Today was my first and only day of running this week. Despite my best intentions, circumstances kept me off the track.
When I started running seriously in 2012, I did so in full knowledge that I had a torn ACL in my left knee. I learned to run with the understanding that I had this fundamental instability, and no matter how strong I felt, the worry of injury resulted in substantial compensation by the right side of my body. I didn't always perceive it, but I carried myself crooked, heel-striking with my right foot and forefoot-striking with my left.
It wasn't really a problem, I figured, and I got by just fine.
Last summer, my bad knee forced my hand. I tore both menisci sometime in June, fought through my leg of a half marathon relay in July, and consulted with a surgeon a few weeks later. He had me in surgery by the end of the month.
After so many years of movement compensations and crookedness, it was a mixed blessing to have this enormous reset button, in the form of knee surgery. I had no choice but to sit down and heal. I had no choice but to begin again, this time with a repaired knee. I was back at square one.
Learning to move straight, each leg working as intended, was an eye-opening experience. Rehab went well, and I was back to jogging slowly in only a few months. I hired a trainer to help keep me on track after my physical therapy ended, and she was able to pinpoint the source of some of my long-seated problems. All those movement compensations had left me with an overpowered right quad and a strong, overly-effective left hamstring. My legs were, to some degree, opposites of each other. It was no wonder that, many months after my knee had healed, I was still favoring different legs for different tasks.
(To this day, I still step down with my right foot on the curb. I should learn to get over that.)
It should come as no surprise that what begins in the legs rarely stays there. "The leg bone's connected to the hip bone," and all that. Though I've managed to mitigate and repair some of the imbalance that I carry through my legs, I've become acutely aware of the problems that have taken root in my lower back.
Specifically: My pelvis hitches up on the right. Left unaddressed, it causes a pinching pain just to the right of my lumbar spine, and the muscles in that region are so tight that it's hard to lean to the left. I discovered this situation as I trained for the marathon last year; spending so many miles on the roads brought what may have been a minor issue to the forefront. I got weekly chiropractic adjustments for months, but finally had to give up my self-admitted chiro addiction around the holidays.
It felt a little worse every day. First, the tightness. Then, the tightness became pain when moving in certain ways. Last night, I could no longer lean to the left while sitting. Finally, this morning, standing square and upright made me wince.
And so today, it was time to reevaluate my finances (and my priorities). I called my chiropractor's office a handful of times this morning - they're "By Appointment" on Saturdays, so I was gambling on when they'd be in - and I cruised my sad little spine over as soon as they gave me the go ahead.
The relief was immediate. And amazing. So I went for a run.
I'm no preacher of the miracle of chiropractic medicine. I know there are people who don't appreciate the discipline, and there are people who have visited and perceived no benefit. For this body, though, it makes all the difference in the world.
TL;DR: When you find something that works, stick with it. The body is a fickle thing, and we all need what we need in order to perform our best.
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Getting my goals off the ground
Now that I've settled back into my workout routine, as it slowly becomes my pre-marathon-training running routine, I've decided it's high time that I iron out my race schedule for the year. I had a handful of goals in mind, and with a little more experience under my belt from last year, it was fairly easy to pop some races onto my calendar.
So, Happy New Year to me, here's what's on tap for the coming months:
One week into the new year, I'm feeling good. I'm feeling ready. I've got this.
So, Happy New Year to me, here's what's on tap for the coming months:
February
5K
March
10-mile
April
Half marathon
June
10-mile
Marathon
July
Half marathon relay
October
10K
5K
10-mile
It may be evident, at a glance, that I'm extremely fond of the 10-mile distance. From the first race I ran over that distance last year, I was hooked. I found that I tapped into this beautiful, euphoric feeling after mile 6, but I was prone to crashing physically and emotionally around mile 11. Running 10-mile races was simply the most enjoyable experience with the least amount of stress. Now that I've thoroughly deconditioned, I'm curious to see if that experience repeats.
The half marathon will be special; I'll be racing in my hometown for the first time, save for an untimed 5K years ago, and I'm excited to see the city through a different lens.
June looks more daunting than it is. The 10-mile - a repeat of my favorite 10-mile from last year - occurs on a day in my marathon training schedule when I'm supposed to run 12 miles, and I'll have two weeks of taper before I take on 26.2.
October is going to pose its own unique challenge. I've signed up for an event that calls for a back-to-back 10K and 5K on Saturday, followed by a 10-mile on Sunday. After having two marathon training periods under my belt at that point, I don't anticipate it'll be physically distressing, but there are so many ways that I can play it. Do I conserve early and have lots in the tank for the 10-mile? Do I live in the moment and put in strong efforts on Saturday? We'll see....!
October is going to pose its own unique challenge. I've signed up for an event that calls for a back-to-back 10K and 5K on Saturday, followed by a 10-mile on Sunday. After having two marathon training periods under my belt at that point, I don't anticipate it'll be physically distressing, but there are so many ways that I can play it. Do I conserve early and have lots in the tank for the 10-mile? Do I live in the moment and put in strong efforts on Saturday? We'll see....!
One week into the new year, I'm feeling good. I'm feeling ready. I've got this.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Heart rate woes
When an otherwise active person trades in their shoes for a spot on the couch, the first thing to go is aerobic fitness. And boy, does it go. It only takes a week or to for the inevitable backslide to begin, and every subsequent week makes a return to activity that much harder.
So with only a handful of miles logged since my October races, I knew January would be more work than fun.
Today marked my second run back on a program; this year's focus is Grandma's Marathon at the end of June, and my chosen training plan calls for 18 weeks of serious training. That gives me until mid-February to ensure that I have a strong enough base that I can jump directly into a four-day, 19-mile week. Last year's program was a lighter one, calling for only three days of running (with ample cross-training), so this new plan is going to be a major step up.
February 15th. My calendar is marked. The real stuff begins.
My gym has a 1/10 mile track, and I knocked out a 2-miler there on Thursday. The run felt good, very possible, so today, I stepped up to a 5K. The track was clogged with New Years Resolutioners, so I opted for the treadmill.
This is the part where I remind myself that progress isn't linear. Progress comes in fits and starts, and today was nothing like Thursday. I never quite clicked into a rhythm, and I found myself winded and walking frequently. Feeling a bit amiss, I checked my heart rate. And I checked it again, because I didn't believe it.
Within a mile, despite walk breaks, I found myself over 170bpm. Before my second mile, I was peaking at 188bpm. I wasn't setting any new speed records; on the contrary, I was shooting for my old, slow, reliable pace of last year. Today, that pace was too much. My 5K run became a 5K mostly-walk as I tried to keep my heart rate under 150.
It was humbling to spend so much time walking, but ultimately worthwhile. Instead of turning out the 36-minute 5K I was expecting from my current fitness level, performed at a moderately-hard effort, I turned out that same relative effort for the better part of 47 minutes. It's hard to be ashamed of sweating for longer than I was intending.
Running by effort is the name of the game when it comes to training. Today was a great reminder of that.
So with only a handful of miles logged since my October races, I knew January would be more work than fun.
Today marked my second run back on a program; this year's focus is Grandma's Marathon at the end of June, and my chosen training plan calls for 18 weeks of serious training. That gives me until mid-February to ensure that I have a strong enough base that I can jump directly into a four-day, 19-mile week. Last year's program was a lighter one, calling for only three days of running (with ample cross-training), so this new plan is going to be a major step up.
February 15th. My calendar is marked. The real stuff begins.
My gym has a 1/10 mile track, and I knocked out a 2-miler there on Thursday. The run felt good, very possible, so today, I stepped up to a 5K. The track was clogged with New Years Resolutioners, so I opted for the treadmill.
This is the part where I remind myself that progress isn't linear. Progress comes in fits and starts, and today was nothing like Thursday. I never quite clicked into a rhythm, and I found myself winded and walking frequently. Feeling a bit amiss, I checked my heart rate. And I checked it again, because I didn't believe it.
Within a mile, despite walk breaks, I found myself over 170bpm. Before my second mile, I was peaking at 188bpm. I wasn't setting any new speed records; on the contrary, I was shooting for my old, slow, reliable pace of last year. Today, that pace was too much. My 5K run became a 5K mostly-walk as I tried to keep my heart rate under 150.
It was humbling to spend so much time walking, but ultimately worthwhile. Instead of turning out the 36-minute 5K I was expecting from my current fitness level, performed at a moderately-hard effort, I turned out that same relative effort for the better part of 47 minutes. It's hard to be ashamed of sweating for longer than I was intending.
Running by effort is the name of the game when it comes to training. Today was a great reminder of that.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
My, it's dusty around here!
The Great Hiatus of 2013 gave way to an even Greater Hiatus, encompassing all of 2014. But while my writing lapsed, my goal setting and dedication to this path didn't.
Well, not for long, anyway. Here and there, but never for very long.
The best way for me to kick off this New Year is with a wrap-up of what everyone's missed while I was busy not writing. Major life changes (like a surprise knee surgery and marriage to the Geeky Runner) aside, my life has revolved around fitness in one way or another. I returned to school in Fall 2013 to gain a Fitness Specialist education, and in November 2013, I became an NASM Certified Personal Trainer.
The gig wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and I spent only nine months concentrating on that career path, but it brought me to bigger and better things. Most importantly, it kept me focused and on track for all the fitness goals I had in mind.
2014 was a year of running, and it was a year of racing.
You see that word up there, right under "October"? Yep. I finished a marathon. 26.2 miles.
I stop short of saying that I ran a marathon, because I did a lot of walking. A whole lot. But I completed it under the six-hour cutoff and on my own two sore, aching feet. Even as I was climbing painfully over the worst of the hills, I knew I would do it again. And even as my muscles seized after crossing the finish line and I hobbled stiltedly, whimperingly to my car, I knew I would absolutely do it again.
Looking forward to 2015, there's a lot I hope to accomplish. After the marathon, I took what I hoped would be a brief break from running. Despite having two shorter races ahead of me, I didn't really resume running. I instead discovered just how much I'd been eating when, in the absence of meaningful, consistent physical exercise, I packed on fifteen pounds. My pre-marathon 165lbs was all gone. Yikes.
I'm no believer in New Years Resolutions, but a switch flipped in me this morning when I rolled out of bed and felt that forgotten Need To Run. So I did.
The races on my schedule this year begin in February with a 5K and peak with my second marathon in June. A handful of other races decorate my calendar at this point, including a weekend in which I'll run a 5K and 10K back-to-back, followed by a 10-mile the next day. I'm excited to have a baseline on many distances, established in 2014, and to have the opportunity to improve on them this year.
So much to do. So many places to go.
Best of all, I'll be doing it all with my husband. The Geeky Runner was with me for every single race this year, waiting for me at the finish line, his own medal already around his neck. (One of these days, I'll catch him.) Our plans diverge somewhat this year; he's taking aim at some trail races, while I recently discovered that my dodgy knee has trouble with extreme terrain. So it'll be me at the finish line for him this time.
Here's to another year. Bring it on!
Well, not for long, anyway. Here and there, but never for very long.
The best way for me to kick off this New Year is with a wrap-up of what everyone's missed while I was busy not writing. Major life changes (like a surprise knee surgery and marriage to the Geeky Runner) aside, my life has revolved around fitness in one way or another. I returned to school in Fall 2013 to gain a Fitness Specialist education, and in November 2013, I became an NASM Certified Personal Trainer.
The gig wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and I spent only nine months concentrating on that career path, but it brought me to bigger and better things. Most importantly, it kept me focused and on track for all the fitness goals I had in mind.
2014 was a year of running, and it was a year of racing.
April:
10-mile
Half marathon
May:
25K
5K
June:
10-mile
July:
Half marathon relay
5K
August:
Half marathon
September:
5-mile trail
October:
Marathon
Half marathon
Half marathon
November:
5K
You see that word up there, right under "October"? Yep. I finished a marathon. 26.2 miles.
I stop short of saying that I ran a marathon, because I did a lot of walking. A whole lot. But I completed it under the six-hour cutoff and on my own two sore, aching feet. Even as I was climbing painfully over the worst of the hills, I knew I would do it again. And even as my muscles seized after crossing the finish line and I hobbled stiltedly, whimperingly to my car, I knew I would absolutely do it again.
Looking forward to 2015, there's a lot I hope to accomplish. After the marathon, I took what I hoped would be a brief break from running. Despite having two shorter races ahead of me, I didn't really resume running. I instead discovered just how much I'd been eating when, in the absence of meaningful, consistent physical exercise, I packed on fifteen pounds. My pre-marathon 165lbs was all gone. Yikes.
I'm no believer in New Years Resolutions, but a switch flipped in me this morning when I rolled out of bed and felt that forgotten Need To Run. So I did.
The races on my schedule this year begin in February with a 5K and peak with my second marathon in June. A handful of other races decorate my calendar at this point, including a weekend in which I'll run a 5K and 10K back-to-back, followed by a 10-mile the next day. I'm excited to have a baseline on many distances, established in 2014, and to have the opportunity to improve on them this year.
So much to do. So many places to go.
Best of all, I'll be doing it all with my husband. The Geeky Runner was with me for every single race this year, waiting for me at the finish line, his own medal already around his neck. (One of these days, I'll catch him.) Our plans diverge somewhat this year; he's taking aim at some trail races, while I recently discovered that my dodgy knee has trouble with extreme terrain. So it'll be me at the finish line for him this time.
Here's to another year. Bring it on!
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Time flies when you're living life!
I'd like to think I have a good excuse for having been gone - and technically, I suppose I do - but it's really not so hard to pull myself out of my life to put a note here. For that, I am truly sorry.
So where have I been? Well. I'll tell you.
A few days before my last post, I met a man. A lovely man, found on a dating website, who seemed just my type. As it turned out, he was just my type, a geeky runner who had faced (and triumphed over) some of the same obstacles I have, including this fitness mountain. It clicked.
I won't keep you in suspense: We're getting married in September. (To each other!)
That's where I've been!
With that, let's get back to the running!
Progress has been spotty. My new-found social life has left me less motivated to push myself at the gym, and it was so much easier to just eat my way through the holidays. This malaise has put me in dire straits on the scale; it's still moving in the right direction, mostly, but it's been slow.
I'm currently sitting at 174. Six months, twelve pounds, for a total of 64 lbs lost. I'll take it, and gladly, but with the hope that I'll regain some of that fervor with which I lost the first fifty pounds.
Well, after the wedding. The dress was ordered last month, and a small part of me is very worried about having just wasted a tremendous amount of money on something that may end up being too big in six months. Yikes.
I faced a handful of layups from running, which were frustrating, at best. In late September, I came up with runner's knee, a particularly painful condition where the patella essentially scrapes over the end of the femur. Typically, the kneecap sits in a little groove at the end of the femur, and when the quads contract, the patella glides in that groove. When the hips aren't working right, or when the leg muscles are imbalanced, the patella deviates from that groove.
It hurts. A lot.
So I took time off, easing myself back into running a few weeks later. I got myself together for a Thanksgiving 5K and posted my best time to date, averaging less than 11:00/mile. It was a wicked hard run, I was demoralized early when it seemed to be taking an eternity to reach the turn-around. (And I was right; it wasn't an evenly-divided out-and-back. The turn-around was at the two-mile mark. Woe!)
Leading up to the holidays, I lost momentum, and was excited to get back down to business when a kitchen accident dealt me another injury. ...Okay, I dropped a whisk on my big toe. But it was a very heavy whisk, and it cracked right on my toe-knuckle. I walked with a limp for over a week.
I hopped back on the treadmill in early January, planning to buckle down and prepare for my first race of the year, a 7K on March 16. A little intermittent pain in the bad knee, but nothing horrible. I could work with this, I thought.
A week later, during a boot camp I'd signed up for, I got a little too aggressive with my movements. I leaped with the class, landed with my feet too wide, and my knee slid apart.
I didn't see a doctor, which I probably should have, but I'd been through it before. Sprained calf, sore MCL, etc etc. Iced for several days, wrapped well for a few weeks, eased back into slowly jogging three weeks after the injury.
And that, my friends, gave me just enough time to try and pull off Saturday's race. I managed to claw my way back to where I was in November, and I finished my 7K in 50:09, just nine seconds off my goal. I managed a pace of around 11:09 per mile; if not for the string of injuries, I'm confident I would have been well under 11:00/mi, but that's life.
To be honest, though, part of me is grateful for the reset. I'd been getting very caught up on speed, trying to whittle down my mile time, trying to pound faster, and I'd never really settled into the rhythm of running for endurance. This time around, I took a completely new approach, forcing myself to run slower, more often. And you know what I discovered? That I could run longer.
It should have been a "Duh" moment, but it was more of a light bulb moment. When I thought I was running slowly before, I really wasn't. I was still pushing. I wasn't finding my pace, letting my feet spin and simply carry me. This time, I'm discovering more about the beauty of running, and I'm enjoying it more.
So there we have it. My life in the past six months. The good, the bad, and the ouchy. Now that I'm back to running (and finding my rhythm), I hope to be back to blogging much more often.
Next up: A revisit of my first trail 5K, in May, and a foray into the world of 10Ks. Fingers firmly crossed!
So where have I been? Well. I'll tell you.
A few days before my last post, I met a man. A lovely man, found on a dating website, who seemed just my type. As it turned out, he was just my type, a geeky runner who had faced (and triumphed over) some of the same obstacles I have, including this fitness mountain. It clicked.
I won't keep you in suspense: We're getting married in September. (To each other!)
That's where I've been!
With that, let's get back to the running!
Progress has been spotty. My new-found social life has left me less motivated to push myself at the gym, and it was so much easier to just eat my way through the holidays. This malaise has put me in dire straits on the scale; it's still moving in the right direction, mostly, but it's been slow.
I'm currently sitting at 174. Six months, twelve pounds, for a total of 64 lbs lost. I'll take it, and gladly, but with the hope that I'll regain some of that fervor with which I lost the first fifty pounds.
Well, after the wedding. The dress was ordered last month, and a small part of me is very worried about having just wasted a tremendous amount of money on something that may end up being too big in six months. Yikes.
I faced a handful of layups from running, which were frustrating, at best. In late September, I came up with runner's knee, a particularly painful condition where the patella essentially scrapes over the end of the femur. Typically, the kneecap sits in a little groove at the end of the femur, and when the quads contract, the patella glides in that groove. When the hips aren't working right, or when the leg muscles are imbalanced, the patella deviates from that groove.
It hurts. A lot.
So I took time off, easing myself back into running a few weeks later. I got myself together for a Thanksgiving 5K and posted my best time to date, averaging less than 11:00/mile. It was a wicked hard run, I was demoralized early when it seemed to be taking an eternity to reach the turn-around. (And I was right; it wasn't an evenly-divided out-and-back. The turn-around was at the two-mile mark. Woe!)
Leading up to the holidays, I lost momentum, and was excited to get back down to business when a kitchen accident dealt me another injury. ...Okay, I dropped a whisk on my big toe. But it was a very heavy whisk, and it cracked right on my toe-knuckle. I walked with a limp for over a week.
I hopped back on the treadmill in early January, planning to buckle down and prepare for my first race of the year, a 7K on March 16. A little intermittent pain in the bad knee, but nothing horrible. I could work with this, I thought.
A week later, during a boot camp I'd signed up for, I got a little too aggressive with my movements. I leaped with the class, landed with my feet too wide, and my knee slid apart.
I didn't see a doctor, which I probably should have, but I'd been through it before. Sprained calf, sore MCL, etc etc. Iced for several days, wrapped well for a few weeks, eased back into slowly jogging three weeks after the injury.
And that, my friends, gave me just enough time to try and pull off Saturday's race. I managed to claw my way back to where I was in November, and I finished my 7K in 50:09, just nine seconds off my goal. I managed a pace of around 11:09 per mile; if not for the string of injuries, I'm confident I would have been well under 11:00/mi, but that's life.
To be honest, though, part of me is grateful for the reset. I'd been getting very caught up on speed, trying to whittle down my mile time, trying to pound faster, and I'd never really settled into the rhythm of running for endurance. This time around, I took a completely new approach, forcing myself to run slower, more often. And you know what I discovered? That I could run longer.
It should have been a "Duh" moment, but it was more of a light bulb moment. When I thought I was running slowly before, I really wasn't. I was still pushing. I wasn't finding my pace, letting my feet spin and simply carry me. This time, I'm discovering more about the beauty of running, and I'm enjoying it more.
So there we have it. My life in the past six months. The good, the bad, and the ouchy. Now that I'm back to running (and finding my rhythm), I hope to be back to blogging much more often.
Next up: A revisit of my first trail 5K, in May, and a foray into the world of 10Ks. Fingers firmly crossed!
Saturday, September 22, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, September 10, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, September 3, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, August 27, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, August 6, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, July 13, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, July 2, 2012
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?
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?
Sunday, June 3, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
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!
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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)