My blogging has been sidetracked by a little something called a thesis. But now that i graduate in four days, it's time to step up my game and get back to blogging. And though my lack of blog posts would suggest I haven't been running at all, that just isn't true my friends. I'm now about 11 weeks away from the big day of the half marathon, and I just easily ran 4 miles. I actually enjoyed it. Yes that's right; I enjoyed it.
I think this may be attributed to the Greeks. My Greeks. During my reading and my planning for my trip to Greece (thanks to a graduation present to myself), I read about the origin of the marathon. And like democracy and philosophy, marathons are a Greek byproduct. So there! It's in my genes. And maybe I'll just go the full distance and plan to run the real marathon in Greece someday.
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Monday, December 13, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Dearest blog....
Dear Blog,
Blogging feels so self-serving. I keep thinking back to some of the things I've written, and I just have to wonder, who the heck cares? Who cares that I every time I run I seriously question why I signed up for this half-marathon? Who cares that I started crying while running on the side of a road like a total loser? Who cares if I post twice a week, or once a week or at all? Well, I care. I care and I owe it to my imaginary web of Internet readers who are following me to post. So, get over it! It is self-serving. And, dammit, this is America. Self-serving is where it's at!
On another note. I am one of those weird obsessive people who can't take a day off from an activity I'm trying to make into a habit, because it's so gosh darn hard to get back into it. I grudgingly headed off to the gym late morning after vacuuming and e-mailing and completing other important tasks, despite being fully dressed in work out clothes and ready to go. I get there and I look around hoping to find someone interesting that I can stare at to take my mind off the task at hand. Too bad. The guy who wears jean shorts on the stairstepper wasn't there today. Fortunately, there was a woman salsa dancing by herself in the corner. Oh the joys of humanity.
About 15 minutes in, I'm feeling good, but this is about the point that I start getting really hot and start breathing strangely. I've decided that this is a problem. My solutions: a) accept that I'm a freak of nature and don't know how to breathe properly, so I'll just quit; b) embrace the stitch in my side and the rattle in my lungs and keep going; c) practice breathing. Option C is the most practical, but I don't know how to go about it. I mean, I breathe every day. Shouldn't that be enough practice?
On another note based on previous posts, I had an epiphany today. An epiphany that shouldn't be an epiphany because it's so obvious and I fully accept it in other aspects of my life, but somehow running seems to bring out these weird weepy, "Blah! This sucks!" person out of me. So...here's the epiphany. I was running along for awhile and then the breathing hitch occurred, and I decided that I wouldn't try to push myself too far today. Instead, I decided to walk rapidly on a steep incline. While I was huffing and puffing and sweating profusely, this old man hopped (well, slowly climbed) onto the treadmill next to me. After a minute of fumbling with the buttons, he hit his pace: 1.7 miles per hour. I looked down at my 4.2 miles per hour. I looked back at him, and I thought, "Good for him. This man is really trying. I hope to keep going when I'm his age." He couldn't go far; he couldn't go for very long; he couldn't walk fast, but at least he was walking. He was making the effort. So I started thinking about myself (because that's what this blog is all about right?), and I realized: why do I have to think that I hope I'm still trying at his age. I'm trying now, aren't I? Maybe it's difficult. And maybe it's slow going. And maybe I'll never live up to the comparison of those tall, skinny, blondes from my last post (side note: I am told that my tall, skinny, blonde and gorgeous cousin is running a whole marathon some time in November [ugh!]), but at least I'm out there. So on race day, maybe I'll barely cross the finish line, and maybe I'll be dead last, but at least I did it. And that's all I can ask of myself.
So now, instead of comparing myself to others, I'm going to compare myself to the only person worth measuring up to: me.
Aww...isn't that sweet?
Blogging feels so self-serving. I keep thinking back to some of the things I've written, and I just have to wonder, who the heck cares? Who cares that I every time I run I seriously question why I signed up for this half-marathon? Who cares that I started crying while running on the side of a road like a total loser? Who cares if I post twice a week, or once a week or at all? Well, I care. I care and I owe it to my imaginary web of Internet readers who are following me to post. So, get over it! It is self-serving. And, dammit, this is America. Self-serving is where it's at!
On another note. I am one of those weird obsessive people who can't take a day off from an activity I'm trying to make into a habit, because it's so gosh darn hard to get back into it. I grudgingly headed off to the gym late morning after vacuuming and e-mailing and completing other important tasks, despite being fully dressed in work out clothes and ready to go. I get there and I look around hoping to find someone interesting that I can stare at to take my mind off the task at hand. Too bad. The guy who wears jean shorts on the stairstepper wasn't there today. Fortunately, there was a woman salsa dancing by herself in the corner. Oh the joys of humanity.
About 15 minutes in, I'm feeling good, but this is about the point that I start getting really hot and start breathing strangely. I've decided that this is a problem. My solutions: a) accept that I'm a freak of nature and don't know how to breathe properly, so I'll just quit; b) embrace the stitch in my side and the rattle in my lungs and keep going; c) practice breathing. Option C is the most practical, but I don't know how to go about it. I mean, I breathe every day. Shouldn't that be enough practice?
On another note based on previous posts, I had an epiphany today. An epiphany that shouldn't be an epiphany because it's so obvious and I fully accept it in other aspects of my life, but somehow running seems to bring out these weird weepy, "Blah! This sucks!" person out of me. So...here's the epiphany. I was running along for awhile and then the breathing hitch occurred, and I decided that I wouldn't try to push myself too far today. Instead, I decided to walk rapidly on a steep incline. While I was huffing and puffing and sweating profusely, this old man hopped (well, slowly climbed) onto the treadmill next to me. After a minute of fumbling with the buttons, he hit his pace: 1.7 miles per hour. I looked down at my 4.2 miles per hour. I looked back at him, and I thought, "Good for him. This man is really trying. I hope to keep going when I'm his age." He couldn't go far; he couldn't go for very long; he couldn't walk fast, but at least he was walking. He was making the effort. So I started thinking about myself (because that's what this blog is all about right?), and I realized: why do I have to think that I hope I'm still trying at his age. I'm trying now, aren't I? Maybe it's difficult. And maybe it's slow going. And maybe I'll never live up to the comparison of those tall, skinny, blondes from my last post (side note: I am told that my tall, skinny, blonde and gorgeous cousin is running a whole marathon some time in November [ugh!]), but at least I'm out there. So on race day, maybe I'll barely cross the finish line, and maybe I'll be dead last, but at least I did it. And that's all I can ask of myself.
So now, instead of comparing myself to others, I'm going to compare myself to the only person worth measuring up to: me.
Aww...isn't that sweet?
Monday, September 6, 2010
There were tears
Yesterday my mom told me that she thought about my blog posts while she was at the gym. She found them a wee bit discouraging because I talk so much about how running sucks. Well, it does. I will admit that I have made some serious progress during the past few weeks since starting on the path to a more fit Tasha, but still, it's a struggle.
Running has never been easy for me. Although I was an active child, once I hit puberty and my body started changing, the insecurities struck. I remember being in middle school and being required to participate in some sport during gym class. I was terrible at volleyball. I was terrible at basketball. I was moderately bad at badminton. I wasn't so great at track and field. I could burst with some initial power and I was strong, but I was awkward and didn't pick it up quickly. I had to go to one track meet. I had to throw a discus. It was the one "sport" I was felt kind of OK about. I just had to throw really hard in one direction. Easy enough. Right? Wrong. I had a serious crush on this guy named Chris. He was 6'2" and great at every sport. He waved at me and leaned against the fence watching. So I wound up (a real official term) and threw really hard determined to impress this boy. And it flew. Right into the fence behind me. With a loud thud the fence shook, metal clanking all the way to where he stood. I was mortified. I wanted to run away or cry or both. Thus, my fitness career ended. I had no interest in going out for any sports. I always just felt like a short chubby Greek girl in a sea of skinny American blondes.
Training for this half-marathon is the hardest thing I've ever done. "Wait, Tasha," you may say. "You have worked your way through school. You're starting your thesis. You work two, sometimes three jobs. How is running the hardest thing you've ever done?" I'll tell you. It doesn't come easy for me. I can be busy. I can work a lot. I can learn complicated concepts. I do well in school. I did well playing the violin. I was baking bread at 10. I am a learner. But I am not a runner. Not only is it physically hard for me. It's mentally hard for me. I am still riddled with some of those same insecurities that made me choke that day at the track in middle school. I don't look like a runner. I don't feel like a runner. I didn't learn to play sports easily. I could pick up algebra, but I couldn't throw a ball.
Today while running, battling a hill and the wind, I was overcome with the fear that I will fail in this effort. I will fail to overcome the hardest task I have ever put before myself. And in the midst of my run, the tears started flowing mixing with the sweat and falling down my cheeks, neck and welling in my sports bra. I continued to huff and puff and sob. I am faced with graduating with my master's in just a matter of months. I am faced with finishing a 70-page research paper filled with my own original research. I am faced with attempting to learn just enough French to be proficient to earn my MA. These are overwhelming objectives, but they don't scare me as much as this 13.1 miles.
But I pushed through. I willed myself to keep going. Even if I could only walk. I made it to the front gate of my apartment, and I almost turned in, but instead, I cranked up Flo Rida's "Club Can't Handle Me" and started to run again. I ran another half mile. The last quarter uphill and against the wind.
Running has never been easy for me. Although I was an active child, once I hit puberty and my body started changing, the insecurities struck. I remember being in middle school and being required to participate in some sport during gym class. I was terrible at volleyball. I was terrible at basketball. I was moderately bad at badminton. I wasn't so great at track and field. I could burst with some initial power and I was strong, but I was awkward and didn't pick it up quickly. I had to go to one track meet. I had to throw a discus. It was the one "sport" I was felt kind of OK about. I just had to throw really hard in one direction. Easy enough. Right? Wrong. I had a serious crush on this guy named Chris. He was 6'2" and great at every sport. He waved at me and leaned against the fence watching. So I wound up (a real official term) and threw really hard determined to impress this boy. And it flew. Right into the fence behind me. With a loud thud the fence shook, metal clanking all the way to where he stood. I was mortified. I wanted to run away or cry or both. Thus, my fitness career ended. I had no interest in going out for any sports. I always just felt like a short chubby Greek girl in a sea of skinny American blondes.
Training for this half-marathon is the hardest thing I've ever done. "Wait, Tasha," you may say. "You have worked your way through school. You're starting your thesis. You work two, sometimes three jobs. How is running the hardest thing you've ever done?" I'll tell you. It doesn't come easy for me. I can be busy. I can work a lot. I can learn complicated concepts. I do well in school. I did well playing the violin. I was baking bread at 10. I am a learner. But I am not a runner. Not only is it physically hard for me. It's mentally hard for me. I am still riddled with some of those same insecurities that made me choke that day at the track in middle school. I don't look like a runner. I don't feel like a runner. I didn't learn to play sports easily. I could pick up algebra, but I couldn't throw a ball.
Today while running, battling a hill and the wind, I was overcome with the fear that I will fail in this effort. I will fail to overcome the hardest task I have ever put before myself. And in the midst of my run, the tears started flowing mixing with the sweat and falling down my cheeks, neck and welling in my sports bra. I continued to huff and puff and sob. I am faced with graduating with my master's in just a matter of months. I am faced with finishing a 70-page research paper filled with my own original research. I am faced with attempting to learn just enough French to be proficient to earn my MA. These are overwhelming objectives, but they don't scare me as much as this 13.1 miles.
But I pushed through. I willed myself to keep going. Even if I could only walk. I made it to the front gate of my apartment, and I almost turned in, but instead, I cranked up Flo Rida's "Club Can't Handle Me" and started to run again. I ran another half mile. The last quarter uphill and against the wind.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Fool's Errand
It seems completely impossible that I will be able to run 13.1 miles in just a matter of months. It seems just as ridiculous as trying to finish my thesis in two months and learning French in the same time. Why I do I set myself up for this kind of stress?
Tonight, I went on my first run outside in months (and by months, I mean I went on one run outside in the past two years). The wind was against me. The sidewalks were against me. I imagined what the people in every car that passed saw when they looked at me. A girl with a bright red fast, swinging her arms, bouncing up and down...a lot of effort to not go very far. I know when I drive by even the best runners I think how silly they look working so hard to not get anywhere very quickly. At least walking doesn't have the same appearance of overwhelming effort. And sure, I don't get anywhere when I'm on the treadmill, and the scenery is really boring, but that little screen with numbers makes me feel like I'm going somewhere. When I'm running outside that stop sign a hundred yards away seems like it's light years away.
I was fully committed when I stepped out this evening for my run. I knew where I'd go: the sidewalk in front of my apartment complex to the end of the street, cross the street and then continue on the road in front of the Coca-Cola building and other offices. Turn left at some random industrial street. Turn left on Fossil Creek. Up the grassy knoll. Onto the sidewalk. Veer back onto my original sidewalk. And then home. Voila!! I started pounding the pavement once I was infront of the Coke (haha) plant and felt good listening to my jams (Supertramp). And then the wind hit. Full blast. Against me. Pushing me. Agh, I'm going to die. No! I can make it. So I kept going. I hit a nice stride for about three minutes and then the wind hit me again. Growing breathless, I noticed a woman walking toward me. Well now I had to keep going. Make it look like I was a professional. We were going to pass within feet of each other. The nice thing to do was say hi. So as I got closer, I made eye contact and prepared to greet her. "Hugh...hhhh....hi....hhhh...huff...." Real professional.
Then the stop sign came into view. I could make it. I could make it. I couldn't make it. Slow. Walk. No! "Come on baby girl. You can make it." Running again. Wind hits again. Harder this time. Gah!!! I'm talking to myself now. If people were to see me they would think I was crazy. Expletives. This sucks.
I made it. But it was a lot of effort just to run to one stupid stop sign. Feeling kind of like I signed up for a fool's errand.
Tonight, I went on my first run outside in months (and by months, I mean I went on one run outside in the past two years). The wind was against me. The sidewalks were against me. I imagined what the people in every car that passed saw when they looked at me. A girl with a bright red fast, swinging her arms, bouncing up and down...a lot of effort to not go very far. I know when I drive by even the best runners I think how silly they look working so hard to not get anywhere very quickly. At least walking doesn't have the same appearance of overwhelming effort. And sure, I don't get anywhere when I'm on the treadmill, and the scenery is really boring, but that little screen with numbers makes me feel like I'm going somewhere. When I'm running outside that stop sign a hundred yards away seems like it's light years away.
I was fully committed when I stepped out this evening for my run. I knew where I'd go: the sidewalk in front of my apartment complex to the end of the street, cross the street and then continue on the road in front of the Coca-Cola building and other offices. Turn left at some random industrial street. Turn left on Fossil Creek. Up the grassy knoll. Onto the sidewalk. Veer back onto my original sidewalk. And then home. Voila!! I started pounding the pavement once I was infront of the Coke (haha) plant and felt good listening to my jams (Supertramp). And then the wind hit. Full blast. Against me. Pushing me. Agh, I'm going to die. No! I can make it. So I kept going. I hit a nice stride for about three minutes and then the wind hit me again. Growing breathless, I noticed a woman walking toward me. Well now I had to keep going. Make it look like I was a professional. We were going to pass within feet of each other. The nice thing to do was say hi. So as I got closer, I made eye contact and prepared to greet her. "Hugh...hhhh....hi....hhhh...huff...." Real professional.
Then the stop sign came into view. I could make it. I could make it. I couldn't make it. Slow. Walk. No! "Come on baby girl. You can make it." Running again. Wind hits again. Harder this time. Gah!!! I'm talking to myself now. If people were to see me they would think I was crazy. Expletives. This sucks.
I made it. But it was a lot of effort just to run to one stupid stop sign. Feeling kind of like I signed up for a fool's errand.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thank you, Mr. Hare
Last night as I was falling asleep, I imagined myself waking up first thing and running. I almost felt so energetic about the idea that I believed I could have gotten out of bed and gone running right then. Well...not really. But it sounded good. So I drift off into a deep sleep filled with thoughts of running and floating across the pavement like a weightless nymph.
Alarm goes off, reality sets in...No. I don't want to get up. I'm tired. It has been a long week. I have a leg cramp. No. Not going to do it. No. No. No.
Well, let me eat first. I eat. And sit with my cat. She looks at me and says, "Let's cuddle." I say, "Oh what a good idea. Let's do it." So I cuddle the cat. Then I think, "OK, Tasha. Enough is enough. Get up and at least walk." So I go in the bedroom and I see a pile of clothes on the bed. They need to be folded. Reality sets in when I come across my jogging bra. OK. OK. I really need to go.
I head to the gym, dragging my feet through the door that was so kindly opened for me by a nice-looking man. Overly cheerful girl at the front desk greets me, "Have a great workout!" Yeah. Yeah. I head upstairs, pick a treadmill far away from other people and start walking. It's warm up time. Right as I'm about to up the speed, door holder from five minutes earlier hops on the treadmill next to me. I get nervous with people right next to me, especially when there were plenty other spaces to choose from. Then a girl gets on the other side of me. They both immediately start running. I look at the guy's treadmill. 7.5 MPH. Fine. To save myself from complete embarassment, I start running too. And right when I want to quit, I look over at both sides of me. They're still going. Fine. I'll still go too. After nearly 10 minutes, guy to my left stops. Gets off and walks away. After another minute, I slow to a fast-paced walk. The girl on my other side stops as well and walks away.
I keep going. Alternating running and walking as much as I can. I look around. No sign of Fast-runner male and Fast-runner female. I'm still going. Forty minutes after man sprints on treadmill, I'm still going. So thank you, Mr. Hare. Slow and steady really can win the race.
Alarm goes off, reality sets in...No. I don't want to get up. I'm tired. It has been a long week. I have a leg cramp. No. Not going to do it. No. No. No.
Well, let me eat first. I eat. And sit with my cat. She looks at me and says, "Let's cuddle." I say, "Oh what a good idea. Let's do it." So I cuddle the cat. Then I think, "OK, Tasha. Enough is enough. Get up and at least walk." So I go in the bedroom and I see a pile of clothes on the bed. They need to be folded. Reality sets in when I come across my jogging bra. OK. OK. I really need to go.
I head to the gym, dragging my feet through the door that was so kindly opened for me by a nice-looking man. Overly cheerful girl at the front desk greets me, "Have a great workout!" Yeah. Yeah. I head upstairs, pick a treadmill far away from other people and start walking. It's warm up time. Right as I'm about to up the speed, door holder from five minutes earlier hops on the treadmill next to me. I get nervous with people right next to me, especially when there were plenty other spaces to choose from. Then a girl gets on the other side of me. They both immediately start running. I look at the guy's treadmill. 7.5 MPH. Fine. To save myself from complete embarassment, I start running too. And right when I want to quit, I look over at both sides of me. They're still going. Fine. I'll still go too. After nearly 10 minutes, guy to my left stops. Gets off and walks away. After another minute, I slow to a fast-paced walk. The girl on my other side stops as well and walks away.
I keep going. Alternating running and walking as much as I can. I look around. No sign of Fast-runner male and Fast-runner female. I'm still going. Forty minutes after man sprints on treadmill, I'm still going. So thank you, Mr. Hare. Slow and steady really can win the race.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
So....a half-marathon....sure
I am 25 years old. When I was 15, I remember, thinking, "Wow, I'll be an adult one day." It sounded so exotic. But now I just feel old. I sit most of the day at a desk, which hurts my knees. I go home, and because my legs are tired from sitting, all I want to do is sit. The rest of the time I'm working as a waitress standing the whole time (well most of it). So, what is the logical thing to do? Run a half-marathon!
Yeah!
Once I said I would do it, I figured I had to go ahead and register and pay and do that whole rigmarole or else I would never become a runner. A runner. That concept sounds so foreign to me. When I think runner I think of skinny girls with amazing legs sweating it out at all times of day in all types of weather. I think of that girl on the treadmill 10 feet away from me who seems to never stop. I want to be that girl.
After registering I thought, "Well, hey, I should go to the gym. Hit the fake moving ground running (it's too damn hot in Texas to run outside)." So I put on my new shoes and my new shirt and my new pants, and I headed to the gym. I bounded up the steps and chose a treadmill. I hopped on, walked for a few minutes, stopped, stretched, and upped the speed. Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out. This sucks. Breath in. Why did I do this? Breath out. I want to stop now. Breath in. You've only gone three minutes. Breath out. Yeah, but this is really awful. Breath in. You've got to do this. Breath out. Slow down. Look around. Nobody seemed to notice. OK. Well that was a valiant effort. Let's just walk for a bit and try again. Walk. Walk. Walk. Up the speed. Breath in. Breath out. Nope, I hate this. Stop.
OK, so I'll just hop on over to the elliptical. Let's just work on that stamina for a bit.
Yeah!
Once I said I would do it, I figured I had to go ahead and register and pay and do that whole rigmarole or else I would never become a runner. A runner. That concept sounds so foreign to me. When I think runner I think of skinny girls with amazing legs sweating it out at all times of day in all types of weather. I think of that girl on the treadmill 10 feet away from me who seems to never stop. I want to be that girl.
After registering I thought, "Well, hey, I should go to the gym. Hit the fake moving ground running (it's too damn hot in Texas to run outside)." So I put on my new shoes and my new shirt and my new pants, and I headed to the gym. I bounded up the steps and chose a treadmill. I hopped on, walked for a few minutes, stopped, stretched, and upped the speed. Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out. This sucks. Breath in. Why did I do this? Breath out. I want to stop now. Breath in. You've only gone three minutes. Breath out. Yeah, but this is really awful. Breath in. You've got to do this. Breath out. Slow down. Look around. Nobody seemed to notice. OK. Well that was a valiant effort. Let's just walk for a bit and try again. Walk. Walk. Walk. Up the speed. Breath in. Breath out. Nope, I hate this. Stop.
OK, so I'll just hop on over to the elliptical. Let's just work on that stamina for a bit.
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