thrilled. I ran around the lake, and up the much lamented bluff, and around the West High track. And I crossed the finish line, and an announcer read my name, and the clock said 4:11. Works for me.

So there it is, whatever that means. I ran a marathon. I'm going to think about it some more and add these thoughts in a few days.

Until then, congratulations to all the Oregon runners and walkers and run-walkers, especially Nik, Emilee, Courtney, Jamie, Emily, Jane, Amy, Rachel, Ashely, and Vicky; and superhuge thanks to Traci from TnT and kickass Portland coach Priscilla. Many more thanks to follow.

(Next day p.s.: Traci called from the airport to say they put the top 100 men and top 100 women finishers in the Anchorage newspaper and holy shit! I just made it in at 98. Yeehaw.)

Greetings from Anchorage!

After a short sweet Seattle waterfront run yesterday I headed to the airport and caught a nonstop flight north at nine p.m. The hours passed and the sky grew disorientingly lighter, until after eleven when my little window was full of bright white dawnlike sky over a snowtopped dark craggy mountainscape.

I landed to find one message on my mobile phone. It was my dad, frantically urging me to check the status of my expiring student health insurance. Quite the vote of confidence.

And here I am in my first Anchorage morning, pleasantly cool and cloudy. My classmate Nikki – who hatched this whole idea with me back in January, but has been living & training in Portland ever since – is due in at one. According to the Anchorage Daily News’s Alaska Weather page, which is found just after the articles “Rascally bears evict Denali campers” and “Bears? Wait till you see Kodiak bumblebees,” predicts a Saturday in the sixties, with intervals of clouds and sunshine. Hoo Rah. Two days to go.

Yesterday I had a run of regret, zipping around the river path in one of Eugene’s perfect summer evenings, 8:30 and the sky still full of light, bikers and dog walkers and kids on swings and the smell of honeysuckle and the sound of rapids and my head full of wondering why I am leaving here, this surprising little city of liberal bumper stickers and buttes full of blackberries. And while I’m at it, why didn’t I bike this path every week? Why didn’t I spend even one day taking photographs of this place I’ve lived for four years?

And this is how I get about transitions, and it’s terribly sad and it’s part of why I appreciate them. Every time I try to do it a little bit better, so it will be a little less sad. But it’s always sad.

Last night Ty and Talley and I were sitting in Talley’s livingroom decompressing from the third and final yard sale, and we realized I was leaving in two days, and in the span of five minutes Ty and Talley called all our local friends on two cell phones so that tonight after a day of boxing my stuff and stacking it into a 5’x5’ unit, Ty and Talley and Melissa and Nopporn and Deb and John and Paz and Liz and Adrienne and I ate vegetarian Chinese food and made one last long pilgrimage to Sweet Life for cake and tea and stories. Some of these stories had to do with marathon vomiting and marathon underwear and marathon flesh wounds, but some of them were entirely pleasant.

And now every one of us is off to somewhere new, except Liz who is doing her something new right here, and I know that’s what needs to happen next. But wow, you sit at a table with eight inspiring kickass people and you just wish you could sit with them once a week forever to hear about the inspiring kickass things they’re up to.

But for now I’m packing. To the many many folks who have sent good wishes, song lists, tiny notes, and donations this week, thank you SO VERY MUCH. I hope you understand how deeply I appreciate this support, and how it has shaped this whole experience. Right this very moment, thinking about the run, I feel thrilled instead of nervous because of all of you. I promise to return the unanswered calls and messages just as soon as I can… so, as soon as I cram the rest of my stuff into the storage unit, drive to Seattle, fly to Anchorage, and run 26 miles. Next week, perhaps?

One week from right now, from RIGHT NOW, I will be running. More accurately by this point I might be jog/limping.

One of my friends who reads my blog keeps his own blog, and one of his friends found her way onto my blog from his blog, and wouldn’t you know? Her mom used to run marathons, and the very first marathon she ran was the Alaska Midnight Sun Run. So yesterday I got an email from my friend’s friend’s mom with a mile-by-mile chronicle of what to expect. This is the kind of magic that has been happening around this whole event.

I will here reprint her description:

Miles 0 - 4 are on a paved bike path running parallel toAlaska's major N/S highway, with a slight incline up to theoverpass, across the overpass to the otherside of thehighway. Don't get caught up in the rush of the first fewmiles. Take it easy and you'll feel much better going the next 13.

Miles 4 - 7 are on a two lane paved service road, mostlyflat. Good cruising opportunity.

Miles 7 - 17 are over the dirt trails of the Chugach Mountain foothills. Rough in places, hilly, and ending on adirt road taking you over to mile 17. Grueling. Watch yourstep.

Miles 17 - 19 are on the sidewalk/bikepath right next toTudor Road, a major E/W arterial 5 lane paved road. Cough,cough, gasp.

Miles 19 - 25 take you through neighborhoods to run along Anchorage's beautiful greenbelt, including Chester Creek inplaces and a paved bike trail that features tunnels underthe N/S roads of central Anchorage. Some small hills hereand there. Another good cruising opportunity, but don't befooled as you circle around Westchester Lagoon. Notice thebluff straight ahead.

Miles 25 - 26 include a steep climb up the bluff (Oh No!),a weary jog along neighborhood streets, and finally a laparound West High School's track (arghhh!) to the finishline.

Let us take a moment to note a few key words and phrases: Foothills. Rough. Grueling. Cough, cough, gasp. Bluff.

Bluff?

In my junior year of college back in the last millennium I spent a semester in Australia. I knew a guy there who wore the same thing every day: kaki pants and a blue button down shirt. He didn't wear the exact same clothes every day. But in his closet were ten or so identical pairs of kaki pants and ten or so identical blue button down shirts. He just didn't like to waste time thinking about what to wear.

I'm not that extreme. I have a whole closet full of clothes of varying colors and shapes. I can go to a wedding or an interview with only minimal borrowing from my friend Talley. But clothes are not something I think a whole lot about. If it's warm I wear a skirt and a tank top, and if it's cold I wear pants and a tank top and a sweater. And the pants are probably torn around the back of the cuffs. And I like when things have pockets, and I like fabrics that feel interesting. But that's it. So it is really alarming how long I have been planning and shopping for this one particular outfit. The marathon Day Outfit.

Now as I've mentioned, the general rule is not to do anything on marathon day that you haven't been doing for months before. But oh well. I've been working out in mid-length meshy shorts, and that's just not going to cut it. Extra material on shorts = deep marathon sadness, because everything you wear in a marathon is rubbing against you for many consecutive hours.

I tried to solve this problem long ago. I worked my way through several options.

For a while I was going to wear a running skirt, because it seemed like it would feel really comfortable. I ruled out the running skirts from the site that refers to the built-in underwear as "spankies" on principle. And right around then this big running skirt debate erupted on several running blogs I visit, and the general tone - reflected on all the running skirt sales sites - was, running skirts are a great way for a woman to be athletic but still be cute and feminine.

There ended the running skirt appeal for me. Cuteness is great and all but seriously, is that really what a woman is supposed to be thinking about when she's running a marathon? Because I don't anticipate getting to mile nineteen and thinking, "I sure hope I still look feminine!" This whole understanding of the word feminine really pisses me off, though that's a different blog entirely. Let's leave it at this: running involves strength and stamina and sweat and you can find that cute or not, but it's not really about you now, is it?

Next up: the feathery light runner shorty shorts. These have little material and are good when it's hot. They are the item of choice at Eugene Running Company. But they're just not for me. Putting aside the fact that when the wind blows your ass is exposed to all behind you (which granted, in my case, will not be very many people) these just don't work for people with thighs. The average chicken-legged runner is safe and sporty in shorty shorts, but for me the lack of material would cause as much chafing as an excess of material. Next!

At this point I put aside my shopping ethics and stopped in at the Nike store. With optimistic glee I bought a pair of black-and-pink spandex shorts with super wicking dri-stuff and a perfect little pocket in back for an mp3 player. Alas, these were not designed for distance. After only forty minutes of running the legs had rolled themselves up and the numerous seams where all the magic fabrics met were making themselves abundantly apparent. Nike may not have any sort of production ethics, but at least they have a good return policy.

Last stop: REI. Final choice: "compression shorts." Basically, black spandex. Black spandex with a wide flat nonabrasive waistband and legs long enough to stay in place. No pockets, but I'm working on some amendments.

So now I just have to pick out my makeup.

Ten days til go time. Ten days from RIGHT NOW it will be over, and I will be drinking a beer somewhere in Anchorage with two hours of sunlight ahead of me and a lot fewer toenails.

My run today, as per usual, felt mediocre. I think I used to finish feeling tired but strong. I don’t know what has changed. It might be something ominous and I’m just shit out of luck, or it might be that I’m pushing myself a bit harder. I can’t tell. I have no sense of my pace, and I don’t like the treadmill. But for the past two weeks I’ve felt like I hit a plateau. Half way through my workouts I wish deeply that they were over. It could also be that the whole point of training is that you constantly push yourself outside of your comfort zone in order to get strong. But shit. Enough already. When do I get to feel strong?

I sent out an email soliciting running songs and running thoughts. It’s only been a few hours, and the collection so far is highly amusing. You wouldn't believe some of the music people actually pay for. Some of the music that in a few days I myself will pay for, and that a few days after that may save my ass. Cause really, is there a way not to laugh that your grown friend put Justin Timberlake on your mix? I mean even if you've been running for hours and oxygen is at a premium, you would still have to laugh. Justin Timberlake and his peers are my new allies in the defeat of marathon despair.

For the moment, though, I am munching on peanut butter and planning my evening, which – for the first time in as long as I can remember – involves neither thesis work nor a looming workout. Perhaps I will make some of my clothes clean. Perhaps I will rediscover the flat surfaces of my room. Perhaps I will return one of my weeks of backlogged messages. The options are endless. Hoorah.

Goodbye, double digits of days to the run.

My computer nearly shut itself down just now, because the battery ran out and I didn’t want to stand up to get the cord. Because I am sore. SORE. As per The Schedule, I spent my afternoon running for an hour and a half and then immediately biking for a half hour and then stretching for ten minutes and then icing for twenty minutes and I feel like a ZOMBIE, except without the energy to feast on the living. Just the kind of zombie who lies around being undead, and occasionally moaning.

The marathon is in thirteen days. Two weeks from right now it will all be over. My repertoire of exclamations is insufficient to express my happiness about this. Tomorrow I am presenting my mater’s thesis and is that worrying me? No. What is worrying me at the moment is that I am somehow going to have to run for upwards of FOUR HOURS, in a row, ideally without an i.v. and – as the blogname suggests – with no jetpack whatsoever. How will this happen? I do not know.

My Plan A at the moment is the surfacing of some as-yet-undiscovered reserve of physical and mental capacity on the day of the event. I am also counting on adrenaline, crowd energy, and music. The piece of marathon advice I have encountered most frequently is do not do anything for the first time on the day of your marathon. No new socks that might rub you wrong, no new breakfast that might make you queasy. You’re even supposed to train with the specific brand of drink your marathon provides. But I am breaking this rule – along with assorted others like training with the specific brand of energy drink my marathon provides – by carrying an mp3 player on the day of. I haven’t done it ever, and I don’t even own one yet. But I’ve decided that this will be my version of the swimmer’s pre-race shave. It will be a big mental boost when I’ve prepared myself for no boost. And though I realize that I risk some angry bloody arm wound where the new player clings, I just can’t say I care. I am also alarmingly unconcerned about cheating myself out of part of the experience, or soaking it all in, or whatever. When I have run for an hour and a half and I feel like vomiting and passing out, I will pop those annoying buds into my ears and listen to Big & Rich and I Feel Lucky and the theme song from Chariots of Fire, and I will run for three more hours. If anyone has song recommendations, please pass them on and I will busy myself with some downloading.

And now, back to the PowerPoint that I will use to present two years of research and writing to all of the faculty and students I know. As if there’s anything intimidating about that, when it doesn’t even require stretching.