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.

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

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!

The Great Hiatus

Last month, I had reached my limit with calorie counting.

It wasn't the counting that I hated, exactly. It was that, no matter what I did, I was no longer losing weight. Spending months with the same number staring back from the scale was making me angry, irrationally so, and it was translating into anger with myself. There was so much blame.

I just couldn't break 173lbs.

So I did what any flighty, hyper-emotional person would do. I said Screw it! and stopped counting. And, oh, I started eating whatever I wanted.

I ate cake. I ate cookies. I drank more Mountain Dew in one week than I have in months. The scale didn't change... until, of course, it did. In a big way.

After a little over a week, the scale registered a sudden and unrelenting 180lbs. I was staggered, and not, all at the same time. I should have gained weight. I know how this works. But that much? And now what?

The results, though ugly, might have been what I needed. Right there, I had proof that my diet had been working, though perhaps not as well as I wanted it to. It was keeping the weight off, maintaining at my as-of-yet lowest weight of 173. That's worth something.

Lesson #1: After a year of being on a reduced-calorie diet, eating lots more makes a great big difference, very quickly.

The next day, it was back to calorie counting. Re-committing, trying to undo the weight I'd managed to gain in such a short time. Within days, I'd learned a second very important lesson.

Lesson #2: Weight gained quickly can come off just as quickly.

I dropped eight pounds in a week and a half. Yep, I broke through to 172. Finally.

My take-away from this experience is two-fold. Temporary weight is simply easier to lose. I'd been told this before, that an entire lifetime of obesity would make it so very much harder to drop the pounds, but I never entirely understood the reality of it. And I discovered that sometimes, a break really is the best thing for the body.

Could I have been making progress these last three weeks, instead of mucking around with pounds I didn't need to gain in the first place? Maybe. But at what cost?

For now, I've doubled down. I need to; I picked up my wedding dress on Tuesday and it's veeeeeery snug. I need to drop around ten pounds over the next few months in order to make it a reasonable fit for September. But I'm looking forward to a very delicious cake that evening, and I plan to eat my way through the honeymoon.

Sometimes, life comes first. Until then, goodbye cake. I'll see you in September!

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!

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.

Back on the radar and catching up

Hello again! What's new?

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

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

Etc, etc.

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

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

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

I will run in the rain again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is where the self-loathing comes in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

How much I hated myself for it.

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

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

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

Let's see how this goes, shall we?

Preconceived notions

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

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

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

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

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

Something, you know, normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

ONE-derland! (In two ways!)

Tonight, I weighed in at 199.

For real.

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

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

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

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

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

Has it really been a week?

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

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

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

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

Enter: The Salad.

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

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

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

You never know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's almost here.

Yes, it was time for an evaluation

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

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

No hoof, no horse.

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch. He had a point there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful, wonderful running

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

Or both. Likely both.

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

Special Beginner's Guide

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

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

So I ran.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And foolish.

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

Onward and upward, my friends.

I've said it before and I'll say it again

The voice in my head that says You can't do this is a dirty, rotten liar.

Today, it was colluding with the voice that says You don't really need to go to the gym, as it's done all week. After a very early morning shift at work and a fitful, unsatisfying nap, I very nearly believed it.

If I've learned one thing this week, though, it's that the days those voices are loudest are the days I will perform beyond my expectations.

I had planned to go for a mile today, focusing on speed. Over the past week, I've made gains in both speed and endurance, so I took a chance and upped my interval speed quite dramatically. I went for 6.0mph on my slower jogs and 6.4 on my faster ones, which is a big step up from my 5.6-6.0 I was doing.

The body lets you know when it's ready for more. I have learned countless times that pushing speed before my body asks for it is a recipe for frustration at best, injury at worst.

I finished my first mile in a new personal-best time of 11:22, trimming just two seconds off my previous best, achieved earlier this week. I was thrilled with this time, considering I'd already wasted some energy running on another treadmill (which I bailed off of within a minute or two, when the belt started slipping and I almost fell).

I didn't feel ready to be done, though, so I continued with my intervals and wrapped a second mile in a new personal-best two-mile time of 24:12. That's an improvement of 48 seconds.

Remember when breaking 14:00 on a single mile moved me to tears? I do. And it wasn't that long ago. (And a hearty LOL at that entry: another day I almost didn't go to the gym! It truly is a pattern.)

It's been a rough week, between the crappy weather and my own general malaise, so I wasn't surprised when I weighed in today and didn't see a change on the scale. But you know what? That's okay. Because those numbers on the treadmill tell me everything I need to know.

I'm still getting better. Even if I don't break into one-derland by April 13 (like I so badly want to), I'm still improving. Every day, it's still worth it.

Crossing fingers for the beautiful, sunny day tomorrow that we were supposed to have today. Looking to start April with a solid 3-mile run outside! Come on, sun!

Days like this make the bad ones worth it

This morning, when I rolled out of bed at my customary weekend time of 10:30, my first thought was: "I don't want to go to the gym."

My second thought was: "I really don't want to go to the gym."

So I accepted that it was still early and I had all day to get myself out of my funk. I got dressed, loitered on the internet, and eventually found some lunch. After I'd eaten, I was in a better position to evaluate my most recent gym-related thought: "I still don't want to go to the gym, but I will anyway."

Because I never regret it when I go, and I always regret it when I don't.

There are few constants in life, but this is one of them. 100%.

I had decided earlier this week that I'd put in a solid 5k over the weekend. I took it easy yesterday, as I'd only taken one day off all week and really needed a breather, and put in 20min on the elliptical. No intervals, just a leisurely pace while I watched tv.

That meant today was 5k day.

On the way to the gym, I plotted and planned. I would like to break 40min on my 5k, but I'm paying more attention to my mile splits, and that extra .1 mile always gets left out. So. I decided that my best shot for reaching new goals would be to aim for three miles in 39 minutes.

I figured that, with me consistently running 12-minute miles (and coming close to it, even on bad days), running three miles at 13 minutes per would be possible.

So I set my running interval to 5.6mph (my preferred "easy" jog) and my walking to 3.3mph. The goal of the day was to run longer intervals, if I had more in the tank, rather than wasting energy on the tiny gains of faster speed. It was hard to resist turning up the speed, feeling like I was somehow slacking, but I knew at the back of my mind that using it all up on a faster speed would kill me in the last mile.

And wouldn't you know, I was right.

I'm not usually right when it comes to running. I usually hit walls and make mistakes and have to accept that, maybe next time, it'll go according to plan.

But it worked. My first mile was 12:10, two in 25:00, three in 38:35. That's 12:10, 12:50, and 13:35 for each mile. Not bad pacing, for a rookie.

I don't remember my 5k time, because I was trying so hard to remember all the other numbers. I should probably bring a notepad to jot down my times. I'd have a lot less anxiety. But RunKeeper tells me I finished my 50 minutes on the treadmill, including cool-down, at 3.68 miles. My longest continuous treadmill workout yet.

Adding my warm-up of .37mi, and I had my first four-mile session.

That puts this month at 30mi logged as "running" on RunKeeper. A new milestone, surpassing my previous monthly best by nearly ten miles. (I mark my 7-10min warm-up as "walking" and the rest as "running". It's a bit shady, I'll admit, since I do intervals, and I often leave my walking cool-down logged as "running", but it's the best system I have.)

Oh, and that 25:00 two-mile time is a new personal best. Shaved five seconds off my last two-mile record.

My goal for my next 5k on the treadmill will be to maintain the speeds I chose this time and try to save more energy for later in the run. I will need to deliberately not run my first mile faster, because that just hurts me later. If I can keep my first mile where it is, maybe a little slower, and take another 20-30sec off my second mile, I'll be thrilled.

Since today seems to be the day for bests, I'll also put this here:

204. That's my current weight.

It's been my goal all along to break 200lbs by my six-month mark at the gym. That mark is April 13. It's within reach.

This week: double-down on the diet. It's gotten careless with respect to protein intake, and I intend to change that. This week is no-choices week. If I want to meet my goal and see one-derland for the first time in a decade, I need to buckle down. And I will.

I've got this.

Overwhelmed, in all the right ways

I have the most wonderful friends and family.

I've always known this, but the struggles and triumphs of this journey have really driven it home. My friends and family have been there to support me, cheer for me, and catch me when I fall.

And on a night like tonight, they're here to freak the heck out for me.

Tonight was an evaluation, and as evaluations go, it was phenomenal. Sometimes in evals, I'll make great strides in lifting. Other times, I'll lose more weight.

This time, it was all about inches. In fact, I'm so excited about what I did with my measurements that I'm going to rock some table-fu and recap all the measurement goodness.

Date	10/13/11	11/21/11	12/21/11	1/30/12	3/6/12
Neck	15 5/8	15	15	14 7/8	14
Upper Arm	17 1/8	16 3/4	16 3/4	16	15 1/2
Chest	44 1/2	44	45	42 7/8	42 1/8
Waist	41 5/8	41 7/8	41 1/8	40	40
Hip	55	51 3/4	51 1/8	49 7/8	47 7/8
Thigh	29	28 3/4	27 1/2	25 7/8	25 1/4
Calf	19 1/8	19 1/8	19 1/4	18 7/8	18 1/8
Weight	238	230	226	216	208
BMI	45.4	42	40	39	38.6

Can you tell where my body stores fat? Can you?? If you said "hips and thighs", you win a low-fat protein cookie!

They're not very good. I'm sorry.

Seriously... seven inches off my hips. It's ridiculous. I want to go get on an airplane right now, just so I can settle into a seat and thrust my fists into the air to proclaim victory at finally (finally!) not needing to share awkward thigh-space with my neighbor.

I have a hunch I've lost more off my waist than is reflected here; it's a difficult spot to measure, since it's nigh impossible to remember how much air I had left in my lungs for last month's measurement. What I do know, though, is that in October, I was wearing size 20 pants and I was an inch away from buttoning them. I'm now in a size 18 and they're almost falling off me.

These measurements aren't a science. They're a comparison. They're good enough.

Oh, yeah, and you see that line there that says "Weight"? You can look at it again, if you want. I keep looking at it. And giggling.

Thirty pounds lost. I haven't been below 210 in years, and here I am, at 208. In nine pounds, I'll be below 200 for the first time in nearly a decade. Cripes.

I'm getting all emotional now. Time to move on.

I made improvements on my weight lifting. J got tired of me hitting 40 reps on my leg presses, so he jumped the weight to 285lbs. He had to help me get the weight off the ground.

It was heavy. The ugly face started on rep number four.

I completed 25 reps before my legs gave out. I shoulder-pressed... well, I forgot what I shoulder-pressed. Whatever it was, I hit 40 reps. Let's say it was something impressive.

I shoulder-pressed three thousand pounds.

Lat pulldowns were the killers this time. We set the machine for 85lbs and I only completed 20 reps. My back is a real weakness for me, which I've always known. But it'll get better.

Sit-ups and push-ups both declined. I finished 51 push-ups to last week's 52 (and dang it, if I'd have realized I was so close I would have sucked it up and grunt-yelled out another two!) and was somewhere in the mid-50s on my sit-ups, to last week's 61.

In the world of not-big-deals, this is the leastest-big-deal ever. Things fluctuate. According to J, I'd already set the bar pretty high, and it's okay if I can't meet it every time.

He's so nice to me. I try not to tell him this too much, because I think it makes him think of creative new ways to make me hurt.

Trainers are dangerous.

My 12:00 run was exactly the same as last eval's, finishing at .94 miles. I wish I could have finished better, but I got one of those nagging low back cramps around minute nine and just couldn't shake them. Such is life.

So there it is. Another eval is on the books. One week from today is the five month mark, and I'm excited to see how I'll finish it. Another pound or two would be wonderful and put me on track for my big, exciting, six-month goal.

Every day, every rep, every step matters. It all adds up. In the end, it's all worth it.

The fine line between success and failure

That is, the perceived line between success and failure. It's been a week of ups and downs, and boy, I've skipped across that line a few times. And I've abused myself for it.

Thursday night was my first night at the gym this week, save for Monday's training session. The gym was packed, which wasn't unusual for a weeknight, but I have never before seen every single cardio machine in use. Even the icky bikes that nobody touches. I took extra time on my stretching routine, keeping a sharp eye on those treadmills.

Oh yes. I was watching.

The minute one opened up, I was on my feet, making a mad dash. I hopped on and began my slow warm-up.

Thud-squeak. Thud-squeak. Thud-squeak. This was not a little squeak. This was a your-neighbors-are-up-to-something-you-don't-need-to-know-about squeak.

I've come a long way in my self-esteem. You all know this. I've come to be proud of the size I am now, embracing it, respecting the tremendous amount of work I've put into it.

But after three minutes of this noise, this appalling, look-at-me noise that even Taio Cruz on full blast couldn't mute, I stopped the machine. In those three minutes, I became the fat girl on the treadmill. The emotions came surging up at me and I couldn't force them down again. I felt utterly defeated as I got off the machine.

On the lookout for another treadmill, convinced that everyone was still looking at me, I became overwhelmingly frustrated. This minor wrinkle in my plan was the end of the world. When I finally landed on a new treadmill, I took out my frustration on myself.

I turned the speed up too high, and I knew it. I needed to walk sooner than I wanted to. And I made myself walk faster than I should have. And run, again, faster than I should have.

In the end, despite the increased speed, my mile was nowhere near my best. I just couldn't perform properly. My legs were aching, my throat was burning. I was angry at everyone and everything.

I had failed.

I got down to the business of brooding for the rest of the night, icing my legs and leaving moody Facebook status updates that I later deleted. (Yes, I'm in my thirties. Why do you ask?) It was, without a doubt, one of the worst nights I've had at the gym.

The next day, the switch in my brain finally flipped, that switch that recognizes that what I've done has value. I worked hard. I tried my best, in the face of what I perceived was tremendous adversity. Sure, I could have done better. I should have accepted that the night would not be ideal and taken it for what it was worth. But what I did? It meant something. I deserved credit for that.

This journey is hard. It's okay to have days where it feels impossibly difficult. Pick myself up, dust myself off, and go again.

Unfortunately, that run really did take a toll on my legs. Friday's run was better, I finished my second sub-12:00 mile of my life, but my legs were aching. Today, I bailed out after only a minute of jogging and resigned myself to the elliptical.

Lesson learned, again. Abusing my legs gets me nowhere.

So there it is. A hard week, with little reward but an abundance of character developed. I'm also down a few pounds from a week and a half ago, weighing in at 211. I can't even remember the last time I was under 210. One-derland is getting closer, guys!

This week, I promise to not hate myself if I'm not perfect. It will be a long week, with many obligations for kiddo and lots of overtime at work, so I need to get it in my head now that things may not go according to plan. I will be a little kinder to myself.

Always a worthwhile reminder.

If it's an arms day, it's a good day

I was torn tonight. On one hand, I could have done legs and taken a chance on whether or not I was 100% after Friday's parking lot wipeout. On the other hand, I could have done arms and spent the next week dreading the inevitable legs workout.

It's a wash, really.

We played it safe and went for arms today, which was the sensible choice.

It was a mix of old and new exercises today, starting with this variety of lat pulldown:

Weight plates are loaded on the back and the handles can be pulled independently. Same muscles as the cable lat pulldowns that most folks are familiar with, but a slightly different approach.

Variety is the spice of life, or so they tell me.

Alternated the lat pulldown with a plate hammer curl, which the guy at the link looks so terribly excited to be doing. We did a compound move and went straight from the curl into an overhead press, which had the added benefit of forcing me to be very conscious of how my body moved and where that plate was, even if I couldn't see it while staring straight ahead and grimacing. I haven't smacked myself in the face yet. Yet.

We moved over to the Smith machine next, which looks like this:

It looks like a medieval torture device, but for those of us who do independent work without a spotter, it can be a fantastic piece of equipment. That long bar on the off side of the machine is the same bar you find on a bench press station, and you load weights onto each end. On the Smith machine, however, the bar slides up and down a pair of guide poles, meaning the range of motion remains stable and regular even if you start to tire. The hooks on the inside of the bar catch on pegs when the bar is twisted inward, so with a simple twist of the wrists, the bar can be safely racked.

In all, a pretty cool machine that can be used for a wide variety of exercises. Tonight, we dragged over a bench and used it for a standard bench press. In all the time I've been going to the gym, I've never really done a plain old bench press before, so I was a little excited.

We went through a few other exercises - triceps extensions and pulldowns, upright rows (which are the lifts most likely to make my body shake and all my chins jiggle elegantly), pectoral flyes - and then headed for the mats to finish with abs.

Y'know, I'm starting to look forward to abs. Really and truly.

Tonight's ab exercise was sit-ups with a medicine ball catch and throw.

I can't possibly explain the look on my face when J said that he was going to throw a weighted ball at my head every time I sat up. He needed to elaborate. Not at my head, just near my head. Okay.

The trick of this was not letting the momentum of the catch affect my sit-up. The tempo should be the same regardless of if I've added weight, and I challenged myself to make the exercise more difficult by holding the ball close to my chest. Holding it out in front of me would have acted as a counter-weight and made sitting up a little easier.

So we started with a set of standard sit-ups, catching the ball at my chest. We switched to a sit-up with a twist, with J standing first to one side for a set, then the other. Next was a set where he threw high, above my head, which was wicked hard. I had to fight the momentum of the ball to keep from falling backward.

We finished with a final set of standard sit-ups, only this time, J didn't stand on my toes. He stood back a step or two. I thought this was terribly unfair.

I didn't tell him this. He would have made me do more.

I just realized that I can type about this all very cavalierly, but that's such a lie. The first set of sit-ups weren't bad. I think I did twenty, no big deal. The next set, twisting to the right, we did ten. I started making the angry face (ie. "I am exerting myself and I'm not going to quit but I want everyone to know I'm not very happy about it") around number seven. On the left, I did a little better, holding off the angry face until number nine.

Then, all bets were off, and I glared so hard at J's stomach that if he's not currently suffering from some curiously unidentified gastric issues, I really wasted a lot of energy.

Still, tonight was one of those nights when I was sad when it ended. The past week has been hugely successful for me, starting with Monday's triumphant eval, progressing through Thursday's new mile record of 12:12, ending with another two pounds lost. At 214, I'm currently the lightest I've been in two years.

After all the miserable cheat days, the even more miserable day-after-cheat days, and the weeks where I work so hard and the number refuses to change, it's good to remember that this is all for a reason. It's worth it. Every day, it's worth it.

Health insurance, aka Poop on you, Medica

It's official: I am too fat.

This is what Medica told me today, in a letter that I had to call them and demand they send via fax, since the lady on the phone seemed unsurprised that they hadn't notified me last time they declined me. When I never heard back from them in December, and my calls went unanswered, I assumed they'd lost my application. So I tried again.

Silly, silly me.

I've had health insurance before, with Aetna, and I was required to pay a monthly Fat Fee (my term) because I was considered "High Risk". Despite an immaculate health record full of nothing but ideal results in all pertinent tests, my fatness was a concern.

Medica has admirably taken it one step further, really twisting that knife. And really, it's made me wonder what their underwriters do there.

They clearly don't consult medical records.

They don't analyze history.

They don't speak to doctors.

They certainly don't read and consider additional information - you know, the sort of information I neatly arranged concerning my obesity "diagnosis" and my successful course of "treatment".

The only conclusion I can reach is that Medica's underwriters scan for two or three markers, of which fatness is one, then gleefully tear up the application and fire off (or, not) a grammatically-shoddy denial.

Case in point:

Unfortunately, we are unable to extend an offer of coverage your height/weight ratio exceeds the limitations established in the underwriting guidelines at Medica.

Perhaps their underwriters are also their proof-readers.

I spent today vacillating between self-pity, desperation, and outright indignation.

I'm still fat. I'll always be fat. I thought this as I ate two cookies with lunch.

I'll talk to my trainer. I'll put together my stats over the past three months. I'll prove to them that they should reconsider! They have to! I thought this as I drove to the gym.

You know what? Screw Medica! Screw Medica a million times! I am going to mail them an envelope full of poop! I thought this as I angrily pounded out a new personal best on the treadmill.

Medica will never have my business. More's the pity for them; I'm a chronically healthy woman. My ACL tear was unfortunate and unlucky, but in terms of sickness, I simply don't get sick. The last time an illness warranted a doctor visit was in 2009. Prior to that, I visited the doctor once every two years or so to get some antibiotics for strep throat.

So, screw Medica. This fatty fat person will find another company to give money to.

Another day, another evaluation

Today was evaluation day. It was also totally freaking amazing.

Everybody, seriously.

It's no secret that my last evaluation left something to be desired. Improvements, yes, but small and not very inspiring. I had to work hard over the next few weeks to dig deep and find the motivation to keep going in.

The week after that eval, I got my diet plan, and I quit chasing the 13-minute mile. I started cross-training just before the new year, spending more time on other cardio machines. I started more weight training on my own.

And so tonight, six weeks after my last evaluation, the numbers were good. Very good. I'm down ten pounds from last time, weighing in at 216. That's 22lbs total! Eep!

All of my measurements have gotten smaller since last eval. I'm down 1.5" on my waist, about 1" on my thigh, and .5" on my calf. Since starting in October, I've lost a total of 5.5" off my hips.

Guys, that's huge. (Pun intended.)

All of the weights I was lifting went up, some of them dramatically. Last time, we set the leg press at 185 and I did 40 reps. Tonight, we set it at 225. I still did 40 reps. My teeth were gritting and I was grunting elegantly for the last eight, but I made it happen. I did 40 lat pulldowns at 70lbs and 25 chest presses, also at 70lbs.

I managed 52 push-ups in one minute, from my dainty knees, and I completed 61 sit-ups. Barely.

My run wasn't quite what I had hoped for, finishing .94 miles in 12:00, but it was a greatly-improved pace over my last eval. The run felt hard today, not at all like last week's triumphant runs, so I'll take it. Improvement is improvement!

Most exciting, my BMI has dropped to 39. I am officially no longer morbidly obese! I'm just plain old, garden variety obese. Six months ago, I didn't think I'd ever get under that mark again. But here I am.

After I got out to my car tonight, I started laughing. I laughed all the way home, singing along to the radio at the top of my lungs.

This is what it feels like when it all comes together. Sometimes, it won't. Sometimes, it'll be hard and it'll hurt, emotionally and physically. But sometimes, this happens. I need to file this feeling away, to pull out and remember when times get tough again. Like the next eval, which is bound to humble me all over again. That's just how this game works.

For now, I'm going to revel in it.

Three months down

Today marks three months at the gym. Three months of ass-kickings dealt by my trainer, with a few of them dealt by myself.

And I'm twenty pounds lighter.

As many times as I've tried to lose weight, I've never lost this much. I've never stayed with it long enough. Every time, the pessimism has gotten the better of me. The negative talk, the apathy, the decision that I was fine and why did I bother? But I was never fine. I was never happy with myself.

I've been lighter than 218 before. Most of my adult life I was lighter than this, by a little. But this is the fittest, healthiest 218 pounds I've ever been. There's merit in that.

I have perspective now. I've been appreciating who I am each day and I'm working to respect myself. I'm not afraid to wear sleeveless shirts at the gym anymore, though finding ones in my size that are flattering is nigh impossible.

Speaking of which, an XL in street clothes does not equal an XL in fitness clothes. Oops.

And my biceps are pretty killer. Even as they are, swaddled protectively in armfat, they're not just becoming noticeable. They're becoming prominent. This is perhaps the coolest thing ever.

I still haven't broken my 13:00 mile, but I'm not trying anymore. I realize my January goal for 30 miles on the treadmill may have been misguided, since my previously-stated plan of attack was one of cross-training. But we'll leave the goal stand. Maybe I'll surprise myself.

Have you ever noticed that when you're working really hard, and you start to sweat, it's not too bad? Then, after several minutes, the stank kicks in? I discovered that this week. Yikes.

I tell myself it means I'm working harder and getting healthier. It might just mean that I'm smelly.

I've learned that, in order to lose weight, I need to be honest, and I need to be accountable to myself. I can't look at the scale in confusion, wondering why I don't lose weight, knowing that I'm eating poorly. Honesty may hurt, but the sort of sneaky self-sabotage created by that false bafflement is much more damaging in the long run.

So. Three months down. Worth every minute.

Weekends: Happy to see you, happy to see you go

Weekends are always a welcome break, but staying on track is nigh impossible.

I weighed in at 219 yesterday. One more pound and it'll be a total of twenty pounds lost since I started this thing on October 13. Hoping for a good week so I can reach that milestone by my three-month mark on Friday. It'd be a nice, round number.

The jeans I haven't worn in almost a year not only fit me, but fit me comfortably. The spandex workout capris I bought two months ago and barely squeezed into slid right on yesterday. Those pants I mentioned Friday, which I hadn't been able to button for months, have been traded out for a whole size smaller.

Taking a break from the calorie recording this weekend, enjoying few meals with family, having some cake that I shouldn't have but probably deserve.

This fitness thing makes me appreciate the structure of my weekdays. On Friday, I mastered my mid-morning cravings by eating lighter for breakfast and having a protein bar around 11am. The chocolateyness was just enough to get me through, and the protein was a welcome addition to my day. Having that bar early made the rest of the day more comfortable, in terms of my diet.

Spending the evening getting my head back in the game, watching some past episodes of "Biggest Loser" and flipping through January's magazines. Back to training tomorrow night and I hope to cheesecake it's not legs again. Fingers are crossed!