Julia Lucas's Journal

January 12, 2009 Entry (Posted January 20, 2009)

Once every two weeks I spend the entire day in my pajamas. I sleep in. I communicate exclusively though grunts. I move only to heave my gangly sprawl from chair to floor, or to shrug off the reprimand I’m sure to receive for getting Cheetos’ dust on the pages of Ian’s books. It is a glorious day.

Why, then, at 2:30 pm on this day off am I washed and dressed with 8 hours of productivity under my belt? It is because, fellow runners, I am 24 hours shy of my intended day of rest (gasp). Yes, I am being forced into repose, and I know that you, my comrades in this most fickle sport, will understand when I say that I take no joy from this time off.

Sunday was supposed to be the reward! Sunday was my object of groggy fantasy every 7:00 am alarm! It’s not that I’m slogging through the day, or that I don’t love what I’m doing. Believe me, no one hums the Rocky soundtrack more often. But, during 5x1600 on soggy cinders, icy falls, medicine balls to the face, and one silent and seething uphill and into the wind, track season seemed very far off. Sunday, however, was close enough to taste.

Neither of these concepts, the joy of taking a day off from something I love or the difference between the forced day off and the gifted one, are something I could explain to the non-runner. But, I know all of you don’t need an explanation. In fact, given the impending nature of injury in our sport I know a lot of you are experiencing the dropped-stomach angst right along with me. It’s too close for comfort.

Really, I’m not injured. I’m experiencing the sort of training hiccup that goes along with the sport. Today Coach Mahon will do some therapy. I will heat it up, do a good stretch, foam roll, and ice. Tomorrow I have a massage scheduled. I’ll stretch and ice again and, hopefully, I’ll do a little run and be ready to start off another two weeks of beating myself up. The way we runners avoid, respond to, and recover from injuries is as much a part of our success (or lack of it) as anything else. I accept this and will fight off my injuriette with every bit of the gusto I pour into 8x400 on the track.

Still, I may pout. In fact, I will. I’ll pout through a lovely French toast brunch. I’ll pout through Scrabble. I’ll pout through fish tacos and David Bowie. I’ll pout through this entire day off and then eagerly anticipate the next one as I appreciate every step in-between.

October 18, 2008 (Posted October 22, 2008)

Hello friends, it’s been a while. Let me see if I can summarize how the last few months have gone. I’ve improved a million fold at medicine ball throws. I ran a PR of 15:33 at Mt SAC. I went from running daily runs at 6:30 pace to 9:30 pace to somewhere in-between. I shaved my head when I thought I was being a pansy. I ended my season in injury and a DNF at the U.S Olympic Team Trials Track and Field. I tattooed a right angle on my wrist when I though I was being too emotional. I covered my walls in magic-marker murals when I thought I was being too analytical. Now I’m back, putting in the miles (and the weights, and the drills, and etc.) and getting ready for a new season.

This season, if nothing else has been a complete upheaval of the way I see myself in the sport. During my first nine years of running my approach was that of a fighter, head down, guts out and anger driven. If you’ve ever beaten me, I have ripped you limb from limb in my mind. If we’ve exchanged pleasantries at the Olive Garden the night before a race, rest assured I could barely hear you over my own pulse pounding in my ears. I like to feel like a chest-beating warrior at the line, and don’t see a point in competing if it’s not for the win.

It is, however, difficult to maintain this state of mind when getting trounced daily. So, after a few months of battering here in Mammoth, it was time for a reassessment. The resulting conclusion of paying more attention to form and physiology would have been a good thing, had I not applied it with such brute force. Running correctly soon became my sole focus. I though about my form during every step of every run. I lived life by my heart rate monitor. In the process of running correctly I forgot to run.

This situation came to a head on during an eight-mile tempo run in the high desert outside Mammoth Lakes. The road stretched flat and straight, dividing the brush on either side, and making painfully clear the distance between my teammates and myself. Coach Mahon drove up behind me after a few miles. “Stop looking at your damn watch,” he barked, “just run.” Two miles later, as my frustration mounted and became visible, he passed again. He slowed, threw my sweats to the road and drove off to catch the others.

I yelled. I spat. I cursed. And, when he came back to collect me I lowered my head and sent him angry thoughts.

I could recount dozens of similar stories. They all end in a mess of confusion and curses, recovery, re-reassessment, and an abrupt sprint in the opposite direction toward the next crash landing.

Were I in fifth grade, now would be the time for a concluding paragraph. I, however, am through with thinking I know what will happen next. I’m sure it won’t be boring.

Introductory Entry (Posted February 4, 2008)

Six months ago I had just graduated from college, signed with Reebok and faced my first European racing season. I also had three days left on my apartment lease, 14 dollars in the bank and a torn abdominal muscle.

My intention in this introductory blog was to recount in dramatic fashion the odyssey I braved between that point and my current status as Team Running USA member in Mammoth Lakes, CA. I would have traced the dizzying, meandering path through 5 cities, 8 doctors, one surgery, 11 plane flights, and four months of nights spent almost exclusively on couches and floors and benches. Friends, friends of friends, coaches and eccentric strangers with twinkles in their eyes would have been the heroes, for their kindness tempered more than a few rough patches. The character development, the irony, the comic relief: I would have tied your heart up in knots. It would have been riveting.

What a shame, then, that I am sitting cross-legged, coffee in hand, far too content to play the battered heroine. I'm glad to have had those dreary, aching times of near-resignation, but I'm also glad to have them behind me. They were worth it because they brought me here.

Now, I live and train daily with Olympians and national champions – some of the most respected and revered runners in the country.

I am, quite honestly, outclassed.

Here's my reality check: I'm fighting just to hang on. In training sessions, I'm dropped more often than not. I'm routinely battered, trounced, dropped and bounced – I can feel the shoe tread embossed between my shoulder blades.

That is why I won't bother to recount my last challenge; I've already moved on to the next one. My time between sessions in devoted to slowing my breathing and getting my chin back up. I've got enough on my plate.

Here's my consolation: when I do manage to hang on, it's to some of the best runners in the world, and one day soon I will routinely match them stride for stride.

So, maybe my life isn't so blog-worthy right now. But, I did come here to become a champion. My new coach tells me he's in for the long haul, and that's all I needed to hear. My bones tell me it's in me, my skin's been thickened along the way, and if my heart can go the distance, well, that's what fairy-tales are all about.