The Marathon

Q: How do you know if someone has run a marathon?
A: Don't worry, they'll tell you.

Guilty.

Thanks to my best friend Karen, I was in great shape. She dragged me out of bed every morning before the sun rose and took me to a trainer that enforced a program that strengthened and toned every muscle in my body. Running, swimming, cycling and weights - they all became an integral part of my routine. The goal? The Las Vegas Rock 'n' Roll Marathon...26.2 miles run at night and most of it along The Strip. Karen and I had run the half the year before and loved it. I was determined to finish the full marathon. Despite an unfortunate fall down some stairs just before the race, I was in top shape.

I remember being the absolute last runner to cross the start line because we were late getting there. Once I caught up to the pack I settled into the familiar rhythm from my training runs. It was daylight when I started and soon the sun set and stars set out a brilliant display for my run. Soon after the halfway point, the full marathoners joined the half marathoners on The Strip for the last half. I ran just over a half mile before I caught site of my friends, wildly waving signs and yelling encouragement. Shortly after that a strange euphoria set in that allowed me to run the next 10 miles with little to no recognition of what I was doing.

The final three miles though were hellish. "It's only a 5k" I kept repeating to myself. With two miles to go I saw my friends again, this time on the opposite side of The Strip and in varying degrees of inebriation. I stopped to get a picture with my friend wearing a powder blue polyester suit holding a "Sweaty women turn me on" sign. I felt what I can only describe as "cement" filling my legs and I knew I had to keep moving if I wanted to finish. It was at this time I noticed that the temperature had dropped and a light rain had begun.

With one mile to go my lungs started burning. I desperately wanted to stop and walk the rest of the way; however a race official appeared out of seemingly nowhere and said "you're almost there...you've got this! Get into this lane and finish strong." I looked up and saw the finish archway. The timer in bright yellow was showing 04:16. The euphoria returned and I broke out into what was surely the ugliest sprint in history.

I crossed the finish line and was immediately wrapped in a mylar blanket and a finisher's medal. The wind had picked up and the light rain had turned to sleet. I hurried through the recovery area, grabbing a bagel and some bananas. I started shivering and panic set in when I couldn't find my friends at our meeting spot. I sought refuge in a port-a-potty and waited until I could feel my fingers and toes before venturing out again. I finally was able to reach my friends with my cell phone and we grabbed Karen and and hurried to our waiting, heated vehicle to hit the nearest bar.

We celebrated with wings and our favorite cocktails. Both Karen and I were exhausted and delirious. We were so proud of ourselves and each other! When I got back to the hotel I took a long, hot shower while barely able to support myself. I crawled into bed and slept the sleep that I'm sure only dead people know.

When I returned home, I had planned to take off at least 4 weeks from workouts to allow my body time to rest and recover. I put my running shoes in my closet with a promise to see them soon. Little did I know that my body was hatching a nefarious plan of its own.

The Art of Feeding

When I was young there was nothing I looked forward to more than spending time with my Grandma. Among a whole list of things, she was a caterer. There were times that I would go to her commercial kitchen and sit on the stainless steel table learning how to ball melon. I also enjoyed playing with the large, rusty can opener slamming it up and down until one of her sisters - Aunt Rita, Aunt Maxine or Aunt Cathie - would ask me to stop. How I never cut myself with that is still a mystery to this day. Other times we would work in her kitchen at home and I would be lucky enough to use the Kitchen Aid mixer. She had an entire kitchen of dishes, gadgets and tools that complemented her chosen profession. I loved watching her, so skilled was she in the art of feeding.

I can remember sitting at her kitchen table with hundreds of index cards and an electric typewriter - the fancy kind that typed in script. I would beg her to let me type up the cards, with her precious recipes on each one. I loved these cards because of the uniqueness of the type. Little did I know that I would one day long for them to be written in her flowing, beautiful handwriting instead.

I believe that one of the greatest gifts she bestowed upon me is my love of cooking. I often imagined that having me in her kitchen, all clumsy and inaccurate, would have been irritating at the least; but I found that teaching children to cook is truly special. The look in their eyes of pride, satisfaction and happiness is inspiring and I find myself sharing those same feelings with them. Whenever I have the opportunity to share this craft with others I do so with great eagerness.

My fondest memories of my Grandma - and trust me, there are too many to count - are always of us in her kitchen. We always had stimulating conversations and I was more than eager to learn. You could see that to her cooking was a way to show great affection to those that were lucky enough to share a meal with her. When I was in my twenties, I spent an evening catering a dinner party with my Grandma and her sister, Maxine. It was a small affair, but I loved the intricacies of that service. The menu was astounding and put together with such thought and care. Grandma and Aunt Maxine taught me a great deal about what it means to feed people - both body and soul - that evening. That lesson is what stands out to me the most all these years later.

I feel a special connection to her now when I'm in a kitchen. She passed away too soon - as people like her often do. And when she did, my Grandpa gave me her recipes boxes. There are hundreds of cards and scraps of paper in her handwriting and typewriter script, like so many love letters, that comfort me when the pain of missing her grows too much to bear.