Why I Look Good In Purple

For the past few weeks, I have been walking around town sporting a nice, new purple running jacket.  And I have received my share of grief for it.

Wearing purple in Forest Grove, especially when one works at Pacific University (where our colors are red and black), is like someone wearing a bright yellow shirt in Corvallis.  For the uneducated, Pacific’s primary rival in athletics is Linfield College.  Their colors are purple and red.

Our golf coach nearly called me a traitor, seeing the jacket on the back of my chair.  The story behind the jacket elicited simply two words.

“You’re weird.”

But this jacket has nothing to do with the right or wrong colors, the right or wrong school or whether I am truly weird.  It is about goals achieved, dreams to come and the hard work it will take to get there.

At the beginning of 2013, I accepted the challenge of the Oregon Road Runners Club’s “1,200 Club” program.  A new offering by the club, it challenged members to run 1,200 miles during the calendar year.  This translates to 100 miles per month, or roughly 22 miles per week over 52 weeks.  That’s the same as driving from Portland to Rapid City, S.D.

Running 1,200 miles is a lofty goal to be certain.  Over the first two months, I managed to just meet the required 100 miles to keep pace.  But by the end of February, some amazing things started to happen that proved to be life enhancing.

For starters, the 1,200 Club challenge re-ignited my love for running.  I have always been an avid runner, but had been in a lull after completing my first marathon in 2010.  Accepting the challenge and putting the miles in reminded me of why I love it.  The stress release, the oneness with nature, the focus of being in tune with one’s body.

That reminder encouraged me to drop extra weight that I have carried for so long.  I joined a Weight Watchers group in February and since I have dropped 20 pounds and plan to lose more.  Conventional wisdom says you gain, on average, two seconds per mile for every pound lost.  For a runner, that is like finding a gear you had forgotten existed.

I found that gear over the course of the year, dropping 10 minutes off of my half-marathon personal best at the Helvetia Half Marathon in June and running under 42 minutes in a pair of 10-kilometer races over the summer.

The challenge also made me dust off of my longtime bucket list goals: To qualify for the Boston Marathon.  The bombings that took place at the marathon finish line on Apr. 15, 2013, only helped resolve that goal of sometime soon toeing the start line in Hopkington, Mass., to run that fabled route to Boylston Street.  I took a major step towards that goal by finishing the 2013 Portland Marathon in 3 hours, 23 minutes, a 35-minute improvement over my 2010 marathon.  It is just 13 minutes off the Boston qualifying time for my age group.

That Portland Marathon, that dedicated training, that improvement would never have happened without the 1,200 Club challenge.  And because of that I wear my purple jacket.  Proudly.

As I work my way through an injury that has kept me sidelined for over two months, that purple jacket is reminding me of why I need to keep my focus.  It’s a reminder to myself of the hard work already banked and the hard work I still need to do to make my goals realities.

So I will wear that purple jacket, looking down every so often at the stitching proclaiming me a 1,200 Club member, thinking proudly of the journey experienced and many miles I will still travel on my two feet.

Purple is the color of goals achieved, dreams to come and the hard work it will take to get there.  I’ll see you on the roads.

This story is scheduled to appear in the May 2014 edition of the ORRC's "Oregon Distance Runner" magazine.

Inspiration

One of the greatest experiences I have had in this journey in running this year has been all of those who have been touched by my journey.

As those of you who are close to me know, I have not been shy about sharing my running and weight loss success on social media.  My Facebook and Twitter pages are full of mileage milestones, race pictures and times and other running-related posts that inspire me.

My purpose in posting was two-fold.  Yes, I wanted to share with my friends about the progress towards my goals, but to also receive inspiration.

So it is humbling when the inspiration works the other way around, when people tell me that they are inspired to action by my words and my actions.

The first instance that sticks in my mind was at the CoSIDA Convention in June.  I had just completed the Helvetia Half Marathon the weekend before, but had been taking the morning opportunities to run in a place I never had before. 

I was at a reception on the final night of the convention, and I was talking to a friend who happens to be on the CoSIDA Board.  For those of you who have not served, sitting on the CoSIDA Board means 6 and 7 a.m. meetings during the entire convention.

Despite those meetings, this friend told me that the running I had done, and the running I was doing in Orlando, had inspired him to get up every morning before those board meetings and get on the treadmill.  I was dumbfounded and proud at the same time.  Dumbfounded that I could have inspired him in that way, and proud that he had taken a step to take care of himself.

There was the assistant volleyball coach that saw me running while teaching her fitness class, and used that as the inspiration to jump into a race.  There is the former Pacific colleague of mine, how working in Illinois, who used my Facebook posts as a call to lace up the shoes and put the miles in.  He jokingly said that he was tired on being shown up on Facebook by miles.  I only jokingly responded, “It’s not about showing you up, but getting you to show up.”

After the Portland Marathon, I was profiled in the local paper for my personal best time, highlighting the changes I had made to both lose weight and get serious about training.  The article promoted an email from a complete stranger, a former runner herself, who herself was inspired by my accomplishments.

She said she has run a couple of marathons in the past, but has also struggled with weight over the years, and wants to be a runner again.  “I just turned 54 yesterday and want to lose 25 pounds,” she said.  “That was another bit of inspiration I gleaned from the article…that you lost 25 pounds in 6-7 months and dropped your finish time dramatically.  I would love for that to be story!”

After taking the time to reply, I hope it is.  But the true inspiration doesn’t come from a newspaper story, a Facebook post or a number on a scale.  It comes from that inner fire we have to become better people, to set and achieve goals and realize their potential.

And it is inspiring to me that I can be that inspiration to others.

"The miracle isn't that I finished.  The miracle is that I had the courage to start." - John Bingham

When Old (Unwanted) Friends Come To Visit

I have a friend who has come to visit, and I want nothing more than for him to leave.

You know the type of friend I speak of.  He comes in, makes himself comfortable and manages to bust up your entire routine.  He’s the type that no matter how many conversations and arguments you have, no matter what techniques you brainstorm or how many professionals you see, he just doesn’t want to leave.  And he will kick and scream and hold on for as long as he can before he goes.

My friend caught up to me on Feb. 12, as I was in the final miles of an 11-miler in preparation for the Shamrock Run 15K in Portland.  I had just completed a pretty good stretch of hills through a local neighborhood and then decided to take a stab at Watercrest Rd., the most killer hill in all of Forest Grove.  If I am preparing to tackle a race along Portland’s Terwilliger Blvd. and its hills, throwing in one more would be good for the training.

My mistake.  Three-quarters of the way up that hill, my old friend came to visit.

Achilles Tendonitis.

By the time I finished my run, it was obvious that he was here.  But like an idiot, I didn’t start into war mode right away.  I rested, but I didn’t ice.  I didn’t stretch.  I just let him stay there, lying like the cushions on my couch.

After a Sunday off, I continued on my merry way, continuing my runs for the next couple of days.  Finally, my buddy told me that he would be staying for a while.  The discomfort was too much to run.  While my right heel wasn’t in pain, I knew that if I didn’t stop right then, things would get worse.

That meant no running.  After nearly two years of avoiding the injury bug through marathon training, I was suddenly forced to the world of ice, elliptical trainers and water running.  My last day on the roads was Feb. 17, and outside of a short track run to test my progress (a mistake I realized after the fact), I haven’t run a step since.

Achilles’ return visit was a real shock to the system for a couple of reasons.  First, I had gotten my running groove back.  After cutting back my mileage for the two months after the Portland Marathon, I was charging full force into the next step in my running renaissance.  The goals had been set: Shamrock in March, Haag Lake 10-Miler in May, the Helvetia Half Marathon in June and Portland again in October.  I had started doing tempo runs and speed work.  I started tracking calories in an effort to drop some of the weight that didn’t come off during marathon training.  My “friend” Achilles put that plan to a screeching halt, like the emergency brake pulled on a speeding freight train.

The second was how long Achilles stayed for his first visit.  He introduced himself to me about seven years ago.  He showed up when I was going out for a training run with members of the track & field team at the university I work at.  I did everything I thought I was supposed to do to get him to leave.  I stopped all exercise for six weeks and gave it complete rest.  I stretched.  I iced.  I saw a podiatrist and sports medicine orthopedist.  I did physical therapy.  And through it all, not of it worked.

I gave up on running.  I gave up for four years.  I gave up on the sport that buoyed me through high school and college and gave me so much personal satisfaction for years.  I gained 20 pounds.  I got out of shape.  I simply gave up.

This time, I tackled my unwanted house guest head on.  I stretched as much as possible.  I iced religiously, as much as five times per day.  I went and saw a podiatrist, who is a marathon and Ironman triathlete himself. 

After two almost three weeks, things were feeling better.  There wasn’t as much pain.  Maybe my “friend” had hit the road.  I stepped onto the track to give it a go.  The doc said to give it a try if it felt like the pain was minimal.  After one mile, things felt good.  I walked a lap, and then reeled off another slow mile.  Another walking lap, and then a third mile.  Coming off the track, things still felt good.  I stretched.  I iced and sat down to finish the workday.

But he hadn’t left.  He hadn’t hit the road and neither would I.  By the end of the day, Achilles was back.  And he hurt more than ever.  The back of my heel stiffened up badly. 

When I had to sit at home while my wife and dad went off to run the Shamrock Run, that’s when the depression really set in.  Not only was this injury back, it was set to be here for a while.  My first goal was gone.  The money was paid, but the race number was never claimed.  I began to wonder if this friend of mine was going to keep from running for another Olympiad.

I am convinced that, like the stages of grief, there are similar stages of injury.  I suffered the denial that this Achilles injury could be as bad as it was.  There was the anger of knowing it was back.  There was the bargaining of thinking I had conquered it in two weeks and finding out that, in fact, it was not.  Then there was the depression of knowing that not only was I not running, but that I had missed my first goal race and would not be running for some time.

The fifth stage of grief is acceptance, and in working through an injury there is certainly a stage of accepting that this injury, my “friend,” might be here for a while.  The first time Achilles came to visit, the acceptance came in giving up on running for four years.  This time around, though, I am committed to not let that happen again.

I have stayed committed to cross training and finding ways to try and maintain my fitness.  My current regimen includes four to five days a week of either elliptical training or water running.  I am staying diligent on my stretching and icing and will do so until I freeze my friend out.  I am committing to using the down time to re-educate myself on training technique.  While on the elliptical, I am re-reading Marathoning Start To Finish, the great training guide produced by Warren & Patti Finke for the Portland Marathon Clinic.  After that, I plan to read the Daniels Running Formula to begin to fine tune planning for my next marathon.

I have re-committed to stretching after I workout.  I had stopped stretching for a while, buying into the theories that stretching didn’t have much value and being conscious of the time I was spending in the middle of my workday on my workout.  Saving a few minutes by not stretching will help productivity, right?  I have learned, the hard way, that my body needs stretching.

I am starting to lift weights again and incorporating core training to help strengthen those areas that give me problems, most notably my lower back and lower legs.  I have never been able to stick with a weight program for more than three weeks in the past.  My hope is with this visit my Achilles coming again that I will stick with it and reap all of the benefits strength training can provide.

The toughest part of this process for me will be keeping a positive outlook.  People who know me well know it doesn’t take much to pull me down, to give up hope on certain situations.  I believe things are getting better and I have a positive outlook on what’s ahead.  I may miss another goal race, but that simply means that I need to adjust my sights.  If I miss Hagg Lake, Helvetia is still a possibility.  What if I miss out on Portland?  There is Seattle the next month.

If anything, I am positive about one thing.  I am positive that I want to show my friend Achilles the door, once and for all.

It's All About The Shirt

Everyone’s motivation for tackling their first marathon is different.  Some want the pure challenge of pushing their body to the limit.  Some endure the arduous training to raise money for a cause or in honor or memory of a loved one who endured something harder.  Still others want to prove that “can’t” is really “can,” either to others or themselves.

My motivation? It’s was all about the shirt.

Those in Portland know the shirt real well.  While the change colors every year, the iconic Portland Marathon shirt features the finisher’s year above the logo.  Below it is a map of the course, if you will.  A large square of text describing the 26.2-mile course turn by turn.

I had admired that shirt for years.  I admired those who got to wear the shirt, a badge of honor of those who had not only battled Portland, but also conquered it.  After my dad captured his own flag, running his first marathon at age 55 in 2007, I knew my turn would come soon.

You know the joke at some races.  “Yeah.  I’m just running this for the shirt.” Well this time, for me, it was the truth.

As I began training in the spring of 2010, the image of that shirt was burned into my mind.  It started when I woke up every morning and set in each night in settled into bed.  The poster from that 2007 marathon, featuring that same text-made map, was taped on the bookcase right next to my bed along with a picture of my dad and I along the course.

Through the summer days of arduous training, the soul-testing training runs along the Wildwood Trail and the 20-milers on my own, circling Hagg Lake twice, I thought of that shirt and how good it would look on it.  It didn’t matter the color.  It didn’t matter that my belly would still show.  It was going to look damn good.

It seemed like whenever I took off for one of my longer runs, almost without fail, I would see someone pacing by in one of those Portland Marathon shirts.  It was like they were part of an exclusive one, and one I wanted to be part of…if I could get past the initiation rite.

On race morning, conditions were less than optimal.  I wore a heavy trash bag over my body to keep me from getting soaked before the start.  As it would end up, the rain wouldn’t let up.  The Portland Marathon on a typical October Portland Morning.  By mile two it didn’t matter.  I was soaked.  I wasn’t going to get any wetter and I had to have that shirt.

By mile 17 the mind was still willing, but the legs were not.  A fairly even 8:30 pace turned into a run/walk.  My dream of a 3:40 finish was soon out the window.  Could I still beat four hours?  Who knew?  Was quitting an option?  Definitely not.  It was still all about the shirt.

Just after 11 a.m. the initiation rite was over.  I crossed the finish line cold, wet and tired.  I had made it, and had still managed to duck across the finish line under the four-hour mark.  Walking was hard and initially the block-long buffet of oranges, juices, candy, cookies and other high-energy snacks look far from appetizing.  I just walked to cool down, half in a stupor, half in the wonderment of what I had just done.

At the end of that long block was my reward.  A line of tables with the one thing I had spent most of the last year training, sacrificing and giving time for.  It was black, so a bonus for being a slimming color.  The green and white text described the very course that I had just completed (though it would take me sometime that the word SWANISLAND was not some long-past amusement park sight near the University of Portland, but in fact advertised the view of Swan Island from along the Bluff).

Above that map, the large words said it all.  2010 Finisher, Portland Marathon.

It didn’t matter that my singlet had more water in it than the Willamette River, that Dry-Fit cloth seemed to suck some of it out and infused more energy back in.  It kept me warmer than the space blanket and, to me, was flashier than the medal.

You see, that Portland Marathon finisher’s shirt was more than just another race shirt.  It is a symbol of a very long, but fulfilling journey.  I start training for the Portland Marathon seven years, back when my legs were a little faster.  A couple of anxiety attacks kept me from training for a month and derailed that attempt.  I could have trained for a later marathon, such as Seattle, but I wanted Portland to be my first.  So, rightly or wrongly, the journey stopped.

The next year I suffered a very chronic case of Achilles tendonitis, the type that, no matter what I did or how closely I followed doctor’s instructions, never seemed to get better.  I wouldn’t run regularly again for another four years.  When I was really able to start training seriously again, about three years ago, a lower back injury provided yet another setback.  After about four months with a really helpful physical therapist, I was truly on my way.  I got through 2010 with no major injuries.  I have the shirt to prove it.

After my dad ran his marathon, I felt like I had no choice but to do it.  And that was a good thing.  He started running when I began to run high school cross country, and early morning runs became a bonding experience for us.  His marathon journey too had been slowed by injuries, moves and job changes.  It had been over a decade in the making.  Completing my marathon, to have him there on the course and to have my picture with him at the end, both of us wearing our finisher’s shirts, meant as much as finishing the race itself.

I own the shirt now.  I belong to the fraternity.  I’m in the club.  I am one of them.

When one completes a marathon, there is usually one of two reactions.  You either catch the bug and start looking ahead to the next or one, or you swear off anything over 10 kilometers again.  I was the former.  So whenever I see someone out donning their finisher’s shirt, or even sometimes looking in the mirror, I relish the challenge of doing it all again and adding another one to my wardrobe.

My next marathon?  Yeah, I’ll be running for the shirt.

About The New Blog...

So before you go wondering why Blake is starting a new blog, be assured that I am not taking new time to have multiple spots on the blogosphere.

As it works out, I can no longer access my old blog, Blake Timm's Sidelines, to update.  Thanks to a change to our Internet provider and a chance in our e-mail address, my old login and password no longer works.  So because of that, I had to start a new blog.  New name, same writer.

But perhaps some new subject matter.  I still have some random thoughts about my chosen profession of sports information, but my passion and interest in running has certainly been refueled.  This has been even more so after completing my first marathon, the Portland Marathon, in October.  There is a lot about running I want to write about, including a number of my experiences in training for the marathon.

So I hope you enjoy some of my thoughts and experiences.  And thank you for checking the site out.