Amy Reinink

Halloween is my favorite holiday. It’s in October, clearly the best month of the year. It involves candy and mischief. It involves none of the passive aggression present during other holidays regarding what one is expected to do to celebrate — on Halloween, if you do not provide candy, someone will plaster your house with toilet paper. And the costumes! The costumes alone make the holiday for me, and I like to treat the whole week like a big, crazy theme party. We’re throwing a costume party of our own tonight, but imagine my delight when I learned my Pacers Silver Spring Fun Run on Thursday would be costumed.

I wore a little black slip on which I wrote words like “ego,” “id,” “Oedipus complex,” and “Freud.” It was a slip … that said “Freud” … so it’s a … Freudian slip! Steve shakes his head at the geekiness, telling me it’s like Ross’ Spud-nik on Friends. But guess what? Runners are smart people, and everyone in the group got the joke right away.

I didn’t win the costume contest. My friend Liz, who came dressed as a 1970s-era aerobics instructor, deservedly took the prize. But I had a blast jogging with her (do you see our costumes? A run at our usual pace would not have ended well) about four miles through downtown Silver Spring. Several people did double takes.

Have you ever run in costume? How did that work out for you? Any super-cool running-costume ideas for next year? I’m already planning …

I used to be terrified of sharing my goals before races, fearing I’d put unnecessary pressure on myself to perform at some arbitrary level. After detailing my training for the National Half Marathon last March, though, I learned how gratifying it can be to celebrate a goal achieved with the people who have watched you fight to get there.

This week, after a painful but ultimately life-changing Marine Corps Marathon, I learned how powerful it can be to have a large group of friends to share your pain, comfort you and encourage you when that goal escapes you. Your kind and supportive comments affirmed my pride in my finish and served as a sort of virtual bedtime story to calm my angry ego. You all made me get weepy all over again throughout the day. Thank you. I’ll need that support as I shop for my next marathon.

That’s right, marathon — I’m comin’ back for more!

I loved the suggestions that I cash in on this round of training by running the Richmond Marathon Nov. 14. Sadly, I’m going to be at a weekend-long training session at Whitetail, where Steve and I are members of the Mountain Safety Team. I checked out Philly (sold out), the North Central Trail Marathon (sold out) and several other fall/early winter marathons in the region. None seemed just right, so over a delicious (and easily digestible) dinner at Olazzo, my favorite Italian restaurant, on Sunday, I told Steve my tentative plan: The National Marathon in March.

Here’s why: Conventional wisdom suggests waiting at least day for each mile of a race’s distance before attempting another race of the same distance. But a lot of coaches and doctors say if the marathon left you taxed, either injury-wise or illness-wise, you should think about waiting six to eight weeks instead. My legs feel remarkably good, but my poor body is beyond taxed. I will spare you the gruesome details, but suffice it to say my digestive system could probably use a good rest.

I’m still casually shopping around for a fall marathon in the DC area that might fit the bill, but I’m currently feeling really good about maintaining my current fitness level, maybe tackling the YMCA Bethesda-Chevy Chase Turkey Chase 10K on Thanksgiving and a half-marathon after that. The 2009 National Half Marathon was a special race for me. It was a victorious race in my new home city, and I truly felt like I owned the streets of DC that day. I like the course, too — it’s got some hills that will truly test your legs and guts, but it somehow manages to be a fast race course overall. And I run my best when it’s almost uncomfortably cold, so the winter training schedule suits me (remind me I said that when I’m tackling 20-milers in an ice storm, OK?).

Running close to home also lets me carefully manage my food intake before the race. Running with my digestive system is like playing Russian roulette – I never know which long run or race day will be the one when I’ll to unfairly take a bullet. But some things are in my control, and I can do my best to create an environment for success.

I’m still up for other suggestions for races in the DC area in late November, December or January. I’m up for traveling a few hours, but not much more, and would like a course that’s flat and fun (because after Sunday, don’t I deserve that?).

My goal for this next marathon is to start running roughly 9-minute miles, and to hang on as long as I can. I have no grand illusions of breaking four hours, but I would like to arrive in the neighborhood of a four-hour finish, whether it’s 4:05 or 4:15 or even 4:20.  Secondary goal: Actually get some use out of my perfect marathon playlist. Oh, did I not mention that, in addition to a stomach malfunction, the day included two separate iPod malfunctions? Ugh.

Definition of irony: My race-day photos usually make me look like an exhausted victim of some sort of awful digestive distress, or perhaps of a violent carjacking. Yet in my race photos from the Marine Corps Marathon, when I was actually the victim of some awful digestive distress, I look … kind of awesome! I made a point to smile at the obvious photo stops. But even in the candid shots, I’m sporting this stupid grin, or at least a look of quiet amusement. I take this as a testament to just how badly I wanted this race to be a joyful one. What’s more, I don’t look a bit hunched over – rather, I look strong and healthy. I’m trying hard to erase the mental image of me hunched over at a porta-potty and replace it with what’s captured in these photos: a strong runner who’s smiling and running strong through a painful day.

Something funny happened at the Marine Corps Marathon expo yesterday. When I went to pick up my bib, I took out not my driver’s license, but my military ID, which I usually bury in the back of my wallet until I need it to get on base for the gym or commissary. I don’t hide the fact that my husband is a U.S. Navy helicopter pilot; it’s just that usually, there’s no reason to go there, and I’d just as soon be seen as a “normal” person rather than answer the barrage of questions: Do you live on base? (No). Does he wear a uniform? (Yes.) Will he have to go … to Iraq? (He’s been on two Persian Gulf deployments, during which, thankfully, he flew over the water. They were horrible nonetheless.)

But as I stood there, surrounded by the sea of Marines and runners, I realized that this last bit is an essential part of not only who I am as a person, but as a runner. If not for that first, horrible deployment, I would still be the kind of person who thinks there’s something wrong with marathoners. Now, as I prepare to run my second marathon, I know training to run 26.2 miles can make a lot of things in a person’s life seem right again.

The idea to run a marathon myself popped into my mind one dark, sticky night in Florida, on what had become a routine late-night run for me. I sprinted through my gated community, barely noticing the gaudy fountain recycling water in the retention pond, losing my footing as I scraped past some overgrown palmetto fronds. I wasn’t carrying Mace, or wearing reflective clothing, or carrying a cell-phone, as safety tips and common sense suggested I should. I hadn’t told anyone where I’d gone. Ever since Steve left, there had been no one to tell.

Steve had already applied to transfer to the Naval Academy in Annapolis when we met as University of Colorado freshmen. I fell in love with his quick wit, uncommon generosity and independent thinking, anyway, and we decided to date long-distance without thinking too much about it.

Maintaining a relationship over 2,000 miles and two time zones was hard in all the obvious ways. But it also worked for us, and we stayed together through several moves, never living in the same place for long as his orders pinged him to flight school in Pensacola to his first helicopter squadron in Jacksonville.

We called each other every night, unloading the minutia of our daily lives: the crazy guy at the city council meeting I’d covered, the disparaging comment from Steve’s flight-school instructor. We spent long Sunday afternoons on the phone, lazing on our respective beds as we talked about our long-term career goals, or planned the details of our next trip. We learned the landscape of each other’s lives during regular visits. I knew where he kept his Tupperware, what he watched on TV on Tuesdays, which picture of me sat framed at his bedside. I could call anytime. If he wasn’t available then, I knew he’d call back as soon as he could.

We got married on the beach in 2005, and lived in the same zip code in Jacksonville, Fla., for just long enough to spend our first Christmas together.

Then, he started to be gone.

Deployment, and the shapeless dread that accompanied it, resisted the coping mechanisms I’d fine-tuned during years of long-distance dating. There were no phone calls, sporadic e-mails and uncertain homecoming dates.

I did not want to work. I did not want to surround myself with the friends and family who tried to rally around me — their attempts to reach out only highlighted the intimacy I’d lost when Steve left. I didn’t want to join a book club, or learn Spanish, or redecorate my house.

I did want to run.

I’ve run most of my life: for a team in high-school cross-country, to stay in shape and get outdoors in college, for peace of mind as a young adult in my first job in a strange city. When Steve left for his first deployment in early 2006, I ran to confirm that my heart could still beat, and to feel sweat drip down my face rather than tears. I ran to regain a sense of control I desperately wanted in my life. I ran faster than I ever had before, telling myself I could outpace bitterness and rage if I sprinted hard enough. And for the first time, I ran far, knowing my best chance at getting a good night’s sleep came from logging enough miles to tire myself out.

The transition from crazy lady sprinting through the night to marathon runner happened gradually. Unfamiliar long-run routes forced me to train in the daylight, making my runs more like exercise and less like death wishes. I stopped considering a few gobs of brownie batter – meant to be baked into goodies to send to Steve – dinner. I started eating legitimate, grown-up meals like salmon and broccoli or pasta and squash to refuel after 15- and 20-milers, at least saving the brownie batter for dessert. I quit obsessing over Steve’s e-mails; instead, I read them once, then pored over running magazines while dousing my sore muscles in ice baths. And when I e-mailed Steve back, I had something other than loneliness to write about. I wrote about the sights and sounds I experienced on my runs, describing the way my shadow would dance against sweet clumps of jasmine in a garden I passed on my morning loop, or the serendipity of spotting a half-dozen men riding unicycles by the river on a Sunday 15-miler.

Steve got back from his first deployment in March 2007, in time to cheer me on at the Nashville Country Music Marathon in April. He met me along the route with energy gels, water and Tylenol. He even ran with me for seven miles of the race. But it was another familiar running companion that carried me to the finish line.

Before the race, I had memorized a host of motivational mantras, like “push harder,” “define yourself,” and “be relentless.” They failed one by one as the miles dragged on, as did the playlist of fast-paced pump-up songs I’d loaded onto my iPod.

So I invited loneliness back for one last run. I switched from my marathon playlist to the love songs I’d cried to during deployment. They would have put another runner to sleep; they reminded me of how far I’d come. I switched mantras, too. I told myself I had one last chance exorcise the rage before I let it go.

In the final yards of the race, Steve moved to the sidelines, where he smiled as he snapped pictures. Flash. The hard part’s over. Flash. I’ve run through the pain. Flash. He is home, the race is done. I ran toward the light to join Steve at the finish line.

Steve's happy homecoming.

Back in July, I was trying to figure out how to keep my head in a good place as I resumed

I made this motivation board back in July to get me through MCM training.

running after struggling with a flareup of an old hip injury.

I was also working on two stories that required me to talk to sports psychologists about motivation, one for Women’s Running and another for Running Times. My conversations with them made me examine my own pre-run routine, start focusing on tackling one step, one mile, one lap at a time, keep a journal tracking my thoughts before and during a run, and, most importantly, identify my negative thoughts and replace them with positive ones. Fittingly, just as I’m preparing to run the Marine Corps Marathon on Sunday, the Women’s Running story ran this week (it’s not live online yet, but check out page 26 if you’re a subscriber!), and I wanted to share the tips I’ll be using on race day:

My mantras. I like to remind myself that months of core- and hip-strengthening workouts have made me as injury-proof as possible. I also like to remind myself that, after a run, I feel both powerful and graceful — feelings that can be hard to channel in the painful heat of the moment. So I repeat: Strength, power and grace. I’ve borrowed a few from other runners: Dig deep. Make your training count. Go get your medal. This is your day, your race, your town. You own this! And: this will make my tushy less cushy. This last one sounds awful. But during your next tough race or speed workout, ask yourself: Would I like my tushy to be less cushy? See if it doesn’t make you pick up the pace.

My gratitude and motivation. Sports psychologist Kay Porter suggests thanking your body as if it’s a separate person. I will give my body constant shout-outs during the race, and will promise it an ice bath, a protein shake, a good dinner out, a post-race massage. I also express thanks that I can run at all. All but a few other runners I know who signed up for the full marathon back in May ended up injured. I’m one of the lucky ones. In a grander sense, I’m running for my dad, who isn’t a runner, but a lifelong skier and outdoor enthusiast whose active life was compromised by a series of health complications, to include Parkinson’s disease. If I can’t buck up and get tough after imagining how much he’d love to go ski moguls, I’m not sure what will motivate me.

My reward. Shalane Flanagan’s sports psychologist tells runners to smile at the starting line, and say: “There’s no place I’d rather be right now.” This is the reward, not a punishment! Sunday is my victory lap. There’s no pressure here, only the promise of an amazing experience.

My visualization techniques. I have imagined this race from every angle, and have pictured it going according to plan (check out my series breaking down the race in five-mile chunks here).

I’ll post some photos after hitting up the expo today. In the meantime, anyone who wishes to track lucky Bib No. 5345 can sign up for updates every 5K here.