Matthew Gallaway

Notes on Standing

1. I had read the articles with the usual skepticism, but as time passed, I reconsidered an idea that was beginning to gain cultural traction. Maybe sitting really was the new smoking? 2. Last fall, when some friends asked me to run a half-marathon with them, I initially said I couldn't do it. My hamstrings had been really tight and I was on a break until I recovered. I wasn't sure I could run thirteen steps, let along thirteen miles. 3. I decided to "be proactive." After doing some "internet research" and (probably) ruling out cancer and other malignant conditions, I picked out among the ten billion possibilities on YouTube some hamstring squat/stretches to incorporate into my daily warmup routine, which seemed to help a little. When I worked from home, instead of sitting all day in a mid-century recliner that I assumed was not designed for eight-hour stretches of digital correspondence, I instead propped my laptop up on a shelf.  4. It was difficult at first, but after I got used to it, I realized that I wasn't standing in the manner that I tended to sit, which was basically in a state of paralysis, so much as constantly fidgeting, stretching, and shuffling back and forth as I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. I tried to picture myself as a piece of nonglobalwarming-induced, nonbleached coral under the waves of an imaginary, nonpolluted ocean filled with undepleted fisheries. Then, after a few weeks, whether because of the stretches or the standing, my hamstrings felt a lot better! The only thing I can compare it to was when I quit smoking, which was really hard at first, but then -- one day -- made me feel So Much Better. Just kidding, I've never been a smoker :) 5. Soon I was running fifty or sixty miles a week free of pain, but as time passed, I sabotaged myself. I would come back from my morning run and think, "My legs are tired, so I'll just sit while I answer this first batch of e-mails." And then three or four hours later I would realize that, except for my fingers, I hadn't moved. I was not a piece of coral but a worker in the modern era. I remembered my lesson: typing -- even when you do it a lot -- doesn't improve your tight hamstrings.  6. In retrospect, it doesn't seem surprising that I strained one of my hamstrings in the weeks leading up to my most recent race, or that it's been the last thing to recover since I ran a few weeks ago. The good news is that I'm back to standing, which (I think) is helping. Here's something else I've read online. "The body, like an ecosystem, likes to heal." (Maybe?) I also haven't been running, which is unfortunate given that the weather is FINALLY good and every morning I wake up and think about Fort Tryon Park and how I won't be gliding past the heather gardens. Instead I've been "cross-training" on the elliptical at the gym, which isn't quite the same, but at least means I can work up a sweat and move my arms and legs in a vague approximation of running that is admittedly "easier on the joints." I remember when I was younger and arrogant (about running, among so many other things) and I used to mock the elliptical, calling it an "ellipti-lol," but now I'm a convert. I expect/hope/pray to be running again soon, although I've also vowed not to "push it."  7. In nonhamstring news, it's been raining a lot, which has given me the opportunity to admire the pearls of water that collect on the (deciduous) needles of the dawn redwood.  8. The campanula have also begun to flower, disregarding the conspiratorial murk of the larger world in which they live. 9. And always hoping that a sliver of light will break through and allow them to shine.

Notes on Marathon Recovery

1. According to many blogs I had read, it takes approximately 26.2 days to recover from a 26.2 mile race. It seemed like a long time to me; I didn't feel too sore, but when I went out on a few short two-three mile runs, my legs felt wooden and rebellious, as if they were saying "what is this stupid thing you want us to do?" I could deal with their bad attitude, but one of my hamstrings complained more earnestly. "I got you through the race," it seemed to say, "but now you're going to have to give me some time off, and by 'time off' I mean weeks not days." I reluctantly agreed to this proposition and instead of running went on a walk through Highbridge Park, where the trees had leafed out seemingly overnight. A few weeks ago it was winter and now it was summer.  2. The actual bridge -- which connects Washington Heights to the Bronx, crossing over the East River -- wasn't crowded, but there were people walking in both directions. When it comes to transportation routes in the city, the old adage about "build it and they will come" definitely applies here. (Not that the bridge was built from scratch; it was renovated and reopened after sitting idle for four or five decades.) The entire Highbridge Park (maddeningly one word, unlike the High Bridge, two words) is slated to receive a lot of upgrades and renovations in the next few years, which I'm sure will be welcomed by just about everyone who lives in the area. (They're even putting in a rock-climbing wall?) I'll be sure to keep you posted. 3. Back in the garden, some people were perplexed by long-distance running, even after I tried to explain it to them. 4. The idea of going anywhere seemed pointless when you could just relax in the sun. 5. Of course, those who are younger are more restless. 6. At my age -- not exactly old, but definitely not young, either -- I could understand both perspectives, or neither, or some of each. One reason I want to get back to running is that I know there are limits to how many years I can run marathons at a certain speed; it's just the way bodies work (or don't work), no matter how hard you train. I will slow down. It may have already happened! (I'll let you know after my next marathon, assuming I can get my legs and hamstrings on board.) 7. If a part of me feels regret about this process, the appeal of taking it easy is more palpable; having lived at one extreme, I hope, will make it easier to accept the other.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Rhinebeck (Marathon Results)

After I ran my last marathon, in 1998, I told myself that I would never do it again. It was my second one, and while I did marginally better than the first, it was still excruciating. The first fifteen miles were great, but then -- clearly undertrained -- I "bonked" or "hit the wall" and shuffled through the last ten miles. I managed to finish, and even felt good about having done it, but decided that a third helping was unnecessary. Over the years, I would read articles about how unhealthy marathon running is and how it's better to focus on shorter distances and say to myself, that's for sure. Like why would you subject yourself to that kind of torture (more than twice)?I never stopped running, but I spent the next two decades averaging probably fifteen miles each week, a very "recreational" number I think is typical of people who do a few three-mile sessions on the treadmill and maybe a slightly longer run outside on the weekend if the weather's nice. I thought it was enough. Then, almost exactly two years ago, I realized that my knees were aching in a way I had never felt before -- very sharp jabs in the kneecap, characteristic of "runner's knee" -- which made me wonder if I had "overdone it" when I was young and would have to hang up the running shoes for good. It wasn't a happy thought: for most of my life, running was a part of my "identity" that had always been relatively stable and uncontroversial, something I could think about without extremes of pride and anger, or shame and regret, a way to observe the world and its people with a kind of meditative detachment and appreciation. So you can imagine my relief when, after losing a few pounds (via the elliptical), my knees began to feel better. This in turn led me to ramp up the distance, almost as if I owed a tribute of miles to the running gods who had granted me this reprieve, which was why, after I completed a half-marathon in New Orleans last February, I decided I had "no choice" but to sign up for a full marathon, my memories of the prior two notwithstanding. This time, I told myself, I was more disciplined; I knew more about training. I did "intervals" and "hills" and worked on my "core." Having run the NOLA half in 1:26, I knew that breaking three hours in a full wasn't likely, but it wasn't out of the question, either. At the very least, I reasoned, I should be able to run a "BQ," which is how marathoners refer to a time that qualifies for entry in the Boston Marathon, the Holy Grail of runners (who aren't competing in the Olympics or something similar). In a way, running a BQ is easier as you get older; when you're 30, you have to break 3:05; when you're 50 (ahem), you only need to break 3:30. As the race approached, I was filled with anticipation and dread. Starting about a month before the race, I had been checking the weather forecast constantly; historically, the conditions were good for running a marathon at this time of year: not too hot and not too cold. And for a long time, it was supposed to be fifty degrees and overcast. Perfect! As it turned out, however, the weather gods were less interested in my running plans and insisted on scheduling a one-day torrential downpour to begin at 6:00 am with a 100-percent chance of lasting the next eight hours (with the race slated for 8:00 am). Oh well, I thought as I walked through the rain-free town of Rhinebeck the day before the race, at least the houses are pretty and the trees are in bloom. I tried not to worry about the weather or the fact that my right hamstring had been annoyingly tight for the past week or that my sinuses were giving me a migraine for reasons that might have involved allergies, a cold, caffeine deprivation, or stress. I kept reminding myself that, in terms of stress, there was really nothing to worry about; the worst thing would be if I dropped out of the race, with the result that literally not a single person in the world would think the less of me, just as nobody would think more of me if I finished. But that's how it is with distance running, or at least that's how it is with an obsessive like me: you set these goals and feel like Bad Things Will Happen if you don't meet them, even if you know that logic dictates to the contrary. The night before the race, I read most of Haruki Marakami's memoir "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running," which a friend had recently given to me. I found the book very enjoyable, particularly when Murakami was discussing his own obsessive tendencies to run marathons and write novels, which (no duh) I could strongly relate to on both counts. I laughed several times when he discussed running in horrible weather and how he would ask the wind, "what's up with you? why do you have to be so strong?" which is a question I asked many times this winter and spring as I was running up and down the riverbanks of the Hudson. Or how he had made the decision to invert his waking hours, so that he started going to bed at 9:00 pm and waking up at 5:00 am, which is something I started doing. (Granted, he did this in his early thirties, but I could relate!) Or how he described his thoughts while running as constantly changing and not too meaningful, like clouds in a vast sky. Or how he felt like running was a means to give his body a kind of healthy purity to counterbalance the more decadent nature of his writing soul. I woke up several times during the night before the race and stared out the window. The sky was gray and moonless but there was no rain. Maybe the forecast would be wrong and the rain wouldn't start until 11:00 am. As it turned out, the rain began at 6:00 am, just as predicted. I got up, did some stretching, ate a bagel and a banana, and debated whether to wear more than a short-sleeve running shirt to the race, which was about a half mile from the AirBnB where I was staying in town. (Stephen, who had to work, didn't arrive until after the race.) This was a small marathon -- only 100 people or so entered -- so they didn't have the "bag checks" you find at big ones. I decided not to "deal with it," and just wore the shirt. I figured I was going to get soaked anyway; what difference would it make if I got soaked a few minutes early? Rhineback, I should say, is a very charming town; as Stephen commented at breakfast the day after the race, he felt like we had stepped onto the set of "The Gilmore Girls."Outside of our AirBnB, there was a magnificent copper beech. It was at least two hundred years old and, unlike me, completely unfazed by the cold and the rain. Nor did it ever feel the need to run 26.2 miles. Or write novels. Or even blog. We both hated Twitter, however!   Here's a picture of the hotel where Lorelai Gilmore got her start in 1766. As I approached the starting line with the other runners in the pelting rain, I considered the passage of time and whether the next three hours would feel like three centuries. Seriously, what was I doing in upstate New York in the middle of a rainstorm about to run 26.2 miles when I could be at home watching the recently released television version of "I Love Dick," surrounded by purring cats? At least I wasn't alone, I thought, which is one of the sad joys of distance running. People "get" each other in this context, which though quite narrow is still wider than most. I don't have any pictures of the race, but the gun went off and we all ran across the starting line, just like runners have done since we were chasing woolly mammoths. Between the weather and some lingering soreness in my legs, I didn't feel that great, but I didn't feel terrible, either. At least it would be over soon, I thought, in the geological sense of the word. The course was two 13.1 laps, almost none of which, it turned out, was flat. The official description was "beautiful rolling hills" that were "challenging." I had known this going into the race -- every race posts "elevation charts" these days -- but had convinced myself that I was prepared after running the hills of Washington Heights. In fact, I wasn't as prepared as I thought, because my training on the riverbank (wind aside) offers long stretches of flat terrain, which did not feature AT ALL in this race. "Hills," I began to ask as the race continued, whether I was running up or down, "what is up with you? why must you be so endlessly rolling?" Still, for the first twenty miles, I ran an average pace of around 6:55, which (I told myself) if I could keep it up would bring me in slightly over three hours. I thought about the many times while training I had easily run six miles at a pace of seven minutes (or faster); it was like not running at all! On this day, however, around the start of mile 20, whether because of the cold, the rain, the lingering soreness, my age, my failure to adequately "hydrate" and/or "fuel" (despite having two "hammer gels"), I hit the proverbial wall and found myself in the "cave of pain." There are many metaphors for this point of a marathon, and all of them are perfect! Anyway, seven-minute miles were now a thing of the past and for the next six miles I was relegated to nine-plus minutes. I arrived at the finish shaking and cold and hungry -- with wooden legs and soggy, heavy shoes -- but most of all relieved. My time was 3:15:08, which was not as fast as I had hoped, but which is a Boston Qualifying time with almost fifteen minutes to spare. (Meaning I should get in; I'll let you know after I register in September.) Next time, I vowed, I would do "better," even though I knew I had already done well enough and literally nothing was "on the line." Unlike the last marathon I ran, when I was filled with a sense of ending, this time I felt a beginning, for which -- at my age, and despite the physical pain -- I could only thank the gods.

Notes on the Beauty of Azalea Season

1. Although the number of things I dread is large and constantly expanding, "azalea season" is never on the list.  2. This week, between the rain, my work schedule, and my training, I almost didn't get the chance to run through Fort Tryon Park. Which, if you look back a year and consider how many dreadful things have come to pass in only twelve months, made it seem all the more important to go, even if it meant hauling my phone around on an eight-mile run. After all, it was azalea season.  3. As you can see, it was worth it, even if it meant my phone flopped around awkwardly in my front pocket. Clouds of azalea dotted the landscape, which was already verdant and green from the cool weather and the rain.  4. Every time I run through Fort Tryon Park, I think to myself, I'm really lucky to be alive at this juncture of time, despite ___ and ___ and ___ and even ____, which (ugh) you know is going to mean that ____. 5. One thing I'm trying not to dread too much is the 26.2 miles I signed up to run next Saturday. The race is relatively small as far as these things go, and is being held in a town in upstate New York, which I've been led to understand offers beautiful views of the Hudson, rolling fields (though hopefully not too rolling), and stone walls that date back to the dinosaurs. 6. Speaking of long periods of time, regular readers of this blog might remember last week when I wrote about the first "100 years of Trump." Someone was kind enough to "share the link" on FB and one of his/her friends felt compelled to comment on the post (which also featured talking flowers): "100 years of Trump? 100 days!!!" which gave me a new appreciation for literal-minded mansplaining. 7. If I were having coffee with this person, I might say, "Sometimes the world is too painful to think about in literal terms, I guess." Or I might say, "Sometimes the world is too beautiful to think about literal terms." One of these reasons is rooted in a fear of life, and the other in a fear of death. Or you might just fear the government, whose leaders these days seem incapable of understanding beauty or fear (which is a sickness that comes from having too much money and is unfortunately not considered a "preexisting condition.") 8. Let's hope we find a cure soon for this disease. 9. We obviously need a super-majority of the American electorate (a necessity in the new era of Republican gerrymandering) to "sweep these talking hairballs out of office," but it's hard to be confident given our recent history.    10. Others were more hopeful than I was, fortunately. Back in the garden, Elektra steeled herself for a fight. 11. Clio -- the youngest of anyone in the history of the world (despite taking her name from one of the Greek Muses) -- somewhat nervously joined the battle. 12. Dante, despite being 176 yo in human years, was equally determined. "This shit has got to stop." 13. "Society, like a garden, can be lush and beautiful." -- Dante 14.
"What happened to make this fern so wet?" -- Zephyr 15. With the azalea in bloom, anything seems possible. 16. The new leaves have prepared us for this fight.  17. The garden statues will lead the way.