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
Monday, April 4, 2011
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?
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