Running is Hard, Running is Easy.

Running is Hard.
I will say, training in New York City in July's best (re: worst) weather is grounds for temporary insanity.  But once you can master the art of talking yourself into/out of the run, you've got the craziness handled.  A friend told me it helps to have a mantra: Running is Easy. And Running is Hard.  When the going gets tough, you can pick whichever one you want.  Running is Easy: you just put one foot in front of the other and remember to breathe.  Relax, running is easy.
Or, Running is Hard: No one, I repeat, no one is out here running hill repeats in 90 degree heat at 75% humidity at 3pm in the afternoon.  Running is F**ing Hard.

Temporary insanity, yes.  Because talking aloud to yourself is the only way to stave off the quits.
If the humidity doesn't kill your training regime, you can count on the sudden thunderstorms to interfere at the best (re: worst) possible moments.  Or, you can be sure you will experience a near-death dementia from sweating every ounce of salt-laden cellular potential you have out your eyeballs and armpits.
During the long humid weekend, I was out for a two hour jaunt when I realized that sweating consistently this much for this long was perhaps the best (re: you get it) way to die.

There I was, talking myself into the long run for the week, and I was armed with two water bottles and all the sweat-wicking body gear I could manage.  Twenty minutes into the run, I had polished off both bottles and had to stop for a refill.  But, I was determined not to quit.  Forty minutes later, my shirt looked like I had soaked it in the wash and neglected the spin cycle.  My anti-chafe cream had melted and was now functioning as anti-sunscreen.  But I was still plugging along - until the sighs started up once I caught sight of the traverse in Central Park known as "Great Hill."  It was here that I contemplated turning around and taking the air-conditioned subway home.  However, "Running is Hard" kicked in and I looked around at the three other pedestrians crawling up the hill, the four cyclists weaving to and fro with audible grunts, and said, "Ok, no one else is doing this. Running is Hard right now, but it's temporary."
Serendipity rewarded me ten minutes later as I stopped to refill the water bottles yet again and looked down at the stone fountain engraved with the name of a local group dubbed "79th Street Marathon and Pasta Club."  The little bit of inspiration I needed, right then and there.
And suddenly, Running is Easy.
Being part of a club is great inspiration for a long run.  It reminds you that you're not alone in the journey.  And that you're not the only crazy one.  (Ok, maybe I wasn't part of that club, but I was drinking the water, so it was inclusion by proxy.)
I continued along the edge of the Jackie O Reservoir (which was, miraculously, less humid and cooler despite its location as dead center of NYC), and while the Running was Easy, I was growing very, very tired.  The combination of the humidity, my water-logged stomach, and the lack of shade combined to slow me to a walk for about ten minutes.  And then I had to find a way to start running again.
Now, anyone who has run a long distance (whether that's 200 miles or 2 yards) can tell you that one of the most difficult obstacles is picking up the pace again once you've slowed.  Particularly in the case of heading back into a running pace after a slow walk.  The mind rebels, the heart pleas for mercy, and maybe the body will cooperate as long as there's no pain involved.  So, being the rational person I am, I had to convince my mind first that we were going to start running again.  Oh, but she's a tricky thing, my mind, because she's so adept about talking me out of every source of inspiration I can manage.  "Just push through this, you'll thank yourself when you're at mile 22 in about two months." Nope.  "There's another marathoner, just try to keep up a little bit - you can do it!" Hell no.  "You're going to have to admit defeat to your fans." Who cares?

And then, by some lovely, demented bout of insanity, I found an exceptional inspiration: the end.
I asked myself, what if this was the last time I'd ever be able to run, ever again?  EVER.  As in, my legs were going to fall off tomorrow (which, at the moment, I wouldn't mind), but I'd never be able to enjoy running, even at the truly worst moments, ever again in my lifetime.  These last thirty minutes were the last chance I'd have to know running.

Well, my mind liked that one.  Blame it on the actor in me, ever in search of some emotional height, or blame it on the primal fear of death, whatever.  All I know is, it worked.  Off I went, picking up the pace as I headed home, surprised by the amount of energy I found, and relieved by the sense of relaxation I was having (truthfully, the downhill path helped immensely).

Running is Easy, when you're about to lose your legs.

Limits

Mediocrity has been on my mind lately.  I've been waging a debate with myself about how comfortable I am with being average.  (By average, I mean a personal average.  I think there's average on a social level, and then there's average on a personal level.  Let's say personal average is an equal division of the sum totals of your achievements from birth to present, with a median knowledge of what your day-to-day activities contain.)  There are some days when I think, "Yep, I'm content with not making my bed today, nor showering, and maybe I'll just sit around and do nothing."  And then there are days when I'm in a rage because I need to be challenged intellectually or physically, to feel the threat of failure on a grandiose scale, if only to reminded that I'm alive and breathing.  And on both occasions, I wonder if I could be happy with living at either extreme.  "Of course not," I think to myself, "Because you get bored easily, you're too innately curious, you love vacation, and life is all about striking a balance anyways."  So the question always lingers: how comfortable could I be if I was average?

I was fortunate enough to grow up in a household where the word "potential" was used as a weapon.  Any breach of discipline or feat of under-achievement was promptly attacked as unfit and not in keeping with my "potential".  There was no excuse for not using all the gifts in my psyche to their full capacity.  From birth until the day I moved coasts, I was suffocated by the idea of my Potential.  What was it?  Potential: that unknown, immeasurable limit of individual human greatness; the tiny lettering on an uninflated balloon.  As far as I could glean, my Potential was limitless and thus anything less than stellar (effort) was unacceptable.  But even more frightening was the thought of, where does it stop?  How will I know I've reached my Potential?  Everyone supposedly has "potential", and we all assume this means "capacity for greatness" (re: success), but to what end?  Forget family legacy; genetics is just a theory in this arena.

The frightening moan of Potential is the assumption that you have an unlimited capacity for growth, for development.  And it's upsetting to see that capacity diminished, uncultivated, or even blatantly disregarded.  How often does it happen that when someone dies (or severely screws up) we grieve the loss of their Potential?  It's everywhere, the threat of Potential loss, and you can feel it creeping into your soul each time you quit, stop trying, or feign indifference or carelessness.  Potential is a dangerous word, because its hit-man is that other daunting term, Disappointment.  And Disappointment is perhaps The Worst, because itself contains an unlimited potential for feeling really, really, bad about oneself.  Between the two, there's no limit as to how high or how low you can go.

There's no denying that the impetus for progress runs parallel to the idea of potential in our daily lives.  At work, there's an urgency for forward motion, accompanied by that little voice reminding you of how capable you are of achieving the results.  There are tasks to be done, and it's only a matter of how smart/efficient/creative/annoying you are which will help determine their end.  You know there's applause and relief pending completion of said objective; alternatively you could just half-ass it, lose your job, and go live under a bridge.  So you get it done (or not) and perhaps that little voice nags at you when you return home, reminding you that maybe you didn't do enough.  But does there ever come a time when we say to ourselves, I'm just not capable of this...?

I think that's the curse of running a marathon.  I know I'm capable of it, so the Potential exists.  But now that there's a time stamp on the previous record, I'm unsure of my limits.  Last time, I just needed to finish, that was the litmus.  I'm certain I can finish one again, but will I be able to do it faster?  And regardless of the outcome, will that be enough?

Gits

The humidity has not let up.
These past two weeks have been a reintroduction to the perils of running in New York City weather.  I got a taste of it when I was training for the half-marathon about a year/plus ago, in the dead heart of winter.  I think I might prefer to be running out in the cold with 15 layers of moisture-wicking clothing than in the relentless sweat-inducing humidity of July.  (Of course, the grass is always greener, as they say.)  The upside of running in winter is that no one can really get a good look at you, hence the dearth of "compliments".

This past weekend was a treat, being at the beach and running along a boardwalk with no "compliment"-givers in sight.  In fact, the 3 remarks that were made included an empowering shout from a local lifeguard, a 'take-it-easy' from an older passer-by, and a little cheer from my beach-blanket bound roommate, upon my return.  However, the treat was short-lived upon returning to my weekday routine and being harangued by a 17-year old youngster on Tuesday, who insisted on calling me 'honey' as he followed me down the block.  I was barely warming up, still in a little walk-trot, and he kept close at my heels, softly jibing at me as I tried to ignore him.

However, I have my limits.  And being harangued by tiny boys is one of the many.
I was so fed up with the name-calling that I turned around and got into a little 'conversation'....

The punchline here is: futility.

17yo: Hey honey, you're lookin' good.
Me: (hand on hip, aghast) Exactly how old are you?
17yo: 17.
Me: (laughs, shakes head)
17yo: How old are you?
Me: Guess.
17yo: 20.
Me: (laughing even harder) Nope.
17yo: 25?
Me: (secretly flattered and yet still appalled) Sweetie, I'm almost old enough to be your mother.
17yo: (suggestively) You can be my mama, I'd like that.
Me: (taken aback, and now seriously shaking head) That's so wrong.
17yo: I like how you call me sweetie.
Me: (putting up the 'stop-sign' hand) No.
17yo: (finally slowing down) You could teach me some things, c'mon.
Me: (fed up and now resorting to lies in order to stop him in his pursuit) I've got someone to teach already.
17yo: (calling after me) I can be your second man! C'mon...!
Me: (running away and avoiding eye contact as I should have done in the first place)  No!
17yo: You still look hot, honey!

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why one should simply not say anything to anyone, ever, on the street. Especially not little 17 year old gits, to borrow a favored expression.

I think I'll be seeking out new running routes soon.