I was reading some of the posts this weekend where people were talking about Lance Armstrong and Sheryl Crow. I didn't want to threadjack, but wanted to share this article by Lance's ex-wife, Kristin Armstrong. I think it was originally on msn.com and a friend shared it with me. This is an inspiring article to me, because she is so honest about working through her broken heart to meet a goal. Hope you enjoy!
Kristin Armstrong's Marathon Success
I am not an athlete.
I have washed clothes for an athlete, massaged an athlete, bandaged wounds
for an athlete, cheered my heart out for an athlete, prepared pasta al dente
for an athlete, but never in 32 years did I consider any athletic potential
living within the confines of my own body.
This body has undergone quite a metamorphosis from the clothes-rack purposes
of my early twenties to the respectable status of bearing and nursing my
three children in my thirties. After the birth of my daughters in November
2001, I was busy and tired, yet restless. Maybe I wanted to flee the weight
of my responsibility. Maybe I craved clarity and wanted to erase the fog
that often hung over my head. Be it an escape, a challenge, or an
opportunity to be alone, I began to run. And last December, four days before
my divorce from cyclist Lance Armstrong, I did something I never thought I
could do. I ran my first marathon.
I'm lucky to have two great friends and athletes as my running partners.
Kristen Turner (K.T.) is an Ironman finisher, personal trainer, and mother
of two. Paige Gressett Alam is a veteran of 14 marathons and a mother of
two. Starting in September, we hit the road every Saturday at 6 a.m. to run
the hills of central Austin, Texas, anywhere from five to 22 miles. They
created my training program and led me through it (with help from our friend
and coach Cassandra Henkiel). I never wanted to know much, not the distance,
our pace, none of it—a welcome escape from the pressures of too many other
decisions. I met them at the appointed hour, took GUs and hydrated when they
told me to, and put one foot in front of the other until they told me I was
done.
I loved the morning runs, starting out in the pitch dark, praying for firm
footing and deliverance from danger. Because we went so early, and were
finished before most of civilization was brewing coffee, the running had a
surreal quality to it. Almost like it never happened at all. But the ache in
my knees when I carried my twins upstairs or the salt on my steering wheel
later in the day would remind me that I had made my private journey long
before I punched my mommy time card for the day.
The conversations you have on a long run are unlike what you have when
you're chasing toddlers, refilling sippy cups, or retrieving pacifiers. I
now got to hear and tell stories in detail, broken only by the occasional
need to run single file. There is something to sharing a private burden or
relating a painful experience while chugging down the road. It's less about
advice or validation. The wisdom, tears, and laughter we shared gave me an
insight and appreciation for my friends that I have not had since I was in
college. And it's a good thing, too. Because come race day, I ended up
needing these friends more profoundly than I expected.
The marathon was the Dallas White Rock, on Sunday, December 14. I woke at 5
a.m. to eat my ritual pre-long-run peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Paige
and K.T. prepared the clothing, GU packets, ibuprofen, pace bands, time
chips, and Chapstick, and pinned our numbers to our shorts. I was blissfully
unaware as I let them tell me where to slather BodyGlide so my clothes
wouldn't chafe and make me bleed. Bleed? Huh? My only rules were that if I
lost a toenail or had to go number two, I was done.
It was below 30 degrees at the start. The prerace prayer asked for
protection from bonking and injury, and reminded us to run with endurance
the race set before us. It took about five miles to find my usual stride,
but we were pushing faster than I was used to. I wondered if I should have
asked more questions.
The marathon gets its name from White Rock Lake, which we looped around on
the second half of the course. I joked that it was really an ocean. With
each mile, I felt my surge become more of a sputter. A guy in front of me
had what looked like an artillery belt packed with gels, PowerBars, and
water bottles, which caused his blue shorts to ride up his behind. I focused
on that to hold on to any semblance of my sense of humor—always important in
a crisis situation. We finally made it to the end of the lake and turned up
what they call "Dolly Parton Hill." That was at about mile 20, the
proverbial "wall." I thought about Lance and his ability to withstand pain.
And I thought that he might even be proud, and a little surprised, to see me
hauling my tired body and toting my invisible pack of sadness over all those
miles.
At mile 22 I could feel the rumblings of a revolution in my legs. By mile
24, I was getting cramps in my calves. I tried to drudge up breathing
methods from childbirth classes. It helped just about as much as it did
during labor (not at all). I fantasized about an epidural. I was breaking
down, crying and hyperventilating, when I looked at Paige and said, "Can I
really do this? Am I okay?" I thought my calf muscle was going to rip. Paige
is the warmest person I know. But this was Paige the athlete. She said
evenly, "Yes, Kik. You can do this and everything else. Now do it." And I
kept running. Straight through the finish line into a pile of hugs and
tears, in 3 hours, 48 minutes.
It was more than a novice athletic achievement, it was a journey of
friendship, the healing power of sport, and the confidence of achieving a
goal I once considered reserved for those with more talent and resolve. It
was a reminder that with good company and hard work, regular people can do
something special. And it was special. In my past life I gave everything I
had to make a dream possible for someone else. On this day I gave everything
I had to make a dream possible for myself.
It's an odd thing, when your body says no and your mind and your spirit say
yes. It's frightening and empowering and clarifying and beautiful all at
once. It was the past year of my life, shortened into a span of 26.2 arduous
miles. It was the culmination of experiences, the knowledge that my body can
be pushed past its breaking point, just like my heart. In both instances,
when you come to the end of yourself, God's grace is all that sustains. And
it is enough.
