Most people who know me know that they need to back off when I get hungry. I'm not pleasant when I'm hungry. And when I'm stressed, I have a tendency to get busy, miss a meal and then end up in a heinous mood because I'm ravenous and overwhelmed.
I haven't slipped back into a consistent running schedule post-half. For the past three weeks, I've gone running when I've had time. I haven't made time for running. Turns out, this is as bad for my mood as being hungry is.
I started a part-time adjunct professor position this week. It was an opportunity that came up unexpectedly, and I wasn't entirely prepared. Though I'm thrilled to be doing something that is closely related to my career goals, I've had to figure out how to balance this new adventure with continuing to work evenings in the restaurant biz. Add that with a poor sleep schedule, and let's just say my mood was less than savory.
Until last night. I didn't want to run. But I had to run. I had just signed up for the White Rock marathon, which I plan to use as a training run for the Houston marathon in January. I couldn't put my training schedule off any longer. I found my running clothes, laced up my shoes, stared at my feet for a little bit and then hit the road with a sigh.
The effect was instantaneous. My tension and frustration and foul move slipped away with each stride. I felt good. I glided through 3.5 miles and felt I could go on forever.
So, friends, family, countrymen, next time you see me in a foul mood, feed me and then ask if I've gone for my run yet.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Lemon's Practice
The Hottest Half was Sunday. I survived. I didn't break any records. I didn't even run the whole time. I crossed the finish line, and I felt great. My knee is still intact. I didn't have much soreness. It was great practice for marathon training. Oh yes, that's next. Speaking of practice...
The real star of the Hottest Half was Andrew Lemoncello. He won. He ran the thing in 1:07. I think there are some seconds on there too. I saw him between mile 4 and 5. And by saw him, I mean I saw a streak running toward me, heard people clapping, turned around to see who the heck it was and kept running. That was him on the way back to the finish line. So I looked ahead waiting to see the next group of elite runners trailing him. It took a minute or two, but they slowly (obviously not that slowly) started passing us mere mortals. As two guys (I'm guessing they finished second and third) were passing, I heard them say, "Do you know who the guy in the front is?" Well, he was Andrew Lemoncello. He can be found here.
Here is his tweet from later in the day: "Swam through a half marathon in Dallas today it was so humid. Great practice for Daegu"
Yes folks. It was practice. Finishing 13.1 miles in 1 hour and 7 minutes was practice. Flying by me as I was clipping along at my own merry (read: slow) pace was practice for him. He won the Hottest Half, arguably the literal hottest half marathon you can run. No biggie.
His running was effortless. And I don't hold that against him. Good for you Mr. Lemoncello. Good for you. I still finished. I still felt great. I still got my post-race Mexican food. And you know what? I'll run just a little bit better during my next race, because it was practice. It's always practice. Remember: practice, practice, practice.
And for those who are still hating this running god (ahem, I'm looking at you running buddy), here's the quote I got today from my "Daily Kick in the Butt" from Runner's World:
"Winning has nothing to do with racing. Most days don't have races anyway. Winning is about struggle and effort and optimism, and never, ever, ever giving up." ~ Amby Burfoot.
The real star of the Hottest Half was Andrew Lemoncello. He won. He ran the thing in 1:07. I think there are some seconds on there too. I saw him between mile 4 and 5. And by saw him, I mean I saw a streak running toward me, heard people clapping, turned around to see who the heck it was and kept running. That was him on the way back to the finish line. So I looked ahead waiting to see the next group of elite runners trailing him. It took a minute or two, but they slowly (obviously not that slowly) started passing us mere mortals. As two guys (I'm guessing they finished second and third) were passing, I heard them say, "Do you know who the guy in the front is?" Well, he was Andrew Lemoncello. He can be found here.
Here is his tweet from later in the day: "Swam through a half marathon in Dallas today it was so humid. Great practice for Daegu"
Yes folks. It was practice. Finishing 13.1 miles in 1 hour and 7 minutes was practice. Flying by me as I was clipping along at my own merry (read: slow) pace was practice for him. He won the Hottest Half, arguably the literal hottest half marathon you can run. No biggie.
His running was effortless. And I don't hold that against him. Good for you Mr. Lemoncello. Good for you. I still finished. I still felt great. I still got my post-race Mexican food. And you know what? I'll run just a little bit better during my next race, because it was practice. It's always practice. Remember: practice, practice, practice.
And for those who are still hating this running god (ahem, I'm looking at you running buddy), here's the quote I got today from my "Daily Kick in the Butt" from Runner's World:
"Winning has nothing to do with racing. Most days don't have races anyway. Winning is about struggle and effort and optimism, and never, ever, ever giving up." ~ Amby Burfoot.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Quotes for success
This is the white board on my refrigerator. I see it every day when I'm scrounging for foodstuffs. Most of the time I don't pay much attention to it. I've seen it before. I'll see it again. But today I paused and re-read each magnet, slip of paper and scribbled reminder. These aren't the only magnets or images on my fridge. These are just grouped together in a helpful and ironic way. Yes, next to my reminder to run I have a magnet about a fat-loving civilization. And next to this white board I have a picture ripped out from a Victoria's Secret catalog. I admit it. I covet one of the model's airbrushed abs.
"Don't put off till tomorrow what you can today!" I know I've blogged about procrastination before. It's a problem that relates to every aspect of my life...not just running. Though I don't often pay attention to this reminder, when I do, I promptly walk over to the dishwasher and put up the dishes. Or something like that.
"With the time and energy we've spent dieting, we could have built a small, fat-loving civilization." This one is from my darling friend who sends me all those encouraging text messages. It may not seem to belong on this white board. But it does. It most definitely does. It's a reminder to myself that sometimes ice cream is a good thing. It tells me not to obsess over my body.
"If you think you'll have more time to run tomorrow, remember, you said that yesterday." I warned you. Procrastination is an issue. This little advertisement is poignant. It points out the vicious cycle that begins when you get just a little off track. Tomorrow turns into next week, which turns into next month, which turns into next year, which turns into never. Advertisers really are brilliant.
"Happiness is a journey, not a destination..." Everyone knows this one. And before I quote the entire magnet, let me say this: I've learned to love running because it keeps me present in that moment. My mind may temporarily drift, but mostly I am centered during that run. Even when it's brutally heat and the sun is boring into my skin and sweat is stinging my eyes, I am in that moment. Each step is important. Each breath is crucial. It keeps me grounded. I can work out my frustration. I can laugh. I can cry. I can meditate. That's running. And sometimes I forget that when I'm not doing it.
So here's the most important magnet:
"for a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin - real life. but there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. at last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life. this perspective has helped me to see there is no way to happiness. happiness is the way. so treasure every moment you have and remember that time waits for no one."
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
I'm an evening runner
There was a small guest house nestled in between a bamboo forest and a larger home on a corner street in a neighborhood near White Rock Lake in Dallas. For a year this was my home. I was in third grade, eight years old, constantly had my nose in a book and acted out made up stories in the bamboo forest. There were evenings when my mom and I would stroll through the neighborhood past large storybook homes. Somehow, I always remember these evenings happening in the summer, though I'm sure they happened throughout the year. We would walk to nearby parks. The tall trees lining the street would block out the last streaks of sun before it set. I could feel the hot, sticky air clingy to my skin. I would race my mom pushing as hard as I could against the ground, grass crunching under my feet. There were still fireflies everywhere, lighting up the evening sky. I felt free and strong and fast in these moments.
Those nights are what I think of when I can manage an evening run, setting out as the last corner of the sun kisses the horizon. The dried grass crunches under my feet, immediately taking me back to a time when I imagined a shallow stretch of bamboo to be a vast forest leading me to a magical kingdom. If I squint, headlights in the distance remind me of the flashing fireflies dancing across the night sky. Without the sun glaring down on me, the hot July air doesn't feel so unbearable.
When I was in the fourth grade, I lived on another street. This street was filled with families and chatter and the ringing of bike bells as we rode up and down the hill. I would run through the alleys with my friend Stephanie gathering seeds from the four o'clocks that lined the fences. We would pull honeysuckle flowers off their bushes and suck out the insides. I would climb the tree in my front yard, hiding from the boys as the rode by on their bikes trying to get me to laugh at them. The sun was setting when I would drag myself inside, sticky and smelling like grass and humid Texas air. Yes, humid Texas air has a smell.
I love Texas evenings. And I love the Texas evenings when I'm not working an can manage a run. I imagine expansive prairies whenever I pass undeveloped land. I imagine massive military forts whenever I pass apartment complexes. I imagine I am Laura Ingalls Wilder roaming the last frontier during her childhood. I imagine that the small rabbits pushed from their native homes by the golf course and the town homes are actually just part of Peter Rabbit's family. And when I'm approaching, I laugh when they stop, still as a garden statue, hoping I don't notice them.
Tonight I passed one of these rabbits flattened in the road. I fought back tears feeling guilty that my home had overtaken his. I felt guilty that I was still running, when he didn't run fast enough in the last moments of his life.
I ran just a little bit faster up that last hill.
Those nights are what I think of when I can manage an evening run, setting out as the last corner of the sun kisses the horizon. The dried grass crunches under my feet, immediately taking me back to a time when I imagined a shallow stretch of bamboo to be a vast forest leading me to a magical kingdom. If I squint, headlights in the distance remind me of the flashing fireflies dancing across the night sky. Without the sun glaring down on me, the hot July air doesn't feel so unbearable.
When I was in the fourth grade, I lived on another street. This street was filled with families and chatter and the ringing of bike bells as we rode up and down the hill. I would run through the alleys with my friend Stephanie gathering seeds from the four o'clocks that lined the fences. We would pull honeysuckle flowers off their bushes and suck out the insides. I would climb the tree in my front yard, hiding from the boys as the rode by on their bikes trying to get me to laugh at them. The sun was setting when I would drag myself inside, sticky and smelling like grass and humid Texas air. Yes, humid Texas air has a smell.
I love Texas evenings. And I love the Texas evenings when I'm not working an can manage a run. I imagine expansive prairies whenever I pass undeveloped land. I imagine massive military forts whenever I pass apartment complexes. I imagine I am Laura Ingalls Wilder roaming the last frontier during her childhood. I imagine that the small rabbits pushed from their native homes by the golf course and the town homes are actually just part of Peter Rabbit's family. And when I'm approaching, I laugh when they stop, still as a garden statue, hoping I don't notice them.
Tonight I passed one of these rabbits flattened in the road. I fought back tears feeling guilty that my home had overtaken his. I felt guilty that I was still running, when he didn't run fast enough in the last moments of his life.
I ran just a little bit faster up that last hill.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Immersion...running?
I haven't gone for a run in several days. I was at a writing conference all weekend. That's a good excuse, right?
And, let's be honest, I am not quite that dedicated yet to running--no matter what.
This year's topic was immersion. Some of the tactics the writers used were for reporting shorter news stories. Other speakers have spent years fully immersed in a story for a book. I'm just not that well-funded. I probably won't be moving to Hawaii to live with surfers (oh but I want to!). I'm not likely to get a job as a corrections officer just so I can get an inside look of a prison.
How does this have anything to do with running? I can immerse myself in running, right? Just go every day (or at least try to). Lesson learned. Well not quite. Running is a culture. It has its own jargon, community and attitudes. To some extent, running is becoming popular. It seems every nonprofit organization puts on some kind of walk or fun run. The Rock n Roll marathon series is a growing for-profit business. The Boston Marathon recently reduced its qualifying times, narrowing the potential field of runners accepted to the race each year. And within the larger running community, there are subcultures: barefoot runners, female runners, male runners, elderly runners, gluten free runners, professional runners, ultramarathoners, marathoners, sprinters, trail runners, and the list goes on.
I'm slowly learning some of the jargon in the running community. PR is a big one. In my writing and news world, I hear PR, and I think public relations. A runner hears PR and thinks personal record. Or PB: personal best. This is for those time obsessed racers seeking BQs: Boston qualifying times. I've learned what fartleks are. I know what speedwork is. Hill repeats. ITBS. Stress fractures. Gu. Butt kicks.
I'm still a beginner. I don't yet belong to a subculture of runners. I haven't fully immersed myself in this elite society of masochistic people. Mostly, I run by myself on some road near my apartment hoping to achieve the bliss I felt during my one perfect run. It was in Hawaii. I'm in Texas. Big difference. Occasionally I pass another runner. I nod. We share a quick wave and then go about our business.
Though I was sitting most of the weekend inside on overly air conditioned conference room, I was imagining how what I learned could be applied to running. Running keeps me writing. And writing keeps me running. Now I just need to take the next step and fully infiltrate this world I've only been visiting. It's time to join the subculture, go full immersion.
I'm going native.
And, let's be honest, I am not quite that dedicated yet to running--no matter what.
This year's topic was immersion. Some of the tactics the writers used were for reporting shorter news stories. Other speakers have spent years fully immersed in a story for a book. I'm just not that well-funded. I probably won't be moving to Hawaii to live with surfers (oh but I want to!). I'm not likely to get a job as a corrections officer just so I can get an inside look of a prison.
How does this have anything to do with running? I can immerse myself in running, right? Just go every day (or at least try to). Lesson learned. Well not quite. Running is a culture. It has its own jargon, community and attitudes. To some extent, running is becoming popular. It seems every nonprofit organization puts on some kind of walk or fun run. The Rock n Roll marathon series is a growing for-profit business. The Boston Marathon recently reduced its qualifying times, narrowing the potential field of runners accepted to the race each year. And within the larger running community, there are subcultures: barefoot runners, female runners, male runners, elderly runners, gluten free runners, professional runners, ultramarathoners, marathoners, sprinters, trail runners, and the list goes on.
I'm slowly learning some of the jargon in the running community. PR is a big one. In my writing and news world, I hear PR, and I think public relations. A runner hears PR and thinks personal record. Or PB: personal best. This is for those time obsessed racers seeking BQs: Boston qualifying times. I've learned what fartleks are. I know what speedwork is. Hill repeats. ITBS. Stress fractures. Gu. Butt kicks.
I'm still a beginner. I don't yet belong to a subculture of runners. I haven't fully immersed myself in this elite society of masochistic people. Mostly, I run by myself on some road near my apartment hoping to achieve the bliss I felt during my one perfect run. It was in Hawaii. I'm in Texas. Big difference. Occasionally I pass another runner. I nod. We share a quick wave and then go about our business.
Though I was sitting most of the weekend inside on overly air conditioned conference room, I was imagining how what I learned could be applied to running. Running keeps me writing. And writing keeps me running. Now I just need to take the next step and fully infiltrate this world I've only been visiting. It's time to join the subculture, go full immersion.
I'm going native.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
I'm a lazy runner (blogger)
I haven't blogged in awhile. Clearly. I ran last night. But sometimes I have to remind myself I'm supposed to be a runner. Just like I'm reminding myself now that I'm supposed to be a writer.
Sometimes it's easy to think, "Well, gosh, I've done that before. I can do it again." I did a cartwheel once. Not so sure I could do it again. I've never quite grasped cartwheeling. I ran a half marathon once (well, six months ago). Just because I did it once doesn't mean I can up and run 13.1 miles right now. It takes practice. Doing cartwheels takes practice. Writing takes practice. Running takes practice.
I played the violin for many years. I can still play but, trust me, it's not a beautiful sound. Why? Because I haven't practiced in years. It's like the old joke:
A tourist stops a New Yorker. "How do I get to Carnegie Hall?" he asks.
"Practice," the New Yorker responds.
How do I run a half marathon? Practice.
How do I write a great blog (or at least a good one)? Practice.
How do I play the violin? Practice.
How do I balance chemistry formulas? Practice.
You get the picture. Well, so do I. But a couple of weeks ago I had to remind myself. I'm not going to run this half marathon just because I ran one before. I've taken an American History test before, but it doesn't mean I would pass one now. Our minds don't retain information without a little practice (aka studying), and our muscles don't remember without training.
I've recently been feeling a little down, because I'm looking for a (real) full-time job. Unless you've been living under a rock for the past several years, this statement shouldn't surprise you. I wasn't expecting it to be quite so tough, quite so competitive. But I have to keep trying. Just like I have to keep running.
My best friend sent me this text message after I said I was beating myself up a bit: "You are, but it's who you are. You're a perfectionist and an overachiever and there's nothing wrong with that. But among all those things, you're also a strong woman and you have to believe in yourself and believe you WILL find a great job. You are not one to give up either, so just remember that too!"
I received it right as I was coming up on one of the toughest hills near my house. I didn't want to run it, but I did, because I have people who believe in me. They believe that with practice I will get better. And one day soon I will cross that finish line, whether it's at a marathon or in the job market.
This blog may not make much sense now. I'm out of practice. It'll get better.
Sometimes it's easy to think, "Well, gosh, I've done that before. I can do it again." I did a cartwheel once. Not so sure I could do it again. I've never quite grasped cartwheeling. I ran a half marathon once (well, six months ago). Just because I did it once doesn't mean I can up and run 13.1 miles right now. It takes practice. Doing cartwheels takes practice. Writing takes practice. Running takes practice.
I played the violin for many years. I can still play but, trust me, it's not a beautiful sound. Why? Because I haven't practiced in years. It's like the old joke:
A tourist stops a New Yorker. "How do I get to Carnegie Hall?" he asks.
"Practice," the New Yorker responds.
How do I run a half marathon? Practice.
How do I write a great blog (or at least a good one)? Practice.
How do I play the violin? Practice.
How do I balance chemistry formulas? Practice.
You get the picture. Well, so do I. But a couple of weeks ago I had to remind myself. I'm not going to run this half marathon just because I ran one before. I've taken an American History test before, but it doesn't mean I would pass one now. Our minds don't retain information without a little practice (aka studying), and our muscles don't remember without training.
I've recently been feeling a little down, because I'm looking for a (real) full-time job. Unless you've been living under a rock for the past several years, this statement shouldn't surprise you. I wasn't expecting it to be quite so tough, quite so competitive. But I have to keep trying. Just like I have to keep running.
My best friend sent me this text message after I said I was beating myself up a bit: "You are, but it's who you are. You're a perfectionist and an overachiever and there's nothing wrong with that. But among all those things, you're also a strong woman and you have to believe in yourself and believe you WILL find a great job. You are not one to give up either, so just remember that too!"
I received it right as I was coming up on one of the toughest hills near my house. I didn't want to run it, but I did, because I have people who believe in me. They believe that with practice I will get better. And one day soon I will cross that finish line, whether it's at a marathon or in the job market.
This blog may not make much sense now. I'm out of practice. It'll get better.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
What's Weight Got to do With It
I would be lying if I said that the prospect of losing weight came to my mind when my aunt first asked me if I would be interested in training for a half-marathon. Since I began my quest to become a runner, several people have commented on how great running must be for weight loss. I had already started making changes in my eating habits before I started running consistently. I lost some weight due to the better diet and settled back into my most consistent adult weight. But once I was running more frequently and longer distances, I noticed that my body settled into its new routine. The changes in my muscles and endurance slowed. My body was growing more and more efficient the longer I ran. I could feel it.
Though my main reason for running was to accomplish something new, get in better shape and stick to a difficult habit, there was still the thought in the back of my mind, "Shouldn't this make me hot?" When I was running, this thought never crossed my mind. It only hit at other points during the day or after someone would mention that running must be great for weight loss. Many people still believe that if you run, you can eat what you want and still manage to lose weight. Though there is plenty of accessible research and news articles on fitness and weight loss research, it seems most people still don't grasp that weight management is all about calorie input and output. Yeah, blah, blah. You know. Running does make you hungry. Your body needs fuel for running any length of time but especially on those long runs. So what do you do? You eat more. What's my point? Running is great for weight managment but not necessarily weight loss.
Yes, I have lost weight. Yes, my body is different, better. But most importantly, I feel good. Weight shouldn't be your reason to run. The time to clear your mind should be a reason. Increased strength should be your reason. A fitter, more capable body should be the reason. It's not about aesthetics. The beauty is learning that you are capable of more than you could've ever dreamed.
Though my main reason for running was to accomplish something new, get in better shape and stick to a difficult habit, there was still the thought in the back of my mind, "Shouldn't this make me hot?" When I was running, this thought never crossed my mind. It only hit at other points during the day or after someone would mention that running must be great for weight loss. Many people still believe that if you run, you can eat what you want and still manage to lose weight. Though there is plenty of accessible research and news articles on fitness and weight loss research, it seems most people still don't grasp that weight management is all about calorie input and output. Yeah, blah, blah. You know. Running does make you hungry. Your body needs fuel for running any length of time but especially on those long runs. So what do you do? You eat more. What's my point? Running is great for weight managment but not necessarily weight loss.
Yes, I have lost weight. Yes, my body is different, better. But most importantly, I feel good. Weight shouldn't be your reason to run. The time to clear your mind should be a reason. Increased strength should be your reason. A fitter, more capable body should be the reason. It's not about aesthetics. The beauty is learning that you are capable of more than you could've ever dreamed.
Monday, April 4, 2011
I want to be an adventurer!
In addition to running, I've been reading. Yes. Reading. That's what I do. Once I become interested in a topic, I must learn more about it. So now I'm a proud subscriber of Runner's World and Outside magazine in addition to the subscription to Women's Health, which I already had. That brings me back to the title of this blog post: I want to be an adventurer. The more I read these magazines and look at photos of these super humans doing amazing thugs like running ultramarathons in Canada and climbing Mount Everest and hiking the Amazon, the more I want to take part. No, my next blog won't be about how I decided to trek the farthest reaches of the world. Yet, I can't help but wonder what it must be like to create adventure in a world where there are few or no undiscovered places. And to get to the bits of adventure coveted in these magazines, one must have an endless supply of money or be willing to live poorer than poor. Sure, I would love to go run the marathon in New York and a trail run in Vancouver. Biking across New Zealand sounds like a blast. Climbing and hiking in the Himalayas sounds simultaneously challenging and peaceful.
Instead I'm stuck in Texas with barely enough money to spare to sign up for an occasional road race near home. And it's not exactly like Colorado with seemingly endless outdoor possibilities. It's all flat land and highway and dried up rivers in the summer. So, dear reader, I want your input. What kind of adventure can I find close to home? Save me from the doldrums of treadmill running and running on busy roads near my apartment. I have an active imagination. Maybe if I find a big enough hill, I can pretend I'm climbing Everest.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Instead I'm stuck in Texas with barely enough money to spare to sign up for an occasional road race near home. And it's not exactly like Colorado with seemingly endless outdoor possibilities. It's all flat land and highway and dried up rivers in the summer. So, dear reader, I want your input. What kind of adventure can I find close to home? Save me from the doldrums of treadmill running and running on busy roads near my apartment. I have an active imagination. Maybe if I find a big enough hill, I can pretend I'm climbing Everest.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Monday, March 28, 2011
Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
"Facing a challenge is not always going to be fun. If we waited around for intrinsic motivation to kick in before doing anything, we'd spend all our time eating candy apples and soaking in hot tubs."
- David Nowell, clinical neuropsychologist. Quoted in Psychology Today.
I read this quote in an article about how a middle aged dad found the motivation to become an ultra-marathoner. I couldn't help but laugh. I regularly battle with my "intrinsic motivation." Do I take out the trash now, even though I'm tired? Nah, I'll wait until I have more energy. Do I start working on the novel I've had in my head for years? No, no. It's not the right time. My mind isn't clear. Should I go for a run today? Oh, no, don't do it. I'm tired!
How often do we let sluggishness and a busy schedule get in the way of our dreams? How often do we feel let down by the reality around us when our expectations are so much greater? There's a great scene in (500) Days of Summer in which the main character goes to a party where he knows he will see his ex. The screen is split between his expectations and reality. His expectations show him having a wonderful time rekindling his love with his ex-girlfriend. Reality shows him sitting alone at the party without ever reigniting the spark with his dream girl. Life doesn't always go according to plan. If my life were a movie, the split screen would look something like this:
Expectations:
I wake up at 6:45 a.m. before my alarm goes off. I hop out of bed happy to start the day. I quickly dress, lace up my running shoes and go on an effortless five mile run. I come home, shower, dress, eat a full breakfast and head to my dream job. I don't hit traffic. I arrive at work early and energetic. I come up with a brilliant story idea which will win a Pulitzer. I don't waste time surfing the internet and Facebook stalking. I get home, cook a three-course meal, sit down and read Voltaire in French (because I've taken the time to learn French). I finish the evening working on the next great American novel and fall into bed feeling accomplished.
Reality:
I hit the snooze button ten times before rolling out of bed. I eat a bowl of cereal. Stare at the TV urging myself to go work out. I wash the dishes and tell myself that it's time for spring cleaning. I waste time staring at all the clutter I would like to get rid of. By that time, it's nearly time for lunch, and I still haven't worked out, but I'm oh so hungry. So I heat up a frozen meal. It's almost time to get dressed to go work my not-so-ideal restaurant job. I'm too full to work out anyway. I sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic on my way to work. Once I leave work I'm too tired to work on my great American novel and read French classics.
Don't try to tell me you can't relate. We all end up working jobs we don't love at some point in our life. We all wake up and don't quite feel like we can make it through another monotonous day. We sit around and think, "You know, if I had started running 10 years ago, I would be in shape." Or, "Man, if I could just go back in time to when I was starting college, I would've changed my major from journalism to biology, and I'd be almost finishing med school by now." Or how about, "Dammit, it's almost summer again. Why didn't I start working out in January? Oh well, I'll do it right next year."
So how about this. How about you join me in banning "shoulda, woulda, coulda." Yes, had I started running years ago, maybe I would already be in the habit and wouldn't be worrying about my knees. Of course, I should've been working on a writing project for the past two years, but I didn't. Sure, I could've been playing the violin all this time, and could claim 17 years of classical experience under my belt, but oops, I can't say that. All I have is today. And my expectations. Now let's make them a reality.
Ok, I'm going for a run now. And maybe, just maybe I'll listen to French tapes instead of Lady Gaga.
- David Nowell, clinical neuropsychologist. Quoted in Psychology Today.
I read this quote in an article about how a middle aged dad found the motivation to become an ultra-marathoner. I couldn't help but laugh. I regularly battle with my "intrinsic motivation." Do I take out the trash now, even though I'm tired? Nah, I'll wait until I have more energy. Do I start working on the novel I've had in my head for years? No, no. It's not the right time. My mind isn't clear. Should I go for a run today? Oh, no, don't do it. I'm tired!
How often do we let sluggishness and a busy schedule get in the way of our dreams? How often do we feel let down by the reality around us when our expectations are so much greater? There's a great scene in (500) Days of Summer in which the main character goes to a party where he knows he will see his ex. The screen is split between his expectations and reality. His expectations show him having a wonderful time rekindling his love with his ex-girlfriend. Reality shows him sitting alone at the party without ever reigniting the spark with his dream girl. Life doesn't always go according to plan. If my life were a movie, the split screen would look something like this:
Expectations:
I wake up at 6:45 a.m. before my alarm goes off. I hop out of bed happy to start the day. I quickly dress, lace up my running shoes and go on an effortless five mile run. I come home, shower, dress, eat a full breakfast and head to my dream job. I don't hit traffic. I arrive at work early and energetic. I come up with a brilliant story idea which will win a Pulitzer. I don't waste time surfing the internet and Facebook stalking. I get home, cook a three-course meal, sit down and read Voltaire in French (because I've taken the time to learn French). I finish the evening working on the next great American novel and fall into bed feeling accomplished.
Reality:
I hit the snooze button ten times before rolling out of bed. I eat a bowl of cereal. Stare at the TV urging myself to go work out. I wash the dishes and tell myself that it's time for spring cleaning. I waste time staring at all the clutter I would like to get rid of. By that time, it's nearly time for lunch, and I still haven't worked out, but I'm oh so hungry. So I heat up a frozen meal. It's almost time to get dressed to go work my not-so-ideal restaurant job. I'm too full to work out anyway. I sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic on my way to work. Once I leave work I'm too tired to work on my great American novel and read French classics.
Don't try to tell me you can't relate. We all end up working jobs we don't love at some point in our life. We all wake up and don't quite feel like we can make it through another monotonous day. We sit around and think, "You know, if I had started running 10 years ago, I would be in shape." Or, "Man, if I could just go back in time to when I was starting college, I would've changed my major from journalism to biology, and I'd be almost finishing med school by now." Or how about, "Dammit, it's almost summer again. Why didn't I start working out in January? Oh well, I'll do it right next year."
So how about this. How about you join me in banning "shoulda, woulda, coulda." Yes, had I started running years ago, maybe I would already be in the habit and wouldn't be worrying about my knees. Of course, I should've been working on a writing project for the past two years, but I didn't. Sure, I could've been playing the violin all this time, and could claim 17 years of classical experience under my belt, but oops, I can't say that. All I have is today. And my expectations. Now let's make them a reality.
Ok, I'm going for a run now. And maybe, just maybe I'll listen to French tapes instead of Lady Gaga.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Runner's knee
It was Christmas day 2006. I don't much enjoy checking my mail often because there's only ever people asking me to pay my bills. But today
I was expecting cards and maybe even baklava from my Ya-Ya. So I put the dog on his leash and walked to the mail center to collect the bills and the goodies. With arms full of mail and dog on leash, we started climbing the concrete steps to my apartment. It was a combination of my clumsiness and the dog's leash that tripped me. With arms full, the only thing to catch my fall was my knees. Ouch. Right on the concrete corner of the step. In between laughter and tears, I managed to hop into my apartment before collapsing to the floor unable to walk. My left knee ballooned to the size of my thigh. The right wasn't as bad, but was still swollen. The doctor was certain I had shattered my knee cap, but x-rays showed it was a very bad sprain. I took the cue to relax, prop up my feet and read many books until I could walk without crutches or a limp.
It was only a month or two later when I got my first job at a small newspaper and began the weary life of commuting and working inconsistent hours. I didn't have the time to exercise, I told myself. I was certain I would take the time to strenghten my body and my knees once I got into a normal routine. It wasn't long before days turned into weeks, and then years had gone by since I had followed a consistent exercise regimen. I excused my laziness with, "Oh, I'm busy." "Oh, I have bad knees." But I didn't have bad knees. I had weak knees from lack of activity.
But, now I am avoiding injury. A real injury. After the half marathon my knees were stiff and sore. I hadn't run much in the two weeks prior to Cowtown after getting the flu and an upper respiratory infection. Thirteen miles was the longest I had ever run, and the quick increase in distance strained my knees. After reading in Runner's World (of which I am now a proud subscriber!), I diagnosed myself with runner's knee. It comes from mileage increases and weak glutes. Yes, glutes. That means my butt is weak. That's a confidence builder for sure. I identified the symptoms and then the illness and now it was time for treatment. But I didn't like the treatment. Slow down on the running, the magazine told me. Cross-train, it added. Exercise your butt, it snickered.
No running? That was scary. I had just become committed to something. If I slowed down or stop, I was afraid I would never start again. This experience has enhanced my understanding of myself. And that understanding shows that I operate in extremes. I am an all-or-nothing person. When I'm busy, I'm busy to the extreme. When I'm being lazy, I'm downright lethargic. So if I slow down on running, will I give up all together. Can I learn to operate in moderation?
Well, time will tell. I've been joining the elliptical exercisers. Some seem serious about it. Others wear jeans. Or makeup. Or read while on the machine. None of these things seem to mean vigorous workout in my eyes. But I'm trying to log the same mileage I would be running and doing it at about the same pace. I feel stronger. And maybe this break will make me a better runner. I will learn moderation and consistency and that sometimes it's about doing a little bit at a time. Oh, and maybe the squats for my knees will give me a better butt. I mean really: what girl doesn't want that?
I was expecting cards and maybe even baklava from my Ya-Ya. So I put the dog on his leash and walked to the mail center to collect the bills and the goodies. With arms full of mail and dog on leash, we started climbing the concrete steps to my apartment. It was a combination of my clumsiness and the dog's leash that tripped me. With arms full, the only thing to catch my fall was my knees. Ouch. Right on the concrete corner of the step. In between laughter and tears, I managed to hop into my apartment before collapsing to the floor unable to walk. My left knee ballooned to the size of my thigh. The right wasn't as bad, but was still swollen. The doctor was certain I had shattered my knee cap, but x-rays showed it was a very bad sprain. I took the cue to relax, prop up my feet and read many books until I could walk without crutches or a limp.
It was only a month or two later when I got my first job at a small newspaper and began the weary life of commuting and working inconsistent hours. I didn't have the time to exercise, I told myself. I was certain I would take the time to strenghten my body and my knees once I got into a normal routine. It wasn't long before days turned into weeks, and then years had gone by since I had followed a consistent exercise regimen. I excused my laziness with, "Oh, I'm busy." "Oh, I have bad knees." But I didn't have bad knees. I had weak knees from lack of activity.
But, now I am avoiding injury. A real injury. After the half marathon my knees were stiff and sore. I hadn't run much in the two weeks prior to Cowtown after getting the flu and an upper respiratory infection. Thirteen miles was the longest I had ever run, and the quick increase in distance strained my knees. After reading in Runner's World (of which I am now a proud subscriber!), I diagnosed myself with runner's knee. It comes from mileage increases and weak glutes. Yes, glutes. That means my butt is weak. That's a confidence builder for sure. I identified the symptoms and then the illness and now it was time for treatment. But I didn't like the treatment. Slow down on the running, the magazine told me. Cross-train, it added. Exercise your butt, it snickered.
No running? That was scary. I had just become committed to something. If I slowed down or stop, I was afraid I would never start again. This experience has enhanced my understanding of myself. And that understanding shows that I operate in extremes. I am an all-or-nothing person. When I'm busy, I'm busy to the extreme. When I'm being lazy, I'm downright lethargic. So if I slow down on running, will I give up all together. Can I learn to operate in moderation?
Well, time will tell. I've been joining the elliptical exercisers. Some seem serious about it. Others wear jeans. Or makeup. Or read while on the machine. None of these things seem to mean vigorous workout in my eyes. But I'm trying to log the same mileage I would be running and doing it at about the same pace. I feel stronger. And maybe this break will make me a better runner. I will learn moderation and consistency and that sometimes it's about doing a little bit at a time. Oh, and maybe the squats for my knees will give me a better butt. I mean really: what girl doesn't want that?
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
I did it...and I want more
The big run was last weekend. That's right folks. THE big run. All 13.1 miles of it, and I completed every last step of it. This was the run I had been thinking about for months. I slowly built up to running even just three miles. And then I did the unthinkable: I ran six miles. I had barely wrapped my head around running six miles before I ran a 15K. It was at that point that it sank in. I could do this. I could finish a half marathon.
I woke up at 5:30 a.m. on race day, had a bowl of oatmeal and put on my running shoes. I'm not normally a morning person, but on this morning I felt excited and nervous. My aunts came to my apartment and we all put our bibs on and tied up our laces. Once we made it to our corral the nerves and excitement set in. Even at 7 a.m. it was warm and muggy. I crossed the start line and thought, "Oh gosh, I've got 13 more miles of this." The first two miles weren't much fun. It was hot and sweaty and I couldn't spot any mile markers to give me a small sense of victory. After mile two I found my rhythm. Mile nine and a large hill slowed my pace. At this point my knees were starting to hurt, and I was getting tired. Once I saw the bright red mile 11 marker, I felt a sense of relief. It was just two more miles. That was it. I could do it. And I did.
It was one of the best feelings to know that I set out to do something difficult and could complete it. And thus begun the obsession. Even though I was exhausted and my body was sore, I started looking up more races after the Cowtown. I signed up for a 10K zoo run. I'm already looking at more half marathons. So how did I go from such an adamant non-runner to someone who can't get enough? It's the payoff. I ran 13.1 miles in a couple of hours. It was a goal, and I did it, and then I was done. The training isn't easy, but the event is almost immediately gratifying. It's a goal I can quickly cross off my list. It's concrete, achievable. I have always had many goals. I started writing lists at 10 of what I wanted to do. I could've been a doctor. I could've been a lawyer. I could've been a marine biologist. I could've been an astronaut. I want to visit all 50 states, and I would like to go to all the continents (well Antartica is iffy). I want to write a book. I want to win an Oscar. I want to go to the Oympics. I want to learn at least three more languages. These aren't immediate goals. These aren't concrete goals that I can set out to do in a morning and then finish before noon. I will never be a brain surgeon. It takes years of dedicated commitment to only that one specialty. But running. Running is different. I can get up in the morning and run for an hour and have clocked an exact amount of miles. It's gratifying in a way I didn't expect. It keeps me focused. It gives me something that I can achieve amidst all my other more abstract and extreme goals.
So with that, I would like to set another goal. I want to commit myself to this whole running blog thing in a way that I haven't yet. Because running isn't just about the physical act. It requires dedication and discipline. Those are two D words that I could use a little help with. I hope you all are willing to support me and cheer me along the ride, er, run.
I woke up at 5:30 a.m. on race day, had a bowl of oatmeal and put on my running shoes. I'm not normally a morning person, but on this morning I felt excited and nervous. My aunts came to my apartment and we all put our bibs on and tied up our laces. Once we made it to our corral the nerves and excitement set in. Even at 7 a.m. it was warm and muggy. I crossed the start line and thought, "Oh gosh, I've got 13 more miles of this." The first two miles weren't much fun. It was hot and sweaty and I couldn't spot any mile markers to give me a small sense of victory. After mile two I found my rhythm. Mile nine and a large hill slowed my pace. At this point my knees were starting to hurt, and I was getting tired. Once I saw the bright red mile 11 marker, I felt a sense of relief. It was just two more miles. That was it. I could do it. And I did.
It was one of the best feelings to know that I set out to do something difficult and could complete it. And thus begun the obsession. Even though I was exhausted and my body was sore, I started looking up more races after the Cowtown. I signed up for a 10K zoo run. I'm already looking at more half marathons. So how did I go from such an adamant non-runner to someone who can't get enough? It's the payoff. I ran 13.1 miles in a couple of hours. It was a goal, and I did it, and then I was done. The training isn't easy, but the event is almost immediately gratifying. It's a goal I can quickly cross off my list. It's concrete, achievable. I have always had many goals. I started writing lists at 10 of what I wanted to do. I could've been a doctor. I could've been a lawyer. I could've been a marine biologist. I could've been an astronaut. I want to visit all 50 states, and I would like to go to all the continents (well Antartica is iffy). I want to write a book. I want to win an Oscar. I want to go to the Oympics. I want to learn at least three more languages. These aren't immediate goals. These aren't concrete goals that I can set out to do in a morning and then finish before noon. I will never be a brain surgeon. It takes years of dedicated commitment to only that one specialty. But running. Running is different. I can get up in the morning and run for an hour and have clocked an exact amount of miles. It's gratifying in a way I didn't expect. It keeps me focused. It gives me something that I can achieve amidst all my other more abstract and extreme goals.
So with that, I would like to set another goal. I want to commit myself to this whole running blog thing in a way that I haven't yet. Because running isn't just about the physical act. It requires dedication and discipline. Those are two D words that I could use a little help with. I hope you all are willing to support me and cheer me along the ride, er, run.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
I am a runner
I never would have thought that I would call myself a runner. Sure, I could run on occasion. But becoming a runner? That was an entirely different matter. When I decided to run the Cowtown half-marathon, I didn't do so to become a runner. I did so to challenge myself, to add a new focus, to strengthen my body and mind. I didn't know if running would become habit. But it is more than a habit now. Even if I run only a couple times in a week, I am stil a runner. I enjoy it. I crave it.
I ran my first 15k this weekend. I planned to run six of the nine plus miles and walk the remainder. Like the half marathon, I decided to run the 15k at the suggestion of my aunts. So when Sunday morning came around, I struggled to get up and find the motivation to drive to Dallas for the joyous event. It was in the low 40s and the sun was barely peeking over the horizon when I started my trek to White Rock Lake. The moment I stepped in my aunts' home, they started handing me new clothes to wear. Proper socks. Proper pants. A proper shirt that wicks away the sweat. They handed me my running number. I was amazed by the number of people gathering at the starting line. some were clearly serious runners edging their way to the front of the line. One woman was wearing short spandex running shorts and a running bra. Despite the cold and the goosebumps covering her body, she planned to run the full nine miles fast enough to not need extra warmth. She was the second place female.
I started clipping along with my aunt. We chatted and manuevered around slower runners and moved aside for faster runners. The normally strenuous first three miles went by rather quickly. It suddenly didn't seem like it would be tough to run six miles. I passed mile marker 4, 5, and 6. I could make it to 7. Seven passed by quickly. Well, if I could just make it to 8... I told my aunt this and she laughed. "Eight?! You can do the whole thing." I spent most of the last mile running alone. And right when I wanted to start walking, I caught sight of two Dallas police officers along the path. They were high-fiving the runners as they passed. Once our hands met, I knew I had to finish. These people believed I was a runner. I went through the finish line with one of my aunts cheering me along. I did it. I ran my first race and the longest distance I've ever run.
Today I set out for my run, alone, without the excitement of a race. The first two miles were tough, mostly uphill and against the wind. It was hard to motivate myself. But I kept going, because I'm a runner. Toward the end of my run I passed two other runners. We waved at each other. They didn't question my allegiance to the sport. They just saw me as a runner. Because I am.
I ran my first 15k this weekend. I planned to run six of the nine plus miles and walk the remainder. Like the half marathon, I decided to run the 15k at the suggestion of my aunts. So when Sunday morning came around, I struggled to get up and find the motivation to drive to Dallas for the joyous event. It was in the low 40s and the sun was barely peeking over the horizon when I started my trek to White Rock Lake. The moment I stepped in my aunts' home, they started handing me new clothes to wear. Proper socks. Proper pants. A proper shirt that wicks away the sweat. They handed me my running number. I was amazed by the number of people gathering at the starting line. some were clearly serious runners edging their way to the front of the line. One woman was wearing short spandex running shorts and a running bra. Despite the cold and the goosebumps covering her body, she planned to run the full nine miles fast enough to not need extra warmth. She was the second place female.
I started clipping along with my aunt. We chatted and manuevered around slower runners and moved aside for faster runners. The normally strenuous first three miles went by rather quickly. It suddenly didn't seem like it would be tough to run six miles. I passed mile marker 4, 5, and 6. I could make it to 7. Seven passed by quickly. Well, if I could just make it to 8... I told my aunt this and she laughed. "Eight?! You can do the whole thing." I spent most of the last mile running alone. And right when I wanted to start walking, I caught sight of two Dallas police officers along the path. They were high-fiving the runners as they passed. Once our hands met, I knew I had to finish. These people believed I was a runner. I went through the finish line with one of my aunts cheering me along. I did it. I ran my first race and the longest distance I've ever run.
Today I set out for my run, alone, without the excitement of a race. The first two miles were tough, mostly uphill and against the wind. It was hard to motivate myself. But I kept going, because I'm a runner. Toward the end of my run I passed two other runners. We waved at each other. They didn't question my allegiance to the sport. They just saw me as a runner. Because I am.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Yes, I'm still running
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.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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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