Major milestones

Last Sunday, I finally achieved what seemed impossible a year ago. I broke my ten-minute mile.

I rolled in at 9:51 on the treadmill. And there was much excitement!

After such a huge milestone, I had planned to take an easy week. Runs on Tuesday and Thursday, maybe, with a long run Saturday. This strategy of alternating easy and hard weeks has led to some fantastic breakthroughs over the past month.

But as is so often the case, life got in the way. A different work schedule knocked me out of commission for the week, and it was Saturday before I knew it.

A little rest is a good thing. Too much rest is a miserable thing.

I knew that coming back from a whole week off would be difficult, so why not make it as difficult as possible? This called for a long run, on empty.

As Runner's World explains here, there are sensible training reasons for running on empty, increased efficiency and higher percentage of fat burning chief among them. Forcing the body to make this leap, however, is no walk in the park for me. Frankly, it sucks.

Which is exactly what I was looking for.

I pounded out five miles on the treadmill in 1:04:48, a new PR by a scant sixteen seconds. It was exhausting and strenuous, one of those runs where I checked my progress after what seemed like an eternity and I hadn't even made it halfway. It was a character building run.

Sometimes, running is about enduring. And I endured.

Post-run, I hit the scale. My last weigh-in was a beautiful, shining 190. After months in the low-190s, it was a welcome sight. I wasn't sure where my weight would be after a stressful, athletically-careless week, so I winced when I stepped up, telling myself that if it said 192 I would be forgiving.

And it said 186.

Just like that, I'd lost 50 pounds. Not just 50... 52. I know it isn't magic, that this is hard work. The process can be devastating, and there are times when I feel lost in it all. But when I see these results, real results, I nevertheless find my success incomprehensible.

Here I am, claiming it. I've worked hard for this. I have reached - passed - the halfway point of my weight loss.

I did this.

Reaping the rewards

After last weekend's do-or-die approach, I opted to cut back during the week and let my body rest up.

You're welcome, body.

One day of running, on Thursday, with nothing the rest of the week but blissful couch time. I'd hoped this little bargain would lead to a satisfying trail run over the weekend.

I wasn't disappointed.

The first part of yesterday's run was sluggish, something that's been happening more and more lately. I had a hard time committing to it from the moment I rolled out of bed, and when I began running, my body just wasn't into it. It wasn't until I'd passed a mile that things really started humming along.

Once I found that groove, though, it was smooth sailing. I didn't really clue into it until I'd reached The Loop halfway through, but I was moving fast, and it felt easier than it had before. It was surely a combination of many things: the cool breeze, the new music on my iPod, the fact that my body and mind were fresh.

At this point, I dared to hope that the end result would be an overall pace of 14:45. On trails, I tend to pull around 15:00, so if I could shave a little time here and there, I'd be satisfied.

I pushed myself on the way back in, not excessively but with 14:45 in my head. I was hunting it down. I'd set out for a sub-6 mile run, so I hoped I'd be able to hang on without my body wanting to quit after five, as it previously wanted to.

And I was running fast enough that, at one point, I could no longer scan the ground quickly enough to respond. I know the trail well enough now to remember where the rocky, rooty parts are, trying to stay aware of my surroundings. Here, I failed, and my right toe caught hard on a root. I pitched forward, my arms outstretched and ready to take the fall when my left leg swung into action. I caught myself and kept running.

It was a little bewildering, as someone who's been deeply accident-prone since childhood, to have averted disaster at the last second. My body just doesn't do things like that. I catch my toe, my brain has long enough to think "Bad thing!", my body says, "Damn, you're bad at this," and I crash to the ground.

I'd gone several strides before I processed that, no, I wasn't on the ground in the dirt with bloody elbows. Oh my god, I'm still running. If I had to name a favorite moment in my run, this was it.

As I came down the final straightaway, I fished out my phone, wanting to be ready to stop my app and see the damage.

I paced 13:29 for 5.74 miles. Really.

Clearly, the lazy week worked out.

Tonight was less storied, but no less exciting. A tempo run on the treadmill, I started running at the same speed as my last tempo run. I struggled to zone myself out, staring blankly ahead, letting my body go on autopilot. I experimented with this on the trail over the weekend and I credit that with some of the improvements I saw, so I attempted to make it work at the gym.

Last tempo run, I gradually decreased my speed as I ran out of steam. Tonight, I gradually increased the speed and made myself damn well take it.

It worked. I finished my first mile in 10:07, a PR by a landslide. I had enough in the tank to put in a good effort, after a two minute walk, and turned out another PR by finishing that second mile in 21:43.

I floundered around for the last mile, having given up on chasing records until the final five minutes, when I looked at the time and berated myself for accepting a poor effort. Cranked up the speed and finished my third in 36:05. Another PR.

All of a sudden, everything is paying off. I have this astonishing sensation that I, somehow, actually know what I'm doing. I'm getting better, I'm not getting hurt. I'm putting in my speed work, my tempo runs, my long runs outdoors and my easy runs on the treadmill. And it's working.

Next on the agenda: my first 10K. Soon. Eep.

Goal: Met. Barely.

With six miles down on Saturday, I set out yesterday afternoon to see how many more I could add to the total. Would I feel good enough for another long run? Or would I split my remaining six miles into two days? The suspense! The intrigue!

I decided to try for a longer run, around five with the option of tacking on an extra mile at the end, if things were feeling good.

My knee was protesting mildly when I hit the trail. I've learned that many of my little aches will go away as my body warms up, and I was happy that this one disappeared after a mile or two.

On the whole, the run felt much better than the previous day. My body was moving with more freedom, and as I was running around the three mile mark, I had the vague impression that I was moving faster than usual. Looking at the map and my splits, I was right. I average 15min/mi on my long runs, but this time, miles three and four were 14:19 and 14:02 respectively.

That's one of the hardest parts about running at this stage, I think. My sustainable speed is still quite slow, and I don't mean that in a numbers and pacing sense. I mean it feels slow. When I move just a little faster, I click into that beautiful place where it's like gliding. But I can't maintain it for very long. The sensation leaves many of my runs feeling a little lackluster.

The more I do this, the closer I get to holding onto that feeling. And boy, is it worth it.

I wrapped the run at 5.67 miles, leaving me just short of my goal total. No problem, I thought, I'll do the rest at the gym tomorrow, maybe with a little extra.

And then, it hit.

It crept in, slowly, throughout the day. It began in my lower back, my muscles tightening slightly, and worked its way up my spine and into my shoulders. By the evening, my neck was sore, full of kinks I couldn't quite get out. I had that all-over feeling of extreme discomfort.

I tried to shake it off, thinking it was fatigue from overuse. That was the obvious solution. I parked myself on some ice packs and called it good.

Hours later, when I began shivering on the couch, unable to warm myself, I realized I was wrong. The last time I checked my temperature before finally drifting into a fitful, interrupted sleep, the display said 102.6.

There is a lesson here, and that lesson is this: When trainers and doctors say that vigorous exercise may suppress your immune response, they mean it. I opened the door with my run, and some kind of vile, heinous bug walked right in and made itself at home.

The good news is that the fever broke quickly. By the time the sun came up, I was a sweaty mess and my vital signs once again made sense. I spent most of my day alternately resting and dozing, a suitable use of my Labor Day.

And, of course, as the day went on, I was less and less satisfied with the fact that I hadn't hit my goal. A fraction of a mile stood between me and where I wanted to be today.

This evening, I caved to my own pressure and hit the gym.

Know what's weird? It was a great run. Slow, controlled. My breathing was very slow and unstressed. I'd been expecting to labor my way through a mile or so, and the ease with which I ran tonight was a huge surprise.

So. There we have it. 13.2 miles in three days. Someday, I hope these numbers will be typical and unimpressive. But for now, they're pretty awesome.

Sometimes, my body is a dirty liar

For my first three-day weekend in ages, I set myself lofty goal.

Twelve miles.

Totally possible, especially since I've upped my short runs to three miles and my long runs to six. Well within my grasp, if I just keep moving.

So when I woke up this morning feeling like I'd rather do anything than hit the trail, it was a little discouraging. I dragged around until noon, putting it off, until finally forcing myself to lace up and get it done.

Last week, I breezed through my six miler, only feeling fatigue set in around mile five. It was beautiful and blissful, the perfect weather for it.

This week, it was warm and relentlessly sunny. My water bottle felt too heavy, my legs were stiff, and despite making a pit-stop within the first mile, I had the sensation of a rather urgent bathroom need every time I ran.

Yes, the entire time. (You're welcome.)

I felt every step today. The run began as a labor, my quads still aching from the hill I battled on Thursday. I took a different path than usual, and when I made it out to my old friend "The Loop", I sighed and pulled out my phone. The run felt like it was lasting forever, and I had no idea how far I'd gone.

The display read 3.26 miles in 48:45. Less than a minute off my target pace, including bathroom break.

Here I was, holding pace and potentially setting a new personal best for the trail in the face of (what felt like) reasonable adversity, and I was giving myself zero credit for it.

I wavered, weighing going back immediately (hello, bathrooms) against continuing on my course. To complete The Loop would be to add another mile or so. An extra fifteen minutes between me and relief.

I told myself to stop complaining and continued on.

Besides, I was in the woods. If I became that desperate, surely I could find a robust tree to hide behind. Right?

And then, a funny thing happened. The run got easier. My splits didn't get any faster, but I stopped complaining so much.

Your quads will be tired whether or not you run. Keep going.

Insulting yourself won't make you run faster.

Running isn't all fun. Sometimes, it's about finding out what you're capable of.

By the time I reached park land, the aforementioned bathroom need had become persistent, and all attempts at jogging were off. It's one thing to push yourself and risk everything for a marathon PR, but in the woods during a training run? I just didn't see the appeal. The last mile was slow. Very slow.

All told, when I turned off my tracker, I had finished 6.03 miles in 1:33:48. Not bad for a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad run. Pretty damned good, actually.

Six down, six to go.

About those PRs

I decided early yesterday that a day off after a long run wasn't a bad idea.

Well. That's not entirely accurate. I decided that, on my only day off between a nine-day mini-marathon of work and a five-day work week, my time would be best spent on the couch with a bag of popcorn and the last season of "Castle". (And it was.)

But the later it got, the more I felt like my day was incomplete. So at 8:30pm, I sighed at myself, put on my shoes, and went to the gym.

After such a wonderful week, I was curious. Very curious.

I turned up the speed on the treadmill and launched into another tempo run. I knew it would suck. I knew it might hurt. I decided to embrace it.

I laid out one mile in 10:25, breaking my PR from last Sunday by five full seconds.

A walking interval to catch my breath, then started up some speed intervals at 12:30, just for fun. And really, contrasted with a tempo run, speed intervals are fun. Run hard for a couple minutes, or a short distance, then rest. There's always a light at the end of the tunnel.

My time for two was 22:13.

My record-keeping on my two-miler has been a little dodgy, but I'm pretty sure that's a PR by more than forty seconds.

I'm sure I'll plateau again soon, maybe even right now. It might be another month or two before I get another solid PR. And that's okay.

For now, I'm happy with these shiny gold stars on my calendar.

Taking stock of progress

I'd been worried about my running lately.

I sometimes get hard on myself, questioning if I'm doing all I can to improve. My diet slips (sometimes, a lot), and I know that such lapses can have an impact on my running. So while those cookies taste amazing, when I run that evening and fail to improve on my times, I have this internal battle over whether or not it was my fault.

You can see how this sort of mentality would be problematic. I try to be forgiving, but boy, nothing validates training like improvement.

Fortunately for my ego, this week has brought plenty of improvement. Finally.

Each weekend, I go for my long run. Last Saturday's was good, five miles that I accomplished on the treadmill in 1:05:04. My best time for a five yet, though I'm really angling to break an hour. It'll get there!

Sunday, I did my tempo run. A tempo run is meant to be comfortably hard, a stronger push than a long run. I chose to do this by starting at a faster speed, then dropping it ever so slightly after I tired. I didn't want to do intervals - I save those for my speed days, the hard running alternated with recovery walking - so I hoped that easing the speed ever so slightly as needed would help to keep my effort high.

And it worked! I pulled my fasted mile yet, finishing in 10:30 on the nose. After a walk break, I finished out my second mile, barely. A good, strenuous run.

Monday was legs, as detailed earlier, which took me out of commission for most of the week. I managed some moderate intervals on Thursday night and put in a solid workout, but it was just that - a workout. Nothing to write home about.

And so yesterday, it was time for another long run. It was the ideal day for it, overcast and breezy with a very light, very intermittent sprinkling of rain. With the weather delivering exactly what I needed, I chose the trails instead of the treadmill.

It was time to try my first six-miler.

I set out on a familiar route, the one I took on my first long run, taking the turns I hoped would lead me to six miles. The track around the inside of the park was nice enough, but as I crunched over the gravel pathways, I was already fantasizing about the grassy trails outside the fences.

It's hard to explain exactly how perfect the run was. Everything just made sense, from the color of the sky to the temperature of the breeze. By the time I turned out the gate to the nature preserve, my iPod had left Tchaikovsky's Variations on a Rococo Theme and launched into Haydn's Cello Concerto No. 1. I jogged through the loop to Grieg's Peer Gynt, pounding across a field as our hero entered the hall of the Mountain King.

And it had just begun to rain when Vaughan Williams' Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus started, a piece that I find somehow emotionally overwhelming. One of the first times I remember listening to it, in high school, it was pouring rain outside. Ever since then, the piece reminds me of rain.

Pretty fantastic coincidence, if I do say so myself.

Anyway. I had been running for an hour (well, run/walking, as you all probably know by now) and I was still feeling fresh. Happy, even.

Free.

And there, in that instant, I was reminded of why I do this. The numbers are great, the struggle builds an abundance of character. But this feeling of pure, unmitigated freedom makes every last drop of sweat, every difficult tempo run, every muscle cramp worth it. Those lead to this. They make it possible.

The feeling didn't last forever, of course. Around mile five, my body said "Excuse me, isn't this when you usually stop?" The final mile was lethargic, done out of necessity because I was off in the woods all alone. I pushed myself, wanting to meet my goal of 1:30 for the six, unwilling to ruin the magic by checking my progress to see if it was even possible.

Clocks are good at ruining magic.

As I reached the end of the trail, I pulled out my phone to check RunKeeper. And I laughed out loud.

5.99 miles in 1:29:40. Of course.

I decided right then to exercise a point of privilege. I work hard, damn it, and for my purposes, I did six miles.

Besides, I rationalized, I did start the app a little late. Surely I missed a hundredth of a mile.

So there we have it. Records set, goals met, and a practically transcendental run in the woods completed. These things, they don't happen on their own. They don't happen by chance. They happen with methodical, patient work. And that's why I do it.

The next time I hit a progress wall, I would do well to remember this.

The reclusive runner

I'm a loner. I admit it.

It's not that I dislike people. I adore my coworkers, I love my friends, I've even had functional relationships. (Gentlemen...)

It's just that, when forced to choose between a fun-filled day with people or a solitary Twilight Zone marathon with some Chinese take-out, I'll usually choose the won-tons. In the past two months, I've gone out to dinner with coworkers twice and went out with a friend once.

I lead a fast-paced life, folks. It's true.

So it doesn't exactly come as a surprise that my favorite kind of running is exactly how I live my life: quietly, and mostly alone.

Part of it is genuine enjoyment. I like being in solitude, surrounded by little more than the crunch of my feet on the path or the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees above. Getting lost in the woods with a friend would be fun, sure, but how much would I miss? Would I have heard that hawk cry in the distance, or seen the way the sunbeam stretched through the branches right there?

The other part is less poetic. It's my insecurity, the idea that I'm not meeting the goals I've set and now someone else knows. It's not being able to keep up with another runner, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say.

Many of these insecurities are old friends. Not being good enough, fast enough, smart enough. Some of them have largely been conquered. I've buried most of the hate speech and I'm pleased to say it doesn't come around here anymore.

But I know that my skills are limited. I have come far, but I have even farther to go before I can begin to be satisfied with what I've accomplished. Running with friends triggers the thought that my mediocrity is holding them back.

In fact, having a seasoned runner keeping pace with me feels even worse than watching them run on ahead. Do they wish they were running faster and are just too nice to leave me? Would they even tell me? Oh god, can they smell that?

So many neuroses, so little time.

And so, while I've considered joining the local running club for the camaraderie and post-run chats over breakfast, I am wary of actually running with other humans. It is, of course, a no-win situation for me. How fast do I need to be running in order to deem myself worthy of running with others? Ten minute miles? Nine? How many years will it be before I can sustain that kind of pace?

Bit by bit, these inhibitions are falling away, and I suppose the only way to discover if I can handle group running is to go out and do it. And I will.

Eventually.

Meanwhile, I'll continue my solitary runs, just me and the sky.

The end of an era. Sort of.

This month will mark the end of my training sessions with J.

Finances being what they are, I can no longer afford the sessions. Technically speaking, I could never really afford them; only by the grace of the good people at Visa have I been able to come this far in my journey. It's time, however, to strike out alone.

And so, at my second-to-last training session, I became acutely aware of the ticking clock. It's now or never.

J sauntered over and asked me what I wanted to work on tonight. (He probably doesn't know that he saunters. Eventually, when he stumbles unwittingly across this chronicle of the agonies of my Year In Training, he may be surprised at this revelation. But yes, J - you saunter. It's a good look for you.)

I averted my eyes and shrugged. I knew what I wanted to work on. I just didn't have the guts to come right out with it.

"I'm going to regret this," I began after as long a pause as I could have gotten away with, "but... can we do glutes and hamstrings?"

And when I raised my eyes back to his, I swear to you, he looked like a kid on Christmas.

In retrospect, I should have requested that we work on legs, maybe being sure to hit glutes and hamstrings. Because, my dear friends, we did nothing but glutes and hamstrings.

Forty minutes of glutes and hamstrings.

I'm going to let that sink in. Allow your brain to really marinate in that idea.

Got it? Good.

We started on one of these machines:


Forearms go on the front two pads, grab the handles, belly rests on the middle pad, one knee on the rear pad. My other leg bends at the knee, foot on the plate at the back, and with that free leg, I push the plate back and up toward the ceiling.

Twelve of those on each leg and immediately over to the mat with a Swiss ball. Laying flat on my back with heels up on the ball, lift my hips toward the ceiling and bend my knees, rolling the ball to my glutes, then rolling it back out. Keeping my hips up, repeating this twelve times.

And then to the stationary lunges. Ten pounds in each hand, stepping forward into a lunge, then driving through the heel and pushing myself back up to where I started. Twelve on each leg.

Repeat all three, three times total. Congratulations, I have spent a whopping ten minutes.

Yikes.

Then to the leg press, where I did one-legged presses. Using one leg changes the emphasis on the muscles, so instead of working mostly quads, this was recruiting my hips and glutes.

Twelve on each leg and to the hamstring curl machine. Twelve curls, then back to the leg press. Three sets.

We headed to the middle of the gym, and J stopped short. He considered something for a moment, then said to me, "I want you to choose what we're doing next. There's the treadmill, and I want you to sprint under your own power. Or you can choose squat jumps."

The answer to this one was a no-brainer. I remember one of my early sessions, being parked on a treadmill and told to hunker down and start running, pushing that belt myself. I remember it made my whole body tremble. I remember almost falling down.

I don't usually say things like this, but it was, without a doubt, one of my absolute least favorite things I've ever done. Squat jumps? Literally, squatting down and then jumping into the air? Yes, please.

But before I could answer, he said, "So we're going to alternate between the two, but you can choose what we start with."

Oh. Oh.

I looked at the floor, muttered something vulgar, and said I'd do the treadmill first. J nodded his assent. "It's good to start there while you're still relatively fresh."

"It's funny that you think I'm 'relatively fresh' right now," I said, wiping the sweat from my eyes. And I climbed onto the treadmill.

Thirty seconds equals forever. It's important that you all know this. Diving into such an exercise is like slipping into a black hole, time stretching inexorably as you cross the event horizon, single seconds lengthening into eternity.

I labored, gasping for air and making all manner of appalling sounds. My feet slid over the roller at the end of the treadmill, and the moment J said "Stop," I staggered off the belt, doubled over.

I'm pretty sure I swore again. I wanted to say how much I hated it. There wasn't enough breath.

But squat jumps wait for no man, and I had twelve to do. I finished them, feeling triumphant, almost managing a smile. I'd nearly vomited, but damn it, I made it!

"Good," said J. "Back to the treadmill."

And he sauntered away, a meek "What?" escaping my lips. Oh yes, he meant it.

To his credit, he stepped up on a treadmill beside me, sharing in my pain. But it was all I could do to stay upright, to say nothing for running. My body was shaking, my stomach was roiling, I was breathing so heavily that my throat was raw.

Here, for the first time in ten months, I had met my match. I had no witty comment, no self-deprecating encouragement, nothing. I stopped.

I had never bailed out on an exercise before. I've grunted and whined and gasped my way through dozens upon dozens of lifts, sprints, and bodyweight exercises. I may have needed to slow down, but I have never been forced to stop, until tonight.

J allowed me approximately three seconds of self-pity before shuffling me back to the squat jumps, patiently waiting while I tried to catch my breath, then finish them.

And, yes, it was back to the treadmill, where I wisely started slowly. Very slowly. My sprint had become a lurch, but I moved that belt, and I didn't stop until J told me to.

I'm pretty sure he said "Stop" after only fifteen seconds. Fifteen long seconds. I thanked him for not letting me fail. I hope he knows how much I meant it.

A final set of squat jumps and we were done with legs. Finally.

Our routine abs set was hell, as usual, but otherwise unremarkable. I didn't vomit, I didn't cry. I finished, barely. As usual.

Thus ended my last legs night with J. Nearly thirty minutes later, I was still a little light-headed, unable to focus, nauseous, trembling. I was yawning compulsively - either from tremendous exhaustion or compensating for the oxygen debt.

This is nothing compared to what I'll experience the rest of this week. Legs weeks are always bad, but none worse than when we hit the hamstrings hard. Quads are what make me unable to climb stairs or bound out of bed in the morning, but the list of things I can't do with sore hamstrings is humbling: I can't tie my shoes. I can't lean over. I can't even sit without extreme, acute pain.

That last one is my favorite. I'm bracing myself for work, the way my coworkers will watch me, expectantly, as I gingerly lower myself into my chair with a whimper. This will go on for days.

Next Monday will be it. I have no idea what agonies will be inflicted upon me, but I have a hard time believing it could be worse than tonight. Or better.

And this, I think, is what I will miss most about J. Being forced out of my comfort zone. Redefining what's possible. I always tell him that if I'm not a little afraid when coming to my session, he's not doing his job. That I can be nice to myself on my own time. From now on, it's all my own time.

It may be time to get a little mean. This body won't change itself.

An unexpected benefit, and maybe the best one of all

I hit the trails this weekend for my long run, hoping to pull off six miles for the first time.

Well, the first time intentionally. Getting lost on the trails weeks ago netted me over seven, but most of them were walking while staring at the sky, trying to figure out why the sun was in a direction it shouldn't have been.

I'm pleased to say that I didn't get lost this time. Not once.

Halfway through my run, I reached the intersection that had so perplexed me last time, and I had to decide if I wanted to head down the extra-mile loop or simply head back to the park. Weighing my options, jogging back and forth, I decided that I was out here for a reason. I would gain nothing by cutting myself unnecessary slack.

So I turned sharply left and headed for the loop. My first step landed on the edge of a large rock and I rolled my ankle, hard. I hopped a few steps, limping and swearing. Of course.

I walked, shaking it out, determined to complete the extra mile, but after a few dozen steps, common sense won out. No run is worth risking injury. I headed back down the route that I knew would take me back to the park.

A few minutes of walking, and I tested running again. The ankle was a little sore, but the more it moved, the better it felt, and within ten minutes I was back on track.

And then I asked myself: How long had it been since I hurt myself like that?

See, I'm a first-rate klutz. I've sprained my ankles more times than I can count, falling down (or up) stairs and tripping over myself.

I tore my ACL during an ill-conceived dance break at the office. It snapped - audibly - in the middle of a series of spectacular high-kicks.

One morning, I caught my toes on the waistband of my pants while trying to get dressed and I faceplanted on my bedroom floor.

Yes, really.

I've always been exceedingly accident-prone. It's in my nature.

But none of these have happened in months. Even now, wracking my brain for my last idiotic, embarrassing injury, I can think of only one since beginning at the gym last October. One night, early on, I had a treadmill incident where I bobbled and stepped off the belt, sideways. I strained my knee and needed a few days off running.

One single injury in ten months.

I've stopped hurting myself. My muscles and joints are stronger now than they've ever been, protecting me when I step wrong or stumble, but more importantly, my improved proprioception keeps me from stumbling in the first place.

What's this 'proprioception' business? It's a sense that we all have, an unconscious self-awareness of the body and its position in space. It's the sense that allows us to close our eyes and touch our finger to our nose.

It's also what keeps my feet landing flat, helps me to compensate when they don't, and makes my body play nicely with itself. And it all happened without me ever realizing it.

Until it failed, of course. Then, I noticed its absence quite shockingly.

I always said I wanted to improve my fitness, to reduce the burden on my knee and allow myself some of the opportunities I'd lost when I tore my ACL. But I accepted that as meaning that I would lose fat and gain muscle. That's what I understood fitness to be.

But this piece of the puzzle has been enlightening. It's invaluable. I taught my body, on the treadmill, how to move more efficiently. My body figured out for itself how to apply that knowledge in the world, over terrain.

Thank goodness it worked this out on its own. I sure couldn't have.

And that's where I find myself today. Stronger, faster, with a body that's officially smarter than I am. I still have so far to go, with so much more to improve, and only time and persistence will make it happen.

On that note, I have my first 5K in nearly two months next weekend. I'll be returning to the farm where I did my first trail 5K, back in May, and I'm interested to see what the course looks like. Armed with trail experience and a lot more endurance, I hope to see my time improve significantly.

If it doesn't, at least I still get a t-shirt out of the deal.

Adventures in trail running

Today, on a long-overdue vacation day from work, I woke early to hit the trails. The temperature is meant to get dangerously high today, so I wanted to knock out my miles before the heat set in.

I gathered up my things, strapped on my hydration belt, and headed to the park. My plan was to put in four miles, as yesterday's attempt at a long run was cut short when I forgot to put on bug spray.

I couldn't remember the mileage on the paths I wanted to take, but I knew I was intending to be out for an hour or so. After about a mile and a half, I reached the gate where Park became Nature Area - also county property, but not strictly maintained and used as a preserve - and I thought Why not? I glanced at the map at the boundary and it appeared there would be only one path to loop around and back to the beginning of the park.

Good enough.

With an image of that map in my mind, I crossed the gate and picked up a jog. And it was beautiful. I rounded the first curve and came face to face with a doe grazing on the path. She ran up ahead and I slowed to a walk, meeting her again around the next bend. This time, she sized me up briefly before deciding that no two-legs was worth her time, leaping off into the woods.

If this is how my run is starting, I thought, this is going to be an amazing time.

And it was, for a while, as I weaved my way through the woods, the soundtrack from Jurassic Park in my ears.

Yes, the music was every bit as perfect as I hoped it would be. Yes, I did find myself running faster at certain points in the score. And yes, I did occasionally become suspicious of sounds off the path.

Clever girl.

But after a while, I found myself at a fork in the path near a stretch of prairie. I continued right, following an arrow, and came later to a four-way intersection. I hadn't checked my time recently, but I was sure I'd be back on park land by now. I was completely lost.

Toward one path, there was a sign saying "Loop", with an arrow to the left. I sure as crap didn't want to loop, 'cause I was getting tired, so I continued straight. Surely, I was almost there.

And the path turned. And twisted. And doubled back, between pools of water and through heavy forest. I was no longer sure of where I was. At all.

I was still on the path, and the path had to eventually come out somewhere. Right?

Right?

And so it did.

Back at the sign that said "Loop". Of course.

I concluded that I must have taken the wrong way at the fork. That was the only solution. I had to go back the way I'd come, to the prairie.

I won't keep you in suspense here: I went back, took the path I'd skipped, and it led me... not where I wanted to go. I ended up at a house on a dead-end road, trimmed with signs marking the end of the nature area.

Here, I finally gave in. I pulled out my phone, which has been tracking my journey via GPS, and took a look. I'd been on the run for an hour, had covered more than four miles, and was now at the absolute farthest point from the park I could have possibly been.

Weird.

With the help of RunKeeper, I found where I needed to go. I had two choices: Go back the entire way I'd come, past where I'd seen the doe more than half an hour before, or head back to the Loop and try to find the right path.

Having no right choice before me (and really not wanting to go all the way back to the beginning), I turned around - again - and set out for the Loop. By this point, my water was already half gone and the bugs were starting to pay closer attention to me. I'd resorted to carrying my towel in my hand, swinging it around my head. Once my shoulder got tired, I laid the towel over my head and secured it with my sunglasses. If I couldn't hear the bugs in my ears, I could block them out of my mind.

When you're lost and verging on desperation, you play these little games with yourself.

Once at the Loop, I figured out which path I hadn't yet been on, and I was satisfied I was on my way home. At long last, I was right.

By the time I got back onto park land, my Jurassic Park soundtrack had looped. The Velociraptors had hatched twice, Nedry had stolen the embryos twice. John Hammond had just recounted his life's regrets over melting ice cream for the second time as I found myself back on the gravel path of the park.

And then, I was done.

All told, I was on the move for almost two hours. I finished a little over seven miles, which was three miles more than I'd ever done at one time. When I checked the GPS at the four-mile mark, my pace was where I'd expected. The longer I spent lost, though, the slower it got. I had no earthly idea how long it would take me to get back and I slowed down dramatically. I needed to conserve.

It worked. After passing the Loop for the second time, getting back on track, I still had something left. I ran on my terms, in short bursts, sprinting like a kid to the top of small hills so I could ride them down. The trees were thick and the ground was grassy, and even being lost, the beauty was overwhelming.

Worth it? You bet.

There are a few things I'll do differently next time. I'll fuel up before-hand, because doing this on a 90-cal granola bar was rough. I'll force myself to slow down when slamming my recovery drink, so maybe next time I won't almost lose it in the gas station parking lot. I'll know my maps a whole lot better.

Okay, that last one's a lie. I probably won't.

It may have only been seven miles, but for me, that's forever. That's huge. That's, like, four more weeks down the road in my training plan. And apparently, my body and mind were both more ready for it than I'd expected.

Taking tonight off from training, because even the soles of my feet ache. I took an ice bath as soon as I got home, and I expect I'll be icing intermittently all day.

And while I sit, resting my sore and pitiful self, I'll be thinking about the next run.

Playlist boredom

I've had the same playlist on my iPod for the past several months. As a creature of habit, I've done well thus far, but with my new-found love of the trails, I've been wanting something different. Something befitting the run.

So my new playlist is of note: I have loaded the Jurassic Park soundtrack onto my iPod, ready for my next trail run. I've never been quite this excited to go running.

Trail running: a new discovery

After my utterly miserable (but for one shining moment, detailed in dewy-eyed splendor in my last post) four-mile, never-say-die mostly-walk/sorta-run Saturday, I decided to check out one of the local parks. I'd heard there were trails suitable for jogging, so I got my youngest brother on board with me and we made plans for a little excursion Saturday afternoon.

And boy, am I glad we did.

Quarry Park isn't enormous, only a few miles of trails on county land. But what it offered was a little piece of nature on the edge of the city. Wooded pathways, old granite quarries for swimming and fishing, a patch of natural prairie, and enough variation to keep me interested for an afternoon.

My brother and I weren't there long, less than an hour. Not enough. So I headed back myself Sunday.

Being out on the trails alone was just what I needed. I've always been a nature girl, I suppose, always wandering away from home, striking out on my own across the corn field and into the woods behind our house, pretending to be lost for hours.

Some of my best memories were from those woods.

So it's no surprise that I've fallen in love with the park. Every day this week, sitting at my desk, I've thought of those trails. How it feels to climb the modest hills and to coast down them, not thinking of my stride or my pace, letting gravity do its thing.

It's the closest I've come to flying since being kept off horseback with my torn ACL.

And it's becoming harder and harder to simply consider running the next best thing. Truly.

These trails aren't particularly technical, but they test me differently than the road does. The road, it sits there, unrelenting, smoldering. Waiting.

The trails, they are dynamic, dancing. Welcoming.

Both are important. Both are still overwhelmingly difficult and frustrate my lack of endurance. But in the trails, I think I may have found a new home.

Last time I went out, on Tuesday night, I put away my watch and checked the time once I started to feel the drag of fatigue. It had been 48 minutes. By the time I got to my car, more than an hour had passed and I'd looped over 4.26 miles.

Magic. There's no other explanation. And I hope this brand of magic sticks around for a long time.

Passing by on a Saturday

You were the runner: Worn shoes, tech shirt, running cap, Camelbak.

I was me: Sweaty, miserable, less than halfway into my intended four-mile run.

It was just occurring to me that I shouldn't have set out at noon, when the sun was so high and the trees offered no shade. My intervals had already begun to wilt and I was considering turning back.

I had just broken into another run, trying again, when you came upon me at a jog. I tried averting my eyes, embarrassed, but I couldn't help but lift them and smile. I guess I like people too much, try as I might to not.

And you held out your hand, thumb raised, and said with such conviction: Good job, runner!

Then, we were past, and it was over.

I hope that someday, when I'm a fit and accomplished runner, I might come upon someone struggling to make their way around the block, someone with so much determination on their face and desperation in their eyes; and I hope that when I pass by, I have the presence of mind to smile and tell them how much it means.

Because as simple as it seems, it's unforgettable.

Back on the radar and catching up

Hello again! What's new?

That's as good a way as any to start a post after so long, I think.

I'd love to say that I've been quiet because I've been busy having adventures and making great progress, but the truth is that I've been spending my time sitting on the couch, watching tv and making bad choices. And then, subsequently, being upset about those choices, and immediately making more.

Etc, etc.

These spirals are sneaky. I never see them coming. I feel them when they're happening, but I feel so powerless. What's the use?

I've done good things in the past month, and I deserve to own them. I did two 5Ks, one of which I managed to blog about, the other which I didn't.

A shame, really, because it was awesome. I set a new PR over three miles, 36:00 flat, over varied terrain in a state park, and it was in the pouring rain. I'd never before run in the rain; it's not something I'd ever chosen to do, for obvious reasons. But having been forced by virtue of a race, I can safely say that it was one of the most exhilarating, wonderful experiences I've ever had on the road. The rain kept the bugs at bay and helped to regulate my body temperature. My knees were so happy!

I will run in the rain again.

I also learned a valuable lesson that day. After my three-mile PR, my body felt good. Too good. I wonder if I can set another PR today?

Do you know where this is going? You do. I know you do.

So I went to the gym that night and blazed my way through a mile on the treadmill. I was determined, and my PR of 10:41 showed it.

Know what else I accomplished? I pounded the crap out of my good knee. I was forced to take a solid week off from running as a reward for my foolishness. The day that started as such a triumph ended on a whimper - literally.

That, I think, was a deathblow to my motivation. (And my pride.)

My eating habits have been poor. I've given into cravings not just occasionally, not just often. Every day.

This is where the self-loathing comes in.

I don't think that there are bad foods. Not really. I think that any food is acceptable when taken in moderation, and different people get different results from different foods. There's nothing inherently wrong with that box of cookies I ate while hidden away in my apartment last weekend.

No, what's wrong is that these foods deter me from my goals. They're tiny, delicious roadblocks that prevent me from making progress. Losing ground on goals that mean so much to me - goals toward which I'm working so incredibly hard - is emotionally painful, and it chips away at my pride. That's where the problem lies. Not in the food, but in what those foods do to me, in practice.

I will never, ever utter the oft-used phrase that "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels". I don't care one bit about skinny. I care about my fitness. My running. I care about being an athlete, and healthful weight loss furthers this goal.

Besides, my last entry summed up rather well how likely I am to ever be "skinny". Ohlol! These hips may be getting smaller, but they're not going anywhere!

So. Having said that, I've lost a lot of ground. My most recent evaluation last week revealed that I'm down to 194 pounds. When I see that number, I'm so freakin' happy I could cry. But when I realize that number is a scant 1.5lbs lower than the previous month's eval, it's sobering.

That tiny loss isn't a reflection of how hard I didn't work, it's a reflection of how many roadblocks I laid down. How many times I tripped over them.

How much I hated myself for it.

This isn't the first time I've felt this way, and it surely won't be the last. But digging out and overcoming the feelings isn't easy, no matter how many times I've done it before.

So here I am. Next Friday (the 13th!) will mark 9 months since I started on this journey. So far, I have lost 44lbs. This is worth something.

Here, I try to get back on track. I try to stop sabotaging my progress toward my goals. I recognize that I deserve these goals and that I am the only one who can achieve them - or take them away. I decide to take control again.

Let's see how this goes, shall we?

Preconceived notions

This issue of preconceived notions - specifically, what I keep thinking my body will look like when this journey is over - comes to mind frequently.

It was particularly persistent on Friday night when I found myself in the position of needing new clothes for a wedding. I've bought clothing since beginning to lose weight, but this was the first time I went out to buy something fancy. Like, a dress.

I've always avoided dresses, for many reasons. I like wearing sensible shoes. I like cushy socks. I have a hard time finding a cut I like, because it needs to be form-fitting enough to show my figure, yet forgiving enough to allow the tummy-squish when I sit down. It needs to be longer than mid-calf, because I'm not fond of how my calves look like wee tree trunks under a skirt, but not so long that my 5'1" (and change) frame trips over it. It needs to have sleeves that don't restrict my ample upper arms, or if it's sleeveless, the arm holes need to be small enough that I'm not showing off all my armpit flab.

You see my problem. This is why I don't go nice places.

So Friday, I headed to the local mall. While previous trips have been full of trepidation, knowing I'd be heading for the "Women's Section" - an unlikely euphemism for "Clothes To Make You Look Dowdy And Old" - this time was different. This time, I thought, I might be able to wear something different.

Something, you know, normal.

I won't keep you in suspense: It failed. The dresses I liked didn't come in my size, and the ones that did were terribly unattractive to me. When I checked the "Women's Section" in each of these department stores, I found a single rack of awkward twin-sets in garish colors and made of jersey.

I have a hard time believing that women really want to wear this. We just don't know better. We're not allowed.

After an hour of hitting every department store in the mall and trying on absolutely nothing, I hit a dress store that I'd never been in before. I browsed and found tons of possibilities in my size, and I filled my arms with clothes. I found a short skirt that I loved, two blouses that looked great on the hanger, and one dress that was fun and springy and was exactly what skinny-me would wear.

This dress, I thought, was perfect. It would look perfect.

On the way to the dressing room, I grabbed one more option, a dress that was pretty but bland, something old-me would wear.

This story ends predictably, given the topic of this post. The short skirt was out, the blouses were awkwardly boxy on my figure. The beautiful dress just looked wrong on me. The wrong style, the wrong cut, something. I looked like an imposter.

I looked like someone who didn't understand her own body.

I was trying so hard to have the body I wanted that I was ignoring the body I had. It's changed, yes, in wonderful ways. But the foundation is still the same. The big arms, the short waist, the muscular calves, the wide hips. These things haven't changed. They won't change.

So I put on the pretty-but-bland dress and took a look in the mirror. And there I was.

The funny thing about the clothes that old-me wore is that I spent a lifetime figuring out what worked. Those clothes still work. Only now, they look better than I could have ever imagined.

It was a smaller size than I've worn in twelve years. The size still had a "W" behind it, but that's what happens when you have wide hips. It's best to just accept it.

I'll never be tall and willowy. I'll always be short and sturdy.

I looked awesome in that dress, a smaller version of old-me. And, all things considered, I think I like it that way.

Race redux, zombie-style

Today was the big day, the race I've been waiting for since February. Run For Your Lives.

The race was to be a 5K obstacle course, like the mud runs that have become so popular, with a catch: Throughout the course, there are dozens of zombies. Runners are given a belt with three red flags, representing health, and during the race, the folks dressed as zombies stagger about, shouting and groaning and saying "Braaaaaaaains..." while trying to nab these flags. Keep them all and you're eligible for prizes in the placings at the end. Lose them all, and you're just like 90% of your cohorts. No harm, no foul.

I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. I've never done a mud run, nor have I ever spectated, and I had only a vague idea of what would be involved. So when I got to the location, a motocross track in rural Minnesota, I was a little worried.

Okay, a lot worried.

As I entered, I saw to the right what could only be described as one of the world's largest Slip-N-Slides, ending in a pool of mudwater. Since my wave was going off in the afternoon and I had arrived early, I watched folks taking their turn on this huge slide. It looked fun, sure. But it was high, and what goes down must have first gone up.

To the left, I saw a number of obstacles and a field peppered with zombies. I saw monkey bars above a pit of water, an exposed hill to climb up, and a not-quite-so-enormous slide down a muddy hill. No plastic on this one. Just a guy at the top with a hose, keeping the hill slick. From the number of people completing this obstacle in clean clothes and full flags, I reasoned that this must have been one of the first obstacles.

Greeeeeeat.

Armed with this glimpse of the track, my running cohort and I checked in, and shortly before our wave, we herded into the starting box.

It was in this black box, surrounded by my fellow runners, that the dread washed over me, overwhelming. Probably too late to back out now.

And then, we were off. The gate was opened and we leapt forward as a mob, taking a hard right through a muddy underpass and straight into zombie territory.

The course opened with hills. Lots of hills. Big ones, with rocks and little dips that fell and climbed relentlessly. Within minutes, my breathing was ragged, my chest sore, and my throat screaming. My inner monologue very helpfully pointed out that if the whole course was like this, I wouldn't make it. In fact, if only half the course was like this, I wouldn't make it. It was brutal. My confidence was destroyed in the first quarter mile.

I took solace in the fact that everyone around me was feeling the same way.

And then the worst was over.

The course was still difficult. Very. The darkened hallway with the exposed wires was scary, especially when the hanging wires touched runners and gave a little kick. The monkey bars were two inches too high for me to reach, so I jumped into the chest-deep water and took the losers' way across. There were four-foot walls to scramble over, streams to ford, mazes to navigate, and obstacles to crawl under. There was a muddy wall with a few ropes to help runners scramble up and an up-and-over cargo net that was no joke.

I hated that net. I almost bit it on that net. I settled for accidentally kicking the guy climbing up the other side. (Sorry, guy.)

And! My pants kept falling down. This is important. Spandex gets heavy when it's waterlogged and full of sand. FYI.

The opportunities for running were few. I'm not yet in shape for dominating those hills, so I spent a lot of time walking. Given the way we tended to bottle-neck at the obstacles, running may not have helped my time, anyway. Whenever I found flat land, I managed to pick up a jog, which was satisfying. I may not be fit enough for the hills, but I'm fit enough to jog even after I've been put through the wringer.

Interval training gets things done.

Shortly before the cargo net, I lost my last flag. I'd kept all three of them for quite a while, and I started to get optimistic. No such luck. My ACL-less inability to dodge and pivot made me an easy target for the chaser zombies, who started showing up late in the course.

Not having flags didn't stop the zombies from approaching and crying for my brains, though. I gave one hopeful zombie a hug when she staggered toward me, arms outstretched.

Zombies need love, too.

Then, finally, was the big slide. The really big one. To get to it, we came down from above, carefully navigating a much-too-vertical hill face.

What a difference an hour makes. Those first hills were so brutal, so unforgiving, and here we were at the end, looking out over the course from at least twice as high. Things are not always what they seem.

I slid down that enormous hill, arms raised in victory as I plunged into the muddy water pit at the bottom, and Sweet Martha's Cookies, did it all go wrong in that instant. I was moving so fast that no amount of squeezing my eyes shut could keep the tiny particles of dirt from shoving their way into my eyes, where the dirt quickly deposited itself under my contacts. I stood in the pit, eyes closed, physically unable to open them, staggering to where I thought the edge was. My knees bumped the wall and I dragged myself out, crawling.

"Are you okay?" Staff members were yelling, presumably at me. I don't know for sure, 'cause I couldn't see. But I decided they were talking to me, and I yelled that I was fine, I just couldn't see because my eyeballs were broken, or something. It's a little fuzzy in my brain.

After a few moments, I forced myself to open my eyes and made my way to a staffer, who shared his water so I could wash one of my hands and prod around in my eye. It didn't help the sensation of thousands of piranha teeth wedged under my lenses, but at least I could wipe the mud off my eyelids and see my way to the final obstacle, which I really needed to see on account of the fact that it was an electric fence.

For all the pain I was in, this was one of my favorite obstacles. It was a belly crawl, through the mud, under several feet of electrified fence. That's what the sign said, anyway, and unlike so many college-aged men in the race, I didn't need to walk up to the fence and grab hold before I became a believer.

Oh yes. It's true. True and hilarious.

And then it was over. I crossed the line, collected my medal, and headed for the overpass where a dozen shower heads pelted me with freezing water. I was too preoccupied with my burning eyes to properly wash up, so I cleaned my hands, poked my eyes some more, and made a hasty dash for my car.

There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth when I realized I had left my eyedrops at home and had no way to fix my contacts. I angsted and cried about how it all hurt and I didn't know how we were going to get home until my kid pulled some out of his bag, forgotten there after his last trip.

I'll never lecture him about not cleaning that bag out again.

So here I am, safely at home. I have road rash on my arms from the crawl under the fence, dozens of bruises on my legs, sunburn on my neck, and two acutely painful hematomas on my rear from the first muddy slide. My eyes seem none the worse for wear.

Final results were posted an hour after the last wave finished. I landed in the top two-thirds and crossed the line a little over an hour after I started. I might have broken the one hour mark if not for all the lines at the obstacles, but really, those mandatory rest breaks were awfully nice.

The whole thing was a blast and I'm so glad I did it. I was worried I wouldn't be able to make it, that my knee wouldn't hold up, all the usual concerns. But it all happened. I like to say that I won't know where my wall is until I hit it, and while I wondered a few times today, I don't think I've hit it yet.

The search continues.

This thing, it's like a relationship

The more time I spend in this fitness program, the more I find it to be exactly like a relationship.

At first, it's all excitement. I'm so happy to see the gym, I look forward to every minute in its presence. I giggle when I talk about it with my friends. I glow.

Then, it becomes a habit. I go there every day, and it's okay, but it can be a chore. Sometimes, I just want to go out with my friends.

Slowly, the tedium creeps in. I step in the doors, look at the same old machines, and sigh. I'd rather be curled up on my couch, alone, watching a movie. And why can't I?

The next thing I know, it's a Saturday night. Or is it Sunday morning? I'm creeping to the kitchen. I'm grabbing the cookies I bought last week, "You know, as a reward for all my hard work," and I'm eating them all. Every. Last. One.

I can't face my protein bars. They know what I've done. I'm shamed.

Finally, I realize that this thing I have, this plan and these goals and this gym, it's worth keeping. It just might be the best thing that's ever happened to me. My eyes are opened and I understand. I recommit to the program - to myself - and start over again.

Okay, so maybe my relationship with the gym is more "dysfunctional" than just "relationship", but the point remains. Fitness plans are hard. They're repetitive. They're tiring. But the rewards are greater than any of that. Greater than all of that.

You know the best thing about the gym? It'll never judge you, and it'll always take you back.

Thank goodness for that.

Jealousy, aka Getting on with it, already

I've struggled numerous times in this journey, predictably dealing with the problems of plateaus and injuries, but only recently have I wrestled with an issue that I never saw coming.

That issue is jealousy.

If you had mentioned that I would get derailed over jealousy and the feelings of inferiority that accompany it, I don't think I would have believed you. I would have lifted my chin and said confidently that every body is different and will see results differently. I would have marched back to the gym and not spared it a second thought.

But coping with friends who are somehow losing enormous amounts of weight in very little time, all while shrugging their shoulders and saying "I don't know how I did it! I just changed my diet a little!" has proven to be a bigger challenge than I could have ever expected.

I'm happy for my friends. Really, truly, and entirely. Weight loss is hard and I applaud anyone who finds a safe way to achieve success. This life is precious and brief. The ability to make it better, in whatever way, is meaningful.

Still, the bitter sadness found a way through my pride and settled into a corner of my heart. My goals have been realistic and attainable. I have worked and sweated and cried. I have injured myself. I have fought.

And I have fallen short.

The inferiority complex I've been harboring has been immensely destructive. I've found myself falling into old patterns. I'm drinking hundreds of calories a day, I'm having impulsive snacks that I immediately regret, I'm eating late at night to fill some void that can't be filled by food. For weeks, I've slid slowly backward.

Yesterday, at long last, I started to break free. I put away the excuses - most of them, anyway - and have begun taking responsibility for myself again. I decided I was done hating myself for these temporary setbacks that I was unfairly labeling "failures".

They're not failures. I'm not a failure.

The good news is that I haven't gained any of my weight back. I have (mostly) kept my calories in check, despite my horrible choices. I was still running, and in retrospect, I can see that I was doing good things. I was just refusing to acknowledge it.

This is why I keep this record of my journey. To give myself credit. Submerged in self-loathing, I forgot that part.

So here I am, being honest with myself. I have lost 41 pounds. Tonight, I weighed in at 197. I ran for more than twenty minutes without stopping.

I ran for two miles without stopping.

Sitting here now, being able to own this success without criticizing myself, it makes everything better. It makes me better.

And that's what this is all about.

A timely update: A new 5K!

Within days of my foot feeling good enough to ditch my overnight brace, I had signed up for another 5K.

Of course I did!

The race was this morning, and it was a cross-country variety, taking place at an area farm. The path wound from pasture and field to wooded areas, all of which was absolutely beautiful.

I set my goal this time around as 45:00. The course description warned of some hills, so I knew I wouldn't be setting any personal records today. Setting out from the starting line, across the first field, I found my pace and got to thinking that I just might make it.

But when I hit the first hill, I strongly reevaluated my time. 'Cause yikes, everyone.

It was always nice to get out of the sun and back into the woods, until I made a turn and there was another hill, rising up in front of me. I told myself that I'd be happy to finish in 48:00.

I never once felt like I wouldn't finish. I doubted, sometimes, if I'd break an hour, like when I came upon the hill shortly after the two-mile mark. It must have been ten or fifteen feet high and steep enough that my upper body was parallel with the dirt as I struggled up it.

Thank goodness I was in the woods, alone. When I reached the top, I wrapped my arms around a tree and just leaned for a bit.

This is why I work on hamstrings.

I'm thrilled to report that I finished the race in 46:39! It was amazing. So amazing.

Slightly less amazing is that my foot is aching a little tonight, so it's wrapped and resting. I have a hunch that Monday will be a legs night, so I'm off running for the week anyway. Two weeks until the next 5K, which will be infinitely more difficult than today.

Memo to me: Pick a flat, boring 5K. It'll make you feel better.

Hooray for another day of running, and hooray for another day of success!

A long overdue update

Let me tell you something that I learned last week.

Hamstrings are the single most horrible muscle group to train. Ever.

I had an inkling of this early on, when J first had me doing these babies. We did these within the first few weeks of training, when it was all new and shiny and I still wanted to impress him with my physical prowess (har har), and it was the first exercise that made me feel like a piece of my body was trying to pop out and run away.

Every time we do legs, this is what I fear. It's not the lunges or the step-ups. It's the hamstrings.

So when I explain to you that we spent the bulk of our time on hamstrings last week, you have some idea of how I felt about it.

And when I share with you that, two days later, the very act of standing from my desk evoked the sensation of my hamstrings tearing in half, and every step was accompanied by shallow breathing more likely found in a labor ward than in an office, you understand.

At the same time that I can't overstate just how much it hurt in the following days, I also can't possibly overstate how beneficial and important the workout was. The hamstrings are a notoriously weak and neglected part of the body. They're vital for, well, everything. We just don't tend to isolate them in our exercises. Those exercises are no fun at all.

We started the night in the hack squat machine, a machine we've used once before. Those sets were alternated with lunges and stiff-leg deadlifts. This particular type of deadlift looks like this.

The squat machine focused on the quads, while lunges focus on the whole leg and deadlifts hone in on the hamstrings. Stiff-leg deadlifts may, in fact, be one of my favorite exercises ever. (I will never again say that about a hamstring exercise. Not unless bribed.)

Next up was a hamstring curl machine, like this one:



*Disclaimer: Totally not me. You know, in case you were confused.

One knee is planted on the knee pad while the other foot is tucked in front of the round pad. Bend the knee, lifting the foot back and bringing the round pad as close to your caboose as possible.

When I said that the hamstrings are notoriously weak, I wasn't kidding. I was curling only 20lbs, the same weight I usually curl with my biceps.

Those hamstring curls were alternated with narrow-stance squats, no weight. Three sets of each.

Last up for legs, we headed to the mats for some stability ball hamstring curls. J asked me to try it with only one leg planted on the ball, the other in the air. I tried it and couldn't even hoist my hiney off the ground. Two legs, then!

Sets of these were alternated with lateral step-ups onto a box, pulling my knee up to my chest. Surprisingly enough, these still felt relatively easy, even at the end of the workout.

I can only assume it's because they had absolutely nothing to do with my quivering, gelatinous hammies.

We wrapped with a few sets of abs, which I bravely soldiered through, and then called it good.

In retrospect, I probably set myself up for the pain. I was in a hurry after the session, a few minutes late for my son's band concert, so I rushed out the door and straight for the auditorium. I didn't walk around, I didn't stretch and I didn't fuel up. My body desperately needed something to replenish my muscles and I gave it nothing.

Small wonder that I was nearly incapacitated all week.

Until this session, I didn't realize just how weak my hamstrings were, and I realized quickly that they need all the help I can give them. So the following Saturday, the first day I was able to lean over and tie my own shoes, I made two trips to the gym. One in the morning, for another slow run, and one in the afternoon for a set of legs lifting. More squats, lunges, and deadlifts.

On Sunday, as I hobbled around my family's kitchen, my mother only shook her head at me. "Why do you do this to yourself?"

And I asked, "Why not?"

It's not a good enough answer for her, but it's good enough for me.

As a footnote - no pun intended - the plantar fasciitis definitely seems to have abated. The sole of my foot is a little stiff from time to time, but there's no pain. I've been running slowly for a little over a week now and I'm happy with how it's felt. So far, so good!

ONE-derland! (In two ways!)

Tonight, I weighed in at 199.

For real.

Also tonight, I got back on the treadmill for the first time since my 5K and hurting my foot. D'you know what I did?

I ran for over a mile without stopping. 1.21 miles before my breathing couldn't keep up anymore.

The weight made me laugh and the running made me cry the happiest of tears. Right now, sitting on my couch and typing this, I feel a little empty. Bewildered. As if, for one brief moment, I have accomplished everything.

It won't last. There are other mountains to climb. That important little pound has so many friends I need to get rid of, and I'm pretty sure I won't survive the impending zombie apocalypse if I can only run a mile.

But here, I am satisfied. I can rest now.

Has it really been a week?

It would seem that when I feel I'm not making progress at the gym, I feel I have nothing to post.

The sadness over not being able to run has been overwhelming. I made do with a few visits to the bike at the gym, logging nearly sixty miles, each mile feeling more desperate than the one before. Pedaling away the hours, yearning to reach that wonderful endorphin rush that I've come to know so well.

I don't know if a "biker's high" exists. If it does, I sure didn't find it.

To compensate for the days off I was going to take last week, I changed up my diet. I knew I needed to get serious about it if I were to keep my weight down while not hitting the treadmill every day.

Enter: The Salad.

I hate salads. I really, really hate them. I don't really like vegetables, I certainly don't like vinaigrettes, and if it doesn't have melted cheese, what's the point?

You're seeing now why I gained this weight in the first place, aren't you. It's okay. You can nod.

Anyway. A few weeks ago, I was browsing the organic section of the local grocery store and I saw this bottle of dressing sitting on an endcap of clearance items. Even the word "garlic" makes my taste buds start to samba. So I bought it, figuring that I might one day decide to eat a salad.

You never know.

Last weekend, with this idea in my head of buckling down on my diet while I rested my foot, I decided to buy some lettuce. Only when I got to the produce department, I remembered that, oh yeah, lettuce is boring and dumb. So I picked up a bag of greens consisting of mixed spring greens and baby spinach, and I found some marinated butter herb chicken breasts that were just begging to be bought.

A bowl of greens with two tablespoons of dressing and a chicken breast for lunch, every day. (Okay, not Friday. I had cookies for lunch. I was under a lot of stress.) Some days, I had it for dinner, too. It was... edible. Maybe not great, but by the end of the week, I could say that it was actually good. I even started looking forward to it.

And when I stepped on the scale on Saturday morning, I had lost two pounds.

200 pounds. Right there, on the scale. I stared at it, dumbfounded. I didn't understand.

I'm struggling to resist the urge to stop at the gym every morning before work, just to check. I weighed myself before and after training today, just in case.

Every pound is a milestone, but this pound, this one little pound... it means something even more.

It's almost here.

Yes, it was time for an evaluation

Last night was another night with my trainer, and since it had been a while since our last evaluation, J figured that it was as good a time as any. In light of my plantar fasciitis (and subsequent depressive food binge, involving cookies, chocolate, and DiGiorno), it was probably a better time than most.

We omitted two of the exercises: leg presses and 12:00 run. Anything that involves my feet and increased weight or strain on them is out. I'm not willing to take chances.

No hoof, no horse.

So our first stop was at the scale. At long last, after weeks and weeks (and weeks) of no change, the scale has tipped a little lower. I'm sitting at 202 now.

"I feel like I've had so little progress recently," I said. "I'm so close to 200, it makes me crazy!"

"If you hadn't eaten a whole pizza this weekend, you might have been there."

I put on an impressive pout. "Don't say that."

"It's true!" J laughed. "You pay me to say these things!"

Ouch. He had a point there.

The measurements didn't reveal anything shocking. Small losses everywhere, which is good. Predictable. My biggest loss this time around was in my waist, where I lost an inch. Good riddance, I say.

I continued to improve over my last strength benchmarks, though not dramatically, and I keep working away at my sit-ups and push-ups. I'm reaching a point where I'm doing both of those at such a steady, quick pace that it'll be hard to squeeze any more reps out in the space of a minute. I topped out on my sit-ups two evaluations ago, when I hit 61, and even though I was giving it all I had last night, I only made 57 or so. J reasoned that I may be sitting up higher now that I have less bulk around my middle, making each rep take the tiniest bit longer. In reality, this means I'm still working harder, doing more, and getting stronger.

He's so nice to me. (Sometimes.)

Overall, it was another positive evaluation, which I desperately needed right now. The plateau I've been complaining about for the past month seems to have loosened its grip, and the glimpse of progress was enough to briefly kick me out of my depression over not being able to run.

And the depression has been wicked. I feel like something is missing right now. Taking a few days off because I needed a break was one thing. Being forced to take a few weeks off because I hurt myself is entirely another.

Tonight, after leaving the Chinese take-out place I hit once or twice a week, I was struck by the sunset. The air was just beginning to cool, the sky was mottled with multicolored clouds, just a few drops of rain were daring to fall, and the sun was casting these beautiful beams from behind the layers of clouds. And the only thought in my mind as I stood in the middle of the parking lot was: I want to run. My eyes welled up.

Then I realized I was standing in the middle of a parking lot, for crying out loud, and I got the hell out of the way of the murderous souls who wanted to get home with their $5 pizzas before they were no longer Hot-N-Ready.

So. The past few days have been emotional, if mostly rewarding. I'm going out of my way to look after my foot, to help it heal as quickly and efficiently as possible. My purse is crammed full with ibuprofen, an ACE bandage, and an ice pack. While yesterday (and, okay, even last Friday) were intermittently painful in my worn-out work shoes, today was pain-free. I plan to keep it that way.

Progress. Even in tiny bits, it counts. It's important to remember this.

First race: finished!

Despite predictions of rain, this morning ended up being just the right mix of overcast and breezy. Which is good, because I was worried my mid-length capris wouldn't cut it, and my three frantic trips last night to various stores to try and find running pants proved utterly fruitless.

I learned a few things today. Some of them, I already knew, but one of them was a complete surprise.

I was dead lame this morning. As in, I got out of my car at the race site (about an hour and a half from home) and had a prominent, painful limp. I've had a suspicion recently that I may have plantar fasciitis in my left foot, it's been aching in just the wrong way for a couple weeks, and this morning sealed the deal. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to run, but in the time it took me to register and bring my things back to my car, the pain had subsided.

So I ran.

The route for this particular 5K was twice around beautiful Lake Como in St. Paul. I found myself enjoying the first lap around the lake, running in the company of other people, surrounded by the loveliest blooming trees I've seen this year. The slightly uneven terrain made the fronts of my feet a little crampy, but that's what you get for training on treadmills. Muscles don't have a chance to acclimate to real-world conditions.

I crossed the finish line the first time in a little over 18 minutes. Firmly on-course to meet my goal of 40:00 for the whole thing.

The second lap, however, was another story. The sun came out, filtering through the clouds, which was wonderful and all, but made things just warm enough that I started becoming uncomfortable in all my layers. Despite the sun, the air was still cold, and my chest and throat were starting to ache. A headwind picked up as I ran down the long side of the lake.

Then, slowly, a cramp started between my shoulder blades. I realized I'd unconsciously been hiking my shoulders halfway up to my ears, but too late. My comfortable intervals became twice as much walking as running.

As I crossed the 3-mile marker, I picked up my run again. I was going to run this thing home, damn it. Then I heard someone shouting my name.

It was a woman I met just before the race. She had seen me, standing alone, and came over to give me some tips. "After the race," she said, "come find me."

There she was, waiting for me before the finish line, cheering me on, waving me home.

There are precious few times in life - too few - when we can look around ourselves and know we're not alone in what we're doing. This moment, with this stranger, is something I'll always remember.

I briefly registered my time as I came in: 40 minutes and change. The details flew out of my brain when I saw my next surprise, one of my sisters waiting at the finish. As I gave her a hug, another sister jogged up. They live near the lake, though in opposite directions, and when I mentioned the race on my Facebook, they made impromptu plans to come see me.

I love my family. So much.

Here I am, back at home, icing my foot and waiting patiently for the results (and photos!) to hit the website. I'm anxious to see what my actual finishing time was, so I can log it on RunKeeper.

Today was a fantastic experience, and I think it was the perfect 5K for my race debut. The bib numbers we were assigned designated weight loss, with the greatest amount of weight lost having the smallest bib number. This was voluntary, of course, but it was so heartening to be running with people who've been here, where I am now. This journey continues to be a huge challenge for me, and these shared experiences remind me it's possible.

And now, I'll be off of running a while. I've caught this foot condition early enough that it doesn't seem severe, so I'll follow a little common sense and interwebby doctor advice, until I see a doctor of my own. Plantar fasciitis is a sprain of a ligament in the bottom of the foot, and I'll treat it like I would any other sprain. Ice, rest, compression, anti-inflammatories. I may break out the crutches this week if the compression doesn't do enough good.

Good thing I have lots of weights to lift while I wait for this to heal. Come on foot, get better! I need to run!

Update: The times are posted! The time rolled over as I approached the line, and I finished in 41:06.4. I now have a road-race time to beat!

Becoming a runner

I've had numerous attitude adjustments in my time at the gym. Some of them have been brought on by J's sessions, but some of them have come to me while reflecting on my progress, alone.

None are bigger than this one.

I'm no longer someone who's trying to lose weight by running. I'm a runner who happens to be losing weight.

I've had this idea at the back of my mind for a while now, ever since my first plateau at the end of December. I realized I was reaching these plateaus because I was spending so much time on the treadmill, doing the same thing every single day. I was so focused on running, improving my times, making it easier. Despite knowing that cross-training was what I needed to lose weight, I couldn't help it. I just wanted to run.

So tonight at the gym, when I arrived in time for my session only to see J heading off with another client, my frustration at having been inadvertently double-booked was short lived. I'd just been given the gift of another running day.

And lo, did wonderful things happen. My mile is now at 10:51.

I'm just gonna bask in that for a bit here. Just a few months ago, that time seemed impossible. And not impossible in the "I can't finish this incredible slice of triple-chocolate cake" sort of way. Impossible in the "I can't breathe in the vacuum of space" sort of way.

Maybe this is why I like running. It makes the impossible possible.

For two miles, I hit 23:11, taking :13 off my time from Thursday. After that, I was spent. I managed to finish three miles in 36:27, :03 from Thursday's best, so I won't complain. But I was feeling overheated and I was beginning to labor by the end. It was an icky feeling, so instead of finishing out the 45:00 I had programmed on the machine, I finished off a 5K and called it good.

I had aborted plans to participate in a local 5K last week when my foot started giving me problems. But the situation has stabilized, despite my increased mileage (more than 10 miles in the past five days), so I took a chance and signed up for a 5K this coming weekend. I'll be running in the Challenge Obesity 5K in St. Paul. My goal time is 40:00, and I really don't know how good my chances are on breaking that. I'm still getting comfortable with road running, finding my pacing and not using myself up early. So as long as I finish safely and with no shin splints, I'll be happy woman.

Crossing my fingers for sunny skies!

Beautiful, wonderful running

Either the endorphins are coursing vigorously through my body right now or I genuinely love running.

Or both. Likely both.

I was killing time yesterday at the local Barnes & Noble when I came across the May issue of Runner's World magazine. Across the top, it said something that grabbed my attention.

Special Beginner's Guide

I'm a special beginner! I grabbed the magazine off the shelf. I sat up reading it last night, past my bedtime, filing away ideas for my next runs. My week's schedule ended up a bit askew, so I figured I'd run on Friday, taking today off.

And as I laid awake in bed, all I could think of was running.

So I ran.

I've been frustrated lately with the fact that I haven't been making much progress with my stamina - at least, I haven't perceived it. Two months ago, I was running two or three minutes at a time before I needed to walk. Last week, I was doing the same thing. Sure, I've gotten faster in my intervals, but even when I drop my speed back, I struggle to break just a few minutes.

It's left me feeling like I'm doing something wrong, or that I'm not trying hard enough.

Armed with some ideas gleaned from Runner's World, I hit the treadmill this afternoon. I covered the display with my towel and only allowed myself to see my speed. (Since I still run intervals, I need that.) I put down my iPod. I paid attention to myself, and only myself.

Today's tactic was to start strong in my running, but instead of dropping to a walk when I tired, I slowed my speed slightly. And then slowed it again. I was challenging my body to recover slightly without needing to walk. By the time I had to walk, I reasoned, I would have stretched my running time past those two or three stubborn minutes.

Whether or not my clever "recovery" idea paid off, I don't know. What I do know is that by the time I needed my towel to dry my face for the first time, it had passed the 9:30 mark and I was just beginning to walk for the second time.

I had made it nine minutes with only one break. Huh.

Even though I wasn't watching my times and distances, exactly, I still wanted to know my mile times. As I approached the mark, I peeked at the distance, whipping off the towel only when I reached each mile, to make a mental note of how it was going.

And wouldn't you know, I set a new personal record on every single mile.

I shaved :02 off my one mile record, finishing in 11:20. I took :46 off my two mile record, finishing in 23:24. Best of all, I took 2:11 off my three mile record, finishing in 36:24.

My god, people. That's a pace of 12:08 per mile. Are you kidding me??

After finishing, I decided to weigh myself. The big six-month-iversary is tomorrow, after all. While a few days ago it was back to 204, it's now a bit higher. So. Bummer on that.

I've had to accept, with the progress I'm making in lifting and running, that perhaps I just need to chill out about the weight loss right now. My pants are still getting looser. My body is still changing. It's unfortunate that I'm not seeing the numbers I want on the scale, but I'm seeing so many other wonderful numbers that it's really hard to complain.

And foolish.

So here I am. Six months in and I've lost 34(ish) pounds. I've taken more than six minutes off my mile. I've dropped three pants sizes. I've become comfortable in my body and I've found pride in myself. These things are priceless.

Onward and upward, my friends.

Bad timing (and rotten coincidence)

I was certain, leading up to this week, that we'd have an evaluation tonight. Why, I'm not sure. But I was certain.

As I posted this weekend, I did some arms work, since I was assuming this would be eval day.

Oh, no. It wasn't. It was an arms day. And, as J is fond of reminding me, it's getting harder.

I told him when we were starting that I had done arms a few days earlier and that my biceps were still hurting, which they are. All achey and stiff still. So he kindly let me off the hook for biceps. Everything else, though, was fair game.

J started me on seated rows, at a machine similar to this one:



Fifteen reps of those alternated with fifteen reps of incline shoulder presses, which are brutal for me. Every time I do them, I wish I was doing anything else.

I'm still cringing.

After three sets, we moved on to the cable machine for some tricep pulldowns. And we did loads. We started with fifteen reps of tricep pulldowns on an EZ bar, palms down. Then, after a brief rest, we did fifteen reps with my palms facing up.

Though the exercises were almost the same, they emphasized different parts of my triceps, which I really liked. I always seem to end arms nights with the most soreness by my elbows. Tonight, with these palms-up pulldowns, it felt like it focused higher up, toward my shoulder.

Tricep pulldowns are some of my favorites, but they make my arms burn. Quickly. I told J as much.

"You know," I grunted through reps, "I did these on Saturday."

"I almost feel bad now," J said, breaking into a laugh.

I paused and shot him a wry grin. "You can't even say that with a straight face."

"I know." He was still laughing.

Do you know how many total reps of tricep pulldowns I did? Ninety.

And then it was over to another station where we alternated overhead shoulder presses with a 30-lb barbell (fifteen reps, of course) with wide-grip incline push-ups. Magic number? Yes. Fifteen. Three sets.

Next, we headed back to the ladies' area, to find a little more space. We hit a machine that looks familiar:



It functions in much the same way as that first machine with some key differences. One is the angle, which emphasizes different parts of the back. The other is the variable grip it provides.

Since we had already used a standard seated row machine with a neutral grip, J had me use different grips on each of my three sets here. Where and how I grabbed the handles made a huge difference in where I felt the muscles engage.

Each set of fifteen of those was alternated with dumbbell bent-over rows. J handed me a 25-lb dumbbell, and the weight presented less of a problem than the rough, diamond-cut grip. Holy butternut, that hurt. My dainty little hands aren't used to such treatment.

Here's an important term to know in weight lifting: drop set. A drop set is when you begin with high weight and, as you fatigue, you reduce the weight. It's very useful.

It's also a polite way of saying "You got tired and couldn't lift that heavy one anymore."

We did some drop sets. That's okay with me.

We wrapped with abs - two sets of twenty v-ups - and called it good. I was almost sad that we left off with just one ab exercise, which J decided must have been sarcasm, but I was relieved to be done.

Oh wait, but I wasn't. I decided to hop on the treadmill and run a mile. You know, for fun. I finished in 12:37, which is nothing to write home about (anymore) but made me smile nevertheless.

My weight is back to 204, which is a relief. I was taking the fluctuation last week personally. Even better news, my foot seems to be doing better already. Squeezing the last bit of usefulness out of my old shoes was apparently a very bad choice.

Another lesson: learned.

On that note, it's past my bedtime and I'm feeling slightly delirious from the muscle fatigue and sleepiness. Tomorrow is another day. I only hope I can put on my shirt in the morning.

Mixing up the routine

As I've said recently, my weight loss has come to a stubborn halt again. This happens often, due in part to my reluctance to diversify. I find incredible security in my routine and I do not like change.

Story of my life.

I used to try to be spontaneous. I wanted to be that fun girl whom you could call on a moment's notice for some crazy, awesome plans. But I always ended up being that girl who said "yes" without thinking, and then went along and pretended to have fun, secretly regretting it.

I really am fun at parties, I promise. Just give me a little notice. (Really!)

When I hit the gym tonight, I decided to change it up. I started with weights, which I don't think I've done on my own in weeks. I went for upper body, doing a smattering of exercises that touched on multiple muscle groups. Tricep dips on a bench, Arnold presses (15lbs), bicep curls (20lbs), tricep pulldowns, and lat pulldowns were all covered.

As much as I love routine, I have a hard time putting my weight training into a routine. It's all just here and there, lifting things until my muscles exhaust. Perhaps that needs to be a goal of mine!

The treadmill was next, and I decided to go for long, slow distance, which is commonly abbreviated as LSD running. While this kind of running isn't very effective for increasing performance, it's a good way to mix up the speed intervals I usually do. According to J, this minor change could be enough to bump me out of my plateau. I don't need to get off the treadmill, he said. I just need to change what I'm doing on it.

So I stuck to a slower jog, the speed I was running about a month ago, and held it for as long as I could. It wasn't more than a few minutes, unfortunately, but that's okay. I walked for a bit and picked up the slow pace again. I finished my mile in 12:24.

Elliptical was next, and I finished a mile there as well in a little over 11 minutes.

I considered staying on the elliptical longer, or swapping to the bike, but ultimately I headed back to the treadmill for some speed work. It wasn't sprinting, I don't have the confidence in my feet to push myself to a sprint on the treadmill. My knee is too delicate for true sprinting, anyway. But I pushed myself a little faster than I've run before, choosing to do one-minute intervals of high speed. I finished this mile in 12:43.

A pretty good session, all things considered. I hope I've mixed things up enough to start making progress again on the weight loss front, but only time will tell.

I'm planning on taking the day off tomorrow. I've recently had some soreness in the sole of one of my feet. I'm hoping it was from wearing worn-out shoes and it'll go away now that I have good shoes again. I pulled out of a 5k I was planning this week so my foot can rehab.

If it's not one thing, it's another. Thank goodness the body is resilient!

Back in business

My two-day break turned into three days, when I discovered yesterday afternoon that lack of an afternoon snack wipes me right the heck out.

That'll teach me to run out of protein bars.

So today, entirely rested and properly nourished, I hit the gym for the first time since Monday.

I don't think I was punishing myself, exactly, but I was sure making up for lost time. I set the treadmill to the hill program and started some running intervals. My plan was to do an hour, which I managed with around 20 minutes of running or so.

With warm-up and cool-down, I wrapped 70 minutes and 4.55 miles. My 5k time was around 45 minutes, which pleased me, given that I was on hills.

I'm filing away this accomplishment in the hopes that it overwrites my failures on the weight loss front. That 204 I registered not all that long ago was fleeting. I've been over 205 for the past week, which is disappointing.

I won't meet my goal of breaking out of the 200s by my six-month mark, but I know I'll still meet that goal. Soon.

This is the week it all falls apart

I decided last night, after my training session with J, that I really needed a break.

I've been pushing myself harder and harder, but it would seem that I've been pushing in all the wrong ways. My anxiety is high, my energy level is low, and the last straw last night was seeing the number on the scale registering three pounds higher than last week.

Three pounds.

It's not the end of the world. For all I know, it was a fluke, one of those weigh-ins that figures in all the retained water and everything you ate for lunch. It happens.

But last night, it all but broke me. I've been working so hard, I told myself. It's not fair.

You know, like someone out there told me this would all be fair. Yeah, right.

Even though I decided last night to take a break, I packed my back this morning, wearily but optimistically. As the final minutes of my work day ticked down, I still wasn't sure if I'd actually let myself rest.

These pounds won't lose themselves.

It wasn't until I failed to make the turn to the gym, on the way home, that I let myself off the hook. And what a relief.

I'm giving myself two days. Two days to not think about lifting, running, or boxing. Two days to read books, watch tv, and sleep. Maybe even cook some of the meals that I keep not cooking, because I'm at the gym until after 7:30 and I just don't have the will to do work around the house.

Rest is not an admission of defeat. Rest is necessary for the body and mind. It's necessary for the spirit. I've gotten by with denying myself this need on sheer determination, maybe a little spite. A little anger. But that sort of attitude, while temporarily empowering, isn't self-sustaining.

In a few days, I'll be back to the gym, hopefully blogging about how I'm back on track and kicking all kinds of ass.

Until then, you can find me right here. On the couch.