Running this last week was a dream. It suddenly got easier by Friday (but I was on a treadmill, so it was like finding fool's gold). However, for a short 30 minutes in that tiny Maryland hotel fitness room, I remembered what it was like to feel great about running, and that was all I needed to re-ignite my motivation. I ran in(to) three different states this past week/end: New York, Maryland, and New Jersey (or, as some call it, West New York). A colleague's wedding in Baltimore had me sightseeing around Fell's Point and the Inner Harbor on Friday and Saturday, while Sunday took me slowly bopping across the George Washington Bridge (what a view on foot!) into NJ, a mere mile away from NYC over the Hudson.
And let me just say, that's a big-aces river. I mean, it really is something in the old days to have to "forge" a river. Lost an ox on the way over, yeah? Well, duh. That river's a beast. And people who we call "jumpers"? Yeah, I'm amazed they don't chicken out on the way to the railing. Hello, you're up HIGH. In fact, there are a bunch of PSA signs telling the public how to spot a jumper and how to help them out. Kind of creepy, but kind of nice to see my tax dollars at work.
I've been reminiscing these past few weeks. Getting back into the swing of things has brought up a lot of memories and revelations, but I'd like to take a moment to talk about something that is new. Potentially embarrassing, but definitely confusing.
I've mentioned that I've moved into a new neighborhood, and it's been interesting getting to know the culture. People are so friendly. There are a lot of instances I find similar to running around the Bay Area in CA, but some things are different. For example, in CA, I'd go running and no one would look twice. Usually because there are at least 5 other morning runners out with you, a few dog-walkers, and perhaps a gaggle of cyclists. Well, in Dominican NYC, there's a least 5 men sitting on my stoop, and all of them are gaggling at me. Because I'm the only lady with a matching pink running outfit designed to minimize chafing, for some reason people stare. Sometimes they comment. As in, "Que linda, bonita. Adonde vas?" or "Tell me you must be married, mmm-MMMH!" or "Hey, can I come running wit choo?"
Asking if they can join me in my workout is probably the most baffling part. I mean, I'm sorry, but here we are at 8am, and from the looks of your saggy pants and neck full of rosary beads, I don't think you're going to be able to keep up, mister. I'm afraid you might (a) trip over your pants and perhaps (b) get whipped in the face by the Virgin Mary hanging around your neck. And then who'd be liable? I just can't risk that. Plus, let's be real. I know that you'd probably only want to run behind me the whole time. So, let's not confuse your interest in fitness with your interest in my derriere.
And that's the real issue for me: the fine line between a compliment and objectification. I've grown up feeling embarrassed about the way it looks to be exercising. In my hometown culture, there's a fitness mindset. Everyone is fit (or on their way to getting fit) and so it's potentially embarrassing to be bobbling along during your workout, huffing and puffing and getting red in the face, limbs akimbo while some 50-year old whizzes past you with a cheery hello and more bounce in their senior-age step than you had in your teens. But from the looks of it, you're working towards a goal - there's an ulterior motive at work. So, you keep on huffing and puffing, and assuming the people who call out to you on the street are encouraging you on your way to achievement.
In NYC, I go out running, huffing and puffing and getting red in the face, and my neighbors think that's sexy. Their cheery hellos are come-ons. The only ulterior motive at work here is one that relates directly to how I look. Which is so confusing. Because it's nice to receive recognition for practicing a healthy lifestyle - when the focus is on an internal trait like commitment, motivation, or dedication. But it's disarmingly uncomfortable to receive recognition for practicing a healthy lifestyle when the recognition is focused on exterior traits, like one's upper pectorals or glutes.
I ran around the track yesterday, rolling these thoughts over in my mind, and I realized that a compliment, when best-utilized, is sincere in intention; it is designed to enhance the receiver's sense of self-worth and feelings about themselves. But a compliment disguised as a come-on is objectification at its most volatile. It's design does not include concern for the subject's feelings, and in fact seems designed explicitly for the denial of the subject's humanity. When I go out running here and get whistled and hollered at, I don't believe the intention is to encourage me in my training, to draw attention to my dedication, to my ambition. I'm just a visual in a pink get-up, bouncing along in the early a.m. and the attention is on my other assets. And while I know it's just friendly commentary, it's very confusing. Because the more exposure I have to certain types of friendly commentary, the less I trust people's intentions.
So, what's a girl to do? These days, I just try not to make eye contact, or give a curt "thank you" while trying to maintain my pace and my dignity.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
From the Beginning, Again!
This week was a beginner's lesson.
The problem with undertaking a second marathon is that you take for granted the past effort you put in to achieve the initial result. I've forgotten how much effort it takes. I vaguely remember it being difficult in the beginning, but never like this. I literally go out for my runs and think, What is wrong with me?! This week was a gradual vocalization of the fact I'm a beginner again. And taking things from the beginning when you've already accomplished the goal once before feels like learning how to read and write all over again.
It makes me think that kids actually have it really hard. (Bear with me.) We think that it's such a lovely time, being a child and living without adult responsibilities, but I ask you to recall how hard it was for you to learn something as a kid. You would sit in school for hours, absorbing and interacting and exercising your brain with only about an hour or so of break time to relax. Kindergarten was difficult because you were learning to share and listen (well, most of us, anyways.) And then came elementary school, then junior high - hormonal instability coupled with algebra was like a gauntlet of shame - then, remember what it was like in high school? When you had three to four hours of homework after the eight hours of instruction from your less-than-favorite chemistry teacher? And then, the preparation for the SATs? Finally getting into college was like some sort of door prize for participating in the decades-long boot camp for your brain. When you finally got to college, you had been developed into a well-oiled, neutron-firing machine.
If running my first marathon was like getting into college, running my second marathon has to be some sort of post-bac purgatory.
Training again has thrown me for a loop in then sense that I am sure that, at some point, I was pretty good at running. But for some reason, my speed and endurance are not as easily accessible as they once seemed. And it's confusing to go out running (something I've done for, literally, years) and feel like I've lost the well-oiled, neutron-firing machine that used to be my tempo and distance. I really used to know how to do this, but now it's like I'm having to learn it all over again - and the progress cannot be catalyzed.
The reality is that I expected it would all come back to me more quickly. Getting back on the track this week, I was gasping for breath after 3 laps of intervals, having to walk after 20 minutes of tempo, and wondering, how, dear God, am I ever going to be ready for another full marathon by September? Part of me doubts that I was ever successful at this. In fact, I think, Maybe I've been on the short bus this whole time and nobody's told me.
Each year in school, you were having to start all over again, learning something new and building on what you have stored away in your brain from years past after barely a summer's respite. But you'd get back to class every fall and it would take about a week before you were zipping along at your regular pace. Kids have it hard, but they sure bounce back quick. Presto, voila, simple and easy. But here I am, almost three weeks in, and instead of zipping through the textbooks again and speedily jotting down my thesis statement ideas, I find I'm having to go back to the very basics of just simply (re)learning how to listen and share.
The problem with undertaking a second marathon is that you take for granted the past effort you put in to achieve the initial result. I've forgotten how much effort it takes. I vaguely remember it being difficult in the beginning, but never like this. I literally go out for my runs and think, What is wrong with me?! This week was a gradual vocalization of the fact I'm a beginner again. And taking things from the beginning when you've already accomplished the goal once before feels like learning how to read and write all over again.
It makes me think that kids actually have it really hard. (Bear with me.) We think that it's such a lovely time, being a child and living without adult responsibilities, but I ask you to recall how hard it was for you to learn something as a kid. You would sit in school for hours, absorbing and interacting and exercising your brain with only about an hour or so of break time to relax. Kindergarten was difficult because you were learning to share and listen (well, most of us, anyways.) And then came elementary school, then junior high - hormonal instability coupled with algebra was like a gauntlet of shame - then, remember what it was like in high school? When you had three to four hours of homework after the eight hours of instruction from your less-than-favorite chemistry teacher? And then, the preparation for the SATs? Finally getting into college was like some sort of door prize for participating in the decades-long boot camp for your brain. When you finally got to college, you had been developed into a well-oiled, neutron-firing machine.
If running my first marathon was like getting into college, running my second marathon has to be some sort of post-bac purgatory.
Training again has thrown me for a loop in then sense that I am sure that, at some point, I was pretty good at running. But for some reason, my speed and endurance are not as easily accessible as they once seemed. And it's confusing to go out running (something I've done for, literally, years) and feel like I've lost the well-oiled, neutron-firing machine that used to be my tempo and distance. I really used to know how to do this, but now it's like I'm having to learn it all over again - and the progress cannot be catalyzed.
The reality is that I expected it would all come back to me more quickly. Getting back on the track this week, I was gasping for breath after 3 laps of intervals, having to walk after 20 minutes of tempo, and wondering, how, dear God, am I ever going to be ready for another full marathon by September? Part of me doubts that I was ever successful at this. In fact, I think, Maybe I've been on the short bus this whole time and nobody's told me.
Each year in school, you were having to start all over again, learning something new and building on what you have stored away in your brain from years past after barely a summer's respite. But you'd get back to class every fall and it would take about a week before you were zipping along at your regular pace. Kids have it hard, but they sure bounce back quick. Presto, voila, simple and easy. But here I am, almost three weeks in, and instead of zipping through the textbooks again and speedily jotting down my thesis statement ideas, I find I'm having to go back to the very basics of just simply (re)learning how to listen and share.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Stop Whinging and Get On With It Already
The first week of training. Was. Tough.
On Tuesday, my alarm went off at 6:30am. The first thought in my head was "Dear sweet baby Jesus, this is not happening." I forgot. I forgot what it was like to wake up that early, to tell my legs that we were going for a run, to try to shake and stretch some energy into my limbs, and to groggily push out the door and get moving. But I remembered about halfway down the block why I love this. Running into the nearby state park sports complex, doing an interval workout around the track, I remembered how good it felt to have a purpose. This was a God-awful early run over cement and brick, and yet I loved it.
Wednesday was a different story. Again, the 6:30am alarm. Again, I couldn't believe this was happening. And then I couldn't believe how difficult it was to run that morning. My legs were defiant and refused to propel me. I ended up pushing through most of the workout, mumbling to myself that it was almost over and no, I was NOT going to quit training for a marathon I had just signed up for only four days prior. What had happened? I had felt so wonderful just yesterday. I chalked it up to two factors: a) being a very close subsequent workout to the last one and b) too much energy after a long work shift on my feet the night before.
And then Friday arrived. After working a double shift on Thursday (16 hours trotting about on the feetsies), I hit the track mid-afternoon on Friday. If Wednesday was hard, Friday was surreal. I warmed up for about 5 minutes, and then stared at my watch every 30 seconds thereafter to check how much longer I had to be running. No, time did not move faster. No, the workout did not get easier. In fact, it was so difficult to maintain a consistent pace that I found myself walking after a mile and a half. Seriously now, I thought, what is going on?! As I walked around the track, my mind conjured up a thousand tiny voices explaining why I should just quit and call it a day: I had worked so hard this week! I had been on my feet for an extreme amount of time the day before! I was working hard and shouldn't risk an injury!
And then I realized that this was a mental workout day. Every moment of training counts for some reason, and Friday was the reminder of the "tiny voices" syndrome. Those tiny little voices that give you the best excuses to give up - you have to be in tip-top mental shape to do battle with them in conversation. Talking aloud helps, for some reason and while you may seem crazy for a brief moment to any nearby listeners, it's the only way to win the war. So I told myself: "This is the part of the marathon where you want to give up. But you can do one more lap. You have that in you. One more lap and then you can go home."
So I did.
I had to work Friday evening, and heading into bed after the late-night shift, I was fearful for Saturday's run. I knew I had to get up and get it over with, but I wasn't sure how my muscles were going to feel. All week, I had been reminded of the soreness, the mental fortitude, the battle with the tiny voices that comes with training for the marathon.... My resolve was frayed. Saturday's long run seemed impossible.
But Saturday brought about an unexpected motivation: a brief visit with my friend who is currently battling Hodgkin's.
A dear colleague of mine was recently diagnosed and has been undergoing chemo. Said friend also signed up for a fundraising walk-a-thon (Relay for Life), and I went to Brooklyn on Saturday morning to say hello. A short visit was all I needed to put the whole damn week into perspective. Here I was, a completely physically competent body whinging over the difficulty of the first week of training. While standing in front of me was a scarred, bald, gorgeous soul who had to return to work despite the continuation of outpatient chemo every two weeks for the next couple of months, who had put together a team of friends to walk together on the weekend to honor cancer victims, who was going to spend the next few hours ambling around the piers because ambling is a high-energy term. I had truly forgot. I forgot that the last marathon was a complete perspective shift; running in honor of all those cancer patients, victims and survivors who had friends and family who loved them. I hadn't thought of running this marathon for anyone but myself.
All that said, my Saturday run was perfect. I could move, I took the pace slower than usual, and the weather was inviting. I had my health and my breath and that's really all that mattered.
So, looking back, I think, yes, the first week of training was tough. It was tough to welcome back all the small aches and pains that come with having a purpose. It was tough to feel the limits of my resolve again. But it was exceptionally tough to be reminded that I'm far more capable everyday than I imagine.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
A Bang and a Whimper
Hello again, Marathon Fans.
Well, I never thought it would happen, but I got the urge to run another marathon. 5 years after the inception of this little blog, here I go again! I'm registered for the Hamptons Marathon in September.
The idea to torture myself through what I now know to be a grueling training process and demonic effort of physical exertion transpired from a culmination of realizations. The most sobering realization is the fact that I am turning 30 this year. I realize this may not seem like a big deal to many, but I see it as the next chapter of life adventures. I also realize that I may have been considered a runner in years past, and while I may have completed one (and a half) marathons to date, I cannot bear the thought of entering my 30s as a "former runner." Actually, I realized just now I can't bear the thought of ending my 20s without some sort of immodest feat to mark the occasion, either. The past decade has been very kind to me: no major health complications to speak of, worldwide travel, some major physical accomplishments, and a terminal degree under the belt. So, I'm looking forward to starting the next decade of greatness with a bang.
Oddly enough, the training today began with a whimper.
Having moved out of the International House (affectionately termed IHOP by my relatives) after a 3-year stint of cultural entrenchment, I find myself a minority living uptown in a primarily Dominican-populated building overlooking most of Harlem. I'm learning new languages daily, and how to maintain peace with your bachata-music-at-all-hours neighbors. Not much has changed, really.
Heading down the stairs at 5pm today, and side-stepping the abuelito who usually resides there in the evenings, I looked skyward to see the impending summer thunderstorm. I took a brief pause and considered going back upstairs to grab a rain jacket, but I knew that if I turned around, I'd lose momentum for the run. Here it was, my first training run, my resolve to do this whole crazy thing again coursing strong through my veins, and I knew that I must not let the loud booming of thunder deter me. With a grimace and said whimper, I turned on my stopwatch and headed out. I hopped along for about 10 feet before the clouds opened up and started pouring down buckets of rain onto my non-rain-proof clothes. I had 30 seconds on the clock and I was already soaked through. Well, I thought, I can just chalk this up to the first test of my mettle. So there I went, trailing down my neighborhood streets into the nearby park, passing all the gente huddling under awnings and doorways, watching the crazy lady running wide out in the thick of it. In retrospect, it was kind of nice to have the usually-crowded New York streets cleared out by the downpour - I had the road all to myself, I didn't have to slow down or say 'excuse me' to the ambling Sunday pedestrians, and I could run in any which direction I chose.
21 minutes and 36 seconds later, after trotting up the heart-attack inducing hill that is W. 138th Street, I stopped my workout. And there, standing on the corner, checking my pulse, the rain dissipated. Just like that. Coincidence? The 20 minute time-frame I chose for my first training run was a literal thunderstorm. It might be too much to say it, but I got the whole dang thing started with a bang after all.
Well, I never thought it would happen, but I got the urge to run another marathon. 5 years after the inception of this little blog, here I go again! I'm registered for the Hamptons Marathon in September.
The idea to torture myself through what I now know to be a grueling training process and demonic effort of physical exertion transpired from a culmination of realizations. The most sobering realization is the fact that I am turning 30 this year. I realize this may not seem like a big deal to many, but I see it as the next chapter of life adventures. I also realize that I may have been considered a runner in years past, and while I may have completed one (and a half) marathons to date, I cannot bear the thought of entering my 30s as a "former runner." Actually, I realized just now I can't bear the thought of ending my 20s without some sort of immodest feat to mark the occasion, either. The past decade has been very kind to me: no major health complications to speak of, worldwide travel, some major physical accomplishments, and a terminal degree under the belt. So, I'm looking forward to starting the next decade of greatness with a bang.
Oddly enough, the training today began with a whimper.
Having moved out of the International House (affectionately termed IHOP by my relatives) after a 3-year stint of cultural entrenchment, I find myself a minority living uptown in a primarily Dominican-populated building overlooking most of Harlem. I'm learning new languages daily, and how to maintain peace with your bachata-music-at-all-hours neighbors. Not much has changed, really.
Heading down the stairs at 5pm today, and side-stepping the abuelito who usually resides there in the evenings, I looked skyward to see the impending summer thunderstorm. I took a brief pause and considered going back upstairs to grab a rain jacket, but I knew that if I turned around, I'd lose momentum for the run. Here it was, my first training run, my resolve to do this whole crazy thing again coursing strong through my veins, and I knew that I must not let the loud booming of thunder deter me. With a grimace and said whimper, I turned on my stopwatch and headed out. I hopped along for about 10 feet before the clouds opened up and started pouring down buckets of rain onto my non-rain-proof clothes. I had 30 seconds on the clock and I was already soaked through. Well, I thought, I can just chalk this up to the first test of my mettle. So there I went, trailing down my neighborhood streets into the nearby park, passing all the gente huddling under awnings and doorways, watching the crazy lady running wide out in the thick of it. In retrospect, it was kind of nice to have the usually-crowded New York streets cleared out by the downpour - I had the road all to myself, I didn't have to slow down or say 'excuse me' to the ambling Sunday pedestrians, and I could run in any which direction I chose.
21 minutes and 36 seconds later, after trotting up the heart-attack inducing hill that is W. 138th Street, I stopped my workout. And there, standing on the corner, checking my pulse, the rain dissipated. Just like that. Coincidence? The 20 minute time-frame I chose for my first training run was a literal thunderstorm. It might be too much to say it, but I got the whole dang thing started with a bang after all.
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