On my way to the San Francisco airport this morning, I was the first passenger to be seated in the familiar blue Super Shuttle, which arrived an characteristically 15 minutes early. (Last time I had ordered a shuttle, I had been en route to JFK and nearly missed my flight. I assumed this morning was starting earlier than usual because the company has still not figured out how to remedy tardiness.)
The driver started north and, after 20 minutes on the freeway, I wondered if I was going to be the only passenger this trip. The radio was on, airing a morning pop station and filling in the silence and space between our seats. Maybe I will get lucky, I thought to myself, maybe I won't have to share this ride today! I relaxed into the clothed bench, watching the outside sky lighten across the bay.
The time alone was short-lived as we pulled into a cul-de-sac a few short minutes later, and I watched a little old lady approach the van. Why did I assume I would be alone this morning? This was a shuttle. Shared ride, says the ad.
I felt the anticipation of conversation rising as the double doors swung open and this nice old lady waved a cheery good morning. I faintly smiled back and nodded my head.
She seated herself right next to me after looking around, wondering aloud how many others were going to join us.
The driver, overhearing, answered that there were two more stops.
Here was conflict: no longer alone in the van, the curly-haired woman seated now in my personal bubble of space, the pressure to connect presented itself. Little old ladies traveling early in the morning are notorious chatterers.
In New York, I'm surrounded and bombarded by people in my personal space at almost every waking moment. The city is like gauntlet, testing one's superior indifference skills: yes, hello, I realize you are in my space but I am going to try to ignore that fact and occupy myself with an activity that portrays how disinterested I am in the reality of your standing here and having to breathe the same air through our closely approximated nostrils.
Technological devices are life-savers in situations like these. Click on my iPhone, plug in my earbuds, turn up the iPod, shuffle through my Kindle library: I am busy, please don't engage. Perhaps consider turning your head so I have enough oxygen to intake while I go about my very important personal business and/or leisure activity.
In New York, people don't usually chat. One may find the bus running horribly late and we may commiserate with the impatient comrade on our right, while we search frantically through our smart phones for alternate transportation ad an exit strategy. One may have one's subway ride interrupted by an outrageous mariachi band soliciting funds, and we may exchange looks in order to see who's digging into their pockets. We may have fleeting moments of reality checks between being preoccupied with ourselves, but these moments merely remind us that we are on track or en route and happen to also be surrounded by a thousand other people. We don't stop to chat. Chat requires time, and room to breathe. We are busy people who barely have enough oxygen as it is.
I've found, however, that in locations where the air is available, visible overhead even, where one has enough room to breathe, where the space itself expects to be filled - these are the places weighted with the inevitability of human chatter. Everyone sitting here understands the construct: we will be sitting here in a spacious van for about an hour with all our technological distractions packed up behind us with the remaining 48 lbs of things we call baggage.
So, what to do?
If you are not in a New York state of mind, chat is the obvious answer here. If not to fill the expectant and weighty silence of social normative permeating the air, chat reminds us that we are curious beings who are constantly learning and absorbing the world around us. Chat allows us to engage in a mutual understanding of our present reality. Chat passes the time and sometimes brings comfort. Chat soothes our fears of being alone.
This goes to say, New Yorkers are not afraid to be alone. In fact, some crave the chance to have no one around. Neither are they afraid of living in their own reality, as evidenced by such icons of the New York populous like the Naked Cowboy, and/or the purple-wigged peace cyclist who has outfitted their bike with pinwheels and a vintage boom box.
But for the rest of the world, where living side-by-side isn't such an ordinary outrage, chat crystallizes our belief in the magic of the everyday. Maybe the person sitting next to me is the spouse of a Nobel laureate, perhaps a retired test pilot for NASA, or maybe a beloved author of vegan cookbooks. We never find out if we don't say hello first.
Paying respect to the space and construct that is the Super Shuttle rideshare, I politely asked to where my fellow passenger was traveling. After a few moments we discovered that she has family residing a few steps away from my workplace in NYC. Further small talk revealed her to be a mediator, about to publish a book on conflict resolution, and a curious story about resolving issues among local post office staff.
We chatted about theatre, as she is a patron of the arts, both classical and contemporary, and I expounded on vocal technique as exampled in today's musicals. I learned something new about Offenbach, and we murmured in agreement over the concept of listening as instrumental to the peace process.
Chat turned into conversation which deepened into dialogue. By the time we reached the airport, Elizabeth and I shook hands and wished each other safe travels.
I hadn't wanted to start a conversation, because I don't often expect small talk to lead anywhere in the short span of an hour's van ride to an airport where we all disembark in different directions. What's the point?
But we're all on the same path, to excuse the metaphor. Maybe the chatter was to remind us of the human journey. I was going back to NYC, Mecca of Loneliness, and she to the Midwest, Home of the Colloquial. Wandering in two different directions, but wanting a reassurance that we had someone alongside on the metaphysical sojourn.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Monday, October 1, 2012
Hooray, You're 30. I mean, 80.
I have had trouble putting on pants for two days because that involves a very tricky bend of the legs. I haven't been able to descend stairs properly for 48 hours. I don't want to talk about what it's like to try to sit down on a toilet. My quadriceps simply won't cooperate; I have suddenly gained the future knowledge of what it will be like to get around town when I'm 80 years old. It's a weird sensation: standing at the top of the subway staircase, before I even make a toe movement towards the first step down, my brain immediately knows that NO, this is NOT going to work. As soon as I start to bend, I know that my legs will begin to wobble and burn, my arms will clench the metal railing, and my shoulders will seize up to support half of my body as I reach my opposite toe for footing on the next step; there will be a strong exhale and my lips will be pulled inward on each other as my teeth are clamping down to muffle the scream of lactic acid's revenge.
The sensory memory of the pain in taking that step down is so strong that there's no room in my imagination for the possibility that today it could be a little bit better than yesterday. So each step is the same hurdle as the step before it, and the previous 47 hours worth of steps...it's going to HURT and I have to tell myself, before each step, that it won't. And besides that, I look like an idiot: a young, capable lady climbing and descending stairs sideways with both hands on the railing, audibly grunting through her nose. But that's what you get for running a marathon when you turn 30.
I ran 26.2 miles on Saturday. Some of it was easy, all of it was beautiful, some of it really hurt, and most of it took so much mental energy that after crossing the finish line and sitting down 30 minutes later to eat a burger, it was all I could do to keep from literally passing out with my sweaty, beanie-ed head on the wooden table of a shore-side restaurant. Pain had been my companion for the latter half of the race, starting after hour 3. The first pain shows up mentally: "Is this getting harder? How much further do I have? Oh. Right, I just passed mile 13. Everything I just did for the past 3 hours I'm going to have to do again."
Then there's the physical pain: "Ouch. Why is my shirt scraping my skin off? Is that blood? Uck. Ok, just keep going." The real work begins after mile 18; it's slow torture, running towards the end, because you know that it's just going to get worse, but you can't speed up the process unless you yourself speed up, and once you speed up there's no slowing down unless you want your friend Pain to envelope you in a bear hug until you suffocate or collapse, or both. "If you slow down right now, you're not going to make it through this next mile. Just keep going for one more minute. Ok, breathe, breathe.... La la la la la la laaaaaaa. Dooo dooo dooo. Let's just sing a little song until that next tree." All that, and your ego is long gone, since you've been basically talking/singing aloud to yourself for 4 hours now in full view and hearing range of the myriad of spectators and fellow runners. And, oh yeah, you forgot that you've been wearing that white plastic garbage bag like a sweater this whole time.
Nausea from consuming GU for five hours, burning in your midsection from the chafing of your underwire, dull throbbing in your legs with each bend and roll of the foot, and a consistent ache in your hips from the repetition of movement: these are the mind tricks Pain summons. So, you do everything in your power to distract yourself from focusing on the pain: singing, humming, counting, watching someone else run, giving a high five to a little Brownie scout handing you water, cheering on that one person you keep passing, wondering about what you're going to eat later on, watching the time, watching the scenery, wondering about how you're old enough to have kids and how this pain compares to having a baby, wondering how you would handle delivery pains at this point in your life, marveling at that autistic runner who's got a chaperone, ruminating on why you decided to do this again, praying five shots of GU caffeine won't make your blood pressure do weird things, wondering if you're doing lasting damage and hoping time will be kind to your body down the road...thinking about anything and everything else beside the fact that YOU HAVE BEEN RUNNING FOR FIVE HOURS.
If the mind would calm down about it all, if I didn't focus on the pain, if I pretended it didn't exist, perhaps Pain would get so upset at the lack of attention that it would just tear its way through me and finally let the body handle the pressure. I'm sure the body would fix itself: vomit everything up and send some endorphins to the parts where it hurts. Voila, fixed. I mean, there are people who run ultra-marathons, and I was only doing a quarter of that kind of feat.
Luckily, I was accompanied by some real friends who drove out to the country to see me run: friends who jogged alongside me at the halfway point, friends who waited in the rain for a half-hour longer than expected for my finish, friends who hand-fed me potatoes while I changed out of my mucky running clothes, and friends who rubbed my tired back as I drifted off in a post-race food coma. Those friends provided moments which eased the mind of its all-consuming fight with the pain, and offered much-needed relief from the reality of running a marathon.
But, then, when all is said and done, and you wake up the next day, the body seeks its revenge for your abandoning it to do all that WORK. And pain memory shows up for however long it takes your mind to get the message: the body saying that "if you ever put me through this process again, I swear to God this is how it will feel for three weeks, you a-hole."
Well, I don't think I will be doing it anytime again soon. Maybe, MAYBE in five years. Maybe not. I started out training for this thing because I was commemorating my 30th birthday. Now that it's finished, I can revel in my new decade of wonderment. So, happy birthday to me. Nothing says "You're 30 and alive!" quite like the inability to climb stairs or put on pants.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Let the Countdown Begin!
"There's 10 days left. Oh dear."
That was my first thought upon starting this long, long, immensely long-overdue post.
In short explanation, I'm fighting off plantar fasciitis, and had no motivation to gripe about it on this here blog. Just know that, yes, I've been taking it easy, trying to find cardio-workout substitutes for running that involved low/no-impact and as little time as possible on my feet. And with about a week until the actual marathon, I'm nervous about finishing in decent form.
I'd like to talk a bit about the mental battle I've been waging against those feelings of anxiety. I go back and forth with how confident I feel about finishing the race. A major difference in my training (this time around) has been the sheer fact that I've been doing it ALONE. And with no one else puttering along beside me to gauge my progress from an objective standpoint, I've had to become comfortable with assessing where I'm at and what I need. I've had to become my own coach, and for some reason, I don't trust my own coach voice. The coach in my head is young, nervous, and brutally honest. In fact, she's a little uptight about doing everything by the book, and since I've experimented with workouts and done more timed runs than distance-focused runs, she's basically tearing her hair out because she's got no point of reference anymore. So, I've had to coach myself into being relaxed about the process, and trusting that I've done the best I can at this point in time. Nursing an injury right now, it's hard to say I've done my best, because perhaps I've pushed past the point of balanced training. Time will tell. Literally. In like, two Saturdays from now, I'll be able to tell from the marathon time on my wristwatch.
But, the stakes are pretty high for me with this distance running - here I am, four months into training, through an unbearably hot and humid summer, in New York City, the land of cement and steel, and what happens if I can't finish the marathon I've set out to do to mark the advent of my 30s? What was the point of all that training if I can't even get halfway? What if I have to drop out, or what if I bonk out at mile 20 and end up walking for so long that I don't finish in under 5 hours and they close the race course on me and I have to hitchhike back? What if I have to crawl across the finish line because of the pain? What if I have to get escorted off the course by EMTs, and then I have to live through my 30s knowing I had my best years in my 20s? WHAT WILL IT ALL MEAN.
I am absolutely headed for an existential crisis here, one way or another.
So my dad put it in perspective: You don't sign up for a marathon in order to finish it. You sign up for the marathon to commit to the training.
And I just had to ask myself whether or not I committed to the training. Survey says Yes.
And that in and of itself is the real accomplishment. Not finishing the marathon. That's like the icing on the cake: you finish running 26.2 miles, and then comes the realization that all that training was the actual accomplishment, not the 5 hours of plodding along you just did on some dirt road with water stations.
All the days you didn't want to get up and go out running. All the days you felt too tired or wanted to go socialize in the park instead of running for two hours alone. All the inclement weather and staring locals. All the times you went to find some running clothes but they all stink like Fritos so you had to have a stinky Frito run. All the chafing, the dehydration, the planning and plotting and preparation. For months, logging the workouts, tracking how far, can you go faster tomorrow, can you finish just one more hill today, can you not walk those last five minutes.
I'm hoping that realization happens for me this time around. I'm hoping the training means something at the end of this.
That was my first thought upon starting this long, long, immensely long-overdue post.
In short explanation, I'm fighting off plantar fasciitis, and had no motivation to gripe about it on this here blog. Just know that, yes, I've been taking it easy, trying to find cardio-workout substitutes for running that involved low/no-impact and as little time as possible on my feet. And with about a week until the actual marathon, I'm nervous about finishing in decent form.
I'd like to talk a bit about the mental battle I've been waging against those feelings of anxiety. I go back and forth with how confident I feel about finishing the race. A major difference in my training (this time around) has been the sheer fact that I've been doing it ALONE. And with no one else puttering along beside me to gauge my progress from an objective standpoint, I've had to become comfortable with assessing where I'm at and what I need. I've had to become my own coach, and for some reason, I don't trust my own coach voice. The coach in my head is young, nervous, and brutally honest. In fact, she's a little uptight about doing everything by the book, and since I've experimented with workouts and done more timed runs than distance-focused runs, she's basically tearing her hair out because she's got no point of reference anymore. So, I've had to coach myself into being relaxed about the process, and trusting that I've done the best I can at this point in time. Nursing an injury right now, it's hard to say I've done my best, because perhaps I've pushed past the point of balanced training. Time will tell. Literally. In like, two Saturdays from now, I'll be able to tell from the marathon time on my wristwatch.
But, the stakes are pretty high for me with this distance running - here I am, four months into training, through an unbearably hot and humid summer, in New York City, the land of cement and steel, and what happens if I can't finish the marathon I've set out to do to mark the advent of my 30s? What was the point of all that training if I can't even get halfway? What if I have to drop out, or what if I bonk out at mile 20 and end up walking for so long that I don't finish in under 5 hours and they close the race course on me and I have to hitchhike back? What if I have to crawl across the finish line because of the pain? What if I have to get escorted off the course by EMTs, and then I have to live through my 30s knowing I had my best years in my 20s? WHAT WILL IT ALL MEAN.
I am absolutely headed for an existential crisis here, one way or another.
So my dad put it in perspective: You don't sign up for a marathon in order to finish it. You sign up for the marathon to commit to the training.
And I just had to ask myself whether or not I committed to the training. Survey says Yes.
And that in and of itself is the real accomplishment. Not finishing the marathon. That's like the icing on the cake: you finish running 26.2 miles, and then comes the realization that all that training was the actual accomplishment, not the 5 hours of plodding along you just did on some dirt road with water stations.
All the days you didn't want to get up and go out running. All the days you felt too tired or wanted to go socialize in the park instead of running for two hours alone. All the inclement weather and staring locals. All the times you went to find some running clothes but they all stink like Fritos so you had to have a stinky Frito run. All the chafing, the dehydration, the planning and plotting and preparation. For months, logging the workouts, tracking how far, can you go faster tomorrow, can you finish just one more hill today, can you not walk those last five minutes.
I'm hoping that realization happens for me this time around. I'm hoping the training means something at the end of this.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Thank God for Whomever Invented A/C
It's been a while since my last running post, but I will say I finally broke down and joined a gym...for the A/C. It was the most glorious Saturday run I've had yet. (Mind you, I ran this past weekend outside, thinking it was going to be nice, but it wasn't and it still didn't compare to the thrill of my treadmill experience.)
I've griped in the past about how tedious it is to run in one place on a machine, but when you've been living without A/C in the God-forsaken summer weather of NYC, you are likely to trade your soul for a bath of ice cubes on the worst days. You can imagine my glee upon entering my new gym and hopping on an ultra-modern, technologically-bedazzled treadmill that held not one, but two water bottles, my iPod, GU packets, and towel, while offering me the option of 8 different cable channels of an iPod shuffle, all hands free. Running uninterrupted without crowds, traffic, or dog poop for a full two hours with my favorite playlist? Yes, please. A shower and stretching area all to myself afterwards, and no critics to judge my sweaty-hot-mess-ness? Totally amazing. $10 a month for A/C, cable, and a gym? ...Screw you, Con Ed.
This past Saturday I thought I'd get out on the road again, but despite running over the George Washington Bridge and through Fort Tryon park (hey there, Cloisters!), I was just beaten up by the humidity. I'm curious to see how I'll fare when the weather cools off - I feel like I've been over-training with the climate at its deadliest, and hopefully I'll start sprinting right along once the fall comes.
Cannot wait for that moment, but for now at least I have my A/C 24/7.
I've griped in the past about how tedious it is to run in one place on a machine, but when you've been living without A/C in the God-forsaken summer weather of NYC, you are likely to trade your soul for a bath of ice cubes on the worst days. You can imagine my glee upon entering my new gym and hopping on an ultra-modern, technologically-bedazzled treadmill that held not one, but two water bottles, my iPod, GU packets, and towel, while offering me the option of 8 different cable channels of an iPod shuffle, all hands free. Running uninterrupted without crowds, traffic, or dog poop for a full two hours with my favorite playlist? Yes, please. A shower and stretching area all to myself afterwards, and no critics to judge my sweaty-hot-mess-ness? Totally amazing. $10 a month for A/C, cable, and a gym? ...Screw you, Con Ed.
This past Saturday I thought I'd get out on the road again, but despite running over the George Washington Bridge and through Fort Tryon park (hey there, Cloisters!), I was just beaten up by the humidity. I'm curious to see how I'll fare when the weather cools off - I feel like I've been over-training with the climate at its deadliest, and hopefully I'll start sprinting right along once the fall comes.
Cannot wait for that moment, but for now at least I have my A/C 24/7.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
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?
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 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?
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Pace and Dignity
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.
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.
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.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Winter Runs
The past few months have passed quickly and slowly at the same time. Some days flew by without my remembering what exactly I did from dawn until dusk. Other days seemed to toil away from second to second, measured almost in breaths. I've been away from the blogging since Grandma passed away, but the running has been somewhat consistent. Here's what's been happening:
I took an 8-mile run with my Dad and Mom in February (an unprecedented and rare event), and while many of our past memories of "quality time" involved some sort of external event, this run was an internal event. It seemed particularly special because I could actually see and hear our relationships more intensely.
Running has a way of heightening the senses - moving the physical body repetitively for a prolonged amount of time will either dull the brain, or make you acutely aware of every little thing going on around and inside you. I became acutely aware of how determined my mom was to end the run as soon as possible, and how supportive my dad was in terms of coaching my run. I learned where I get my mental grit (Mom, insisting we press ahead quickly) and where I get my patience and endurance (Dad, pacing the strides and humming Michael Jackson's "Beat It" to get us through the last two miles).
Dad told me some great memories about his childhood as we ran through old Cincinnati. Secret to that golf swing? Holding his head still..compliments of my grandfather, who never ceased to harass Dad during a lesson by physically holding Dad's head between his hands while my father swung away. Apparently this drove him nuts, but it paid off in recent kudos from a pro.
During the 6th or 7th mile, my dad mentioned that there were two things to do when the miles seemed endless: think of a song, and/or pray. This tip came in handy this past weekend, when I finished the half-marathon in Queens.
Before I get to that though, a few highlights from the March sequence of weekend runs:
Running in three different states - New York, California, and Ohio. Outdoors. Despite the chill, this was preferable to a treadmill! There was never a dull weekend - I was somewhere new each time!
Traipsing through the hills of the Upper Rouge Valley trail at Rancho on a Monday afternoon, and having the whole area completely to myself (not a soul in sight!), save for two deers, rabbits, and a family of quails. For those of you familiar with the views at the top of those hills, you can imagine how wonderful it was to not even hear another human.
Tapering last weekend with a 5-mile run alongside the Hudson River, feeling proud that it seemed like such a manageable, short distance.
Then, this past weekend, the final arrival of the half marathon. I forgot how much mental work it takes to push the aching body to any speed faster than a jog at the end of the race, and was sorely reminded of the physical aftershocks while trying to descend stairs later that day. The event took place in Queens, a borough of New York City, in a place called Flushing - more precisely, the park where the World's Fair was held. You remember those two towers with the UFO-like cement rotundas perched atop, from the movie Men In Black? Yep, that's where we were - running laps around them, and the Queens Zoo.
I awoke in the morning, not very excited about this race. I just wanted it over and done with. Part of me felt burdened, but I couldn't place my finger on what was particularly bothersome. A long subway ride out to Queens, and then a search for the bag drop area and a bit of trekking around to find the start line left me feeling tired already. I was pretty resigned during the beginning, explaining to Shannon how the crowd would surge at the start, then thin out, how we had to keep our own pace...as it happened, the crowd pulsed and we upped our mile time to 10:00 for the first 3 miles. (Granted, we had been training at a 12:00 mile for three months). That's adrenaline for you.
I had reminded Shannon repeatedly that if we were to get separated, it would be for the best, as we had to run our own races: I was so proud when she took off after 4 miles and finished in under 2:30! I took my time, bonking out at mile 6 or 7, having to recharge with some GU, then employ that great trick, prayer. For two solid miles, I was the most grateful person on that track. I was surprised at how many things I could list, how richly my life was fulfilled. It became a mantra: "Thank you for..." Every breath became thanks, and I wasn't concentrating anymore on how tired my feet were, how sore my left hip was, or how icy the headwind was.
Then came the surge to the finish. I had asked myself throughout the race, "What do I have to prove anymore?" The truth was, I knew I could run this far. In fact, I knew I could run twice that far. But I had done this to prove that I could still do it. So at that last .1 of the race, I somehow sped up and passed two people on my way through the flags.
Shannon was there to see me and we burst into tears, disbelief and relief that it as finally over. I didn't really take stock of it until that moment: how long we had trained, how far we had gone, and how fast we ended up running on the day of the event. I had averaged a sub 12:00 mile, and still had life left in my body to hobble back onto the train to go home. We got limited swag: a green tee and a spinning medal. (We skipped the beer garden party since neither of us wanted to walk any further than the subway stop.) However, the long haul through the winter was the real prize - I am officially ready to conquer the Antarctic wilderness in my Mizunos.
Anyone training for a long-distance race should train in the warmer months. Only crazies freeze their butts off for three months in order to run the first race of the spring season.
All in all, I learned that I'm still capable of running far distances, and I've found that I can run both inside and outside for long periods of time (and under extreme weather conditions). But now that I've proved it to myself, I don't feel the need to prove it again for some time. Shannon is eager to do another race, so I've agreed to find a 5K, and this time we can concentrate on speed. Somehow, knowing the thing is going to be over in less than 30 minutes makes me feel a lot more optimistic about training.
Til next time, Marathon Fans!
I took an 8-mile run with my Dad and Mom in February (an unprecedented and rare event), and while many of our past memories of "quality time" involved some sort of external event, this run was an internal event. It seemed particularly special because I could actually see and hear our relationships more intensely.
Running has a way of heightening the senses - moving the physical body repetitively for a prolonged amount of time will either dull the brain, or make you acutely aware of every little thing going on around and inside you. I became acutely aware of how determined my mom was to end the run as soon as possible, and how supportive my dad was in terms of coaching my run. I learned where I get my mental grit (Mom, insisting we press ahead quickly) and where I get my patience and endurance (Dad, pacing the strides and humming Michael Jackson's "Beat It" to get us through the last two miles).
Dad told me some great memories about his childhood as we ran through old Cincinnati. Secret to that golf swing? Holding his head still..compliments of my grandfather, who never ceased to harass Dad during a lesson by physically holding Dad's head between his hands while my father swung away. Apparently this drove him nuts, but it paid off in recent kudos from a pro.
During the 6th or 7th mile, my dad mentioned that there were two things to do when the miles seemed endless: think of a song, and/or pray. This tip came in handy this past weekend, when I finished the half-marathon in Queens.
Before I get to that though, a few highlights from the March sequence of weekend runs:
Running in three different states - New York, California, and Ohio. Outdoors. Despite the chill, this was preferable to a treadmill! There was never a dull weekend - I was somewhere new each time!
Traipsing through the hills of the Upper Rouge Valley trail at Rancho on a Monday afternoon, and having the whole area completely to myself (not a soul in sight!), save for two deers, rabbits, and a family of quails. For those of you familiar with the views at the top of those hills, you can imagine how wonderful it was to not even hear another human.
Tapering last weekend with a 5-mile run alongside the Hudson River, feeling proud that it seemed like such a manageable, short distance.
Then, this past weekend, the final arrival of the half marathon. I forgot how much mental work it takes to push the aching body to any speed faster than a jog at the end of the race, and was sorely reminded of the physical aftershocks while trying to descend stairs later that day. The event took place in Queens, a borough of New York City, in a place called Flushing - more precisely, the park where the World's Fair was held. You remember those two towers with the UFO-like cement rotundas perched atop, from the movie Men In Black? Yep, that's where we were - running laps around them, and the Queens Zoo.
I awoke in the morning, not very excited about this race. I just wanted it over and done with. Part of me felt burdened, but I couldn't place my finger on what was particularly bothersome. A long subway ride out to Queens, and then a search for the bag drop area and a bit of trekking around to find the start line left me feeling tired already. I was pretty resigned during the beginning, explaining to Shannon how the crowd would surge at the start, then thin out, how we had to keep our own pace...as it happened, the crowd pulsed and we upped our mile time to 10:00 for the first 3 miles. (Granted, we had been training at a 12:00 mile for three months). That's adrenaline for you.
I had reminded Shannon repeatedly that if we were to get separated, it would be for the best, as we had to run our own races: I was so proud when she took off after 4 miles and finished in under 2:30! I took my time, bonking out at mile 6 or 7, having to recharge with some GU, then employ that great trick, prayer. For two solid miles, I was the most grateful person on that track. I was surprised at how many things I could list, how richly my life was fulfilled. It became a mantra: "Thank you for..." Every breath became thanks, and I wasn't concentrating anymore on how tired my feet were, how sore my left hip was, or how icy the headwind was.
Then came the surge to the finish. I had asked myself throughout the race, "What do I have to prove anymore?" The truth was, I knew I could run this far. In fact, I knew I could run twice that far. But I had done this to prove that I could still do it. So at that last .1 of the race, I somehow sped up and passed two people on my way through the flags.
Shannon was there to see me and we burst into tears, disbelief and relief that it as finally over. I didn't really take stock of it until that moment: how long we had trained, how far we had gone, and how fast we ended up running on the day of the event. I had averaged a sub 12:00 mile, and still had life left in my body to hobble back onto the train to go home. We got limited swag: a green tee and a spinning medal. (We skipped the beer garden party since neither of us wanted to walk any further than the subway stop.) However, the long haul through the winter was the real prize - I am officially ready to conquer the Antarctic wilderness in my Mizunos.
Anyone training for a long-distance race should train in the warmer months. Only crazies freeze their butts off for three months in order to run the first race of the spring season.
All in all, I learned that I'm still capable of running far distances, and I've found that I can run both inside and outside for long periods of time (and under extreme weather conditions). But now that I've proved it to myself, I don't feel the need to prove it again for some time. Shannon is eager to do another race, so I've agreed to find a 5K, and this time we can concentrate on speed. Somehow, knowing the thing is going to be over in less than 30 minutes makes me feel a lot more optimistic about training.
Til next time, Marathon Fans!
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Sickness
It strikes exactly when it's not convenient. I'm not sure where it came from or what caused it to magnify, but The Sickness hit me on Thursday night and has rendered me medicated and congested since then. The worst part of all is that I have been coddling myself and have missed three runs so far. Yes, the anxiety is killing me. Yes, the thought of "what if this screws up my whole training schedule?!" has been running through my brain nonstop. Yes, I have considered alternative forms of cardio - but my body has resisted wholeheartedly.
Consulting my Runner's World Women's Running Handbook, I am advised, under the chapter entitled "Overtraining" that I need rest. Plain and simple. The fatigue, low grade cold symptoms and lack of motivation are clearly present. The trouble sleeping and slowing times were two tricker aspects that sneaked under my radar. I assumed I just needed more sleep. But knowing how much training I did last week, it makes sense I might have overdone it.
The hardest part about getting rest is that it's not plain and simple. The constant nagging of "you should be running, you should be running" makes it difficult to get sleep. And the deeper-seated fear of "your training will be incomplete, you'll never finish your race" is, I'm sure, contributing more to elevated stress levels than anything.
I felt guilty this weekend about calling in sick, about allowing myself to get rest. It's not uncommon - the work mode around here is "go, go, go" so when I need to say "slow, slow, slow", it's easy to feel like someone is watching me and saying - "oh, taking the easy route are we?" Bigger problem is that it's myself saying it.
Hopefully this Sickness will let up this week, at least enough to get me back on a machine of some sort. The weather forecast predicts a warming up over the next few days, so I'm crossing my fingers that come Saturday I'll be running around outside in a short sleeves. That thought alone is enough to lift my immune-system spirits!
Consulting my Runner's World Women's Running Handbook, I am advised, under the chapter entitled "Overtraining" that I need rest. Plain and simple. The fatigue, low grade cold symptoms and lack of motivation are clearly present. The trouble sleeping and slowing times were two tricker aspects that sneaked under my radar. I assumed I just needed more sleep. But knowing how much training I did last week, it makes sense I might have overdone it.
The hardest part about getting rest is that it's not plain and simple. The constant nagging of "you should be running, you should be running" makes it difficult to get sleep. And the deeper-seated fear of "your training will be incomplete, you'll never finish your race" is, I'm sure, contributing more to elevated stress levels than anything.
I felt guilty this weekend about calling in sick, about allowing myself to get rest. It's not uncommon - the work mode around here is "go, go, go" so when I need to say "slow, slow, slow", it's easy to feel like someone is watching me and saying - "oh, taking the easy route are we?" Bigger problem is that it's myself saying it.
Hopefully this Sickness will let up this week, at least enough to get me back on a machine of some sort. The weather forecast predicts a warming up over the next few days, so I'm crossing my fingers that come Saturday I'll be running around outside in a short sleeves. That thought alone is enough to lift my immune-system spirits!
Friday, February 4, 2011
Salt and Bricks
This week was a tough training week. And I haven't even reached Saturday.
Following an outdoor trip last weekend that involved snow tubing off 4-ft high jumps, snowshoeing across frozen lakes, and shoveling snow out of a bonfire pit the size of a small New York apartment, I woke up Monday to a very sore body and an insane amount of fatigue. No matter we had fed like hippos for two days - tromping about outdoors in the middle of winter will tire. you. out.
Luckily, Monday was a rest day. Unluckily, the rest of the week were full-blown work/train/work days.
Tuesday saw the appearance of some nasty weather that made getting to and from school a marathon event all its own. Tuesday evening, while reaching for my socks before heading to the gym, I realized I had left my shoes downtown at Shannon's after our Friday run, and thus had no athletic footwear to last me for 2.5 miles on the treadmill. Substitute? Shakin' it to some pop hits on grooveshark.com for about 30 minutes in my bare feet. The sweat output was comparable, thanks to you, Bruno Mars.
Wednesday was an early start, a trip to the local 50-metre indoor swimming facility a few blocks away. However, I had left my swim gear at home over the break, rendering me 0-2 in the workout gear preparedness test for this week. I dug out a fashionable brown tanning suit and a swim cap proclaiming "Tis the Season to Swim!" and borrowed some goggles from the lifeguard. Lucky I had a whole lane to myself and could dodge the inquisitive stares of neighboring swimmers; not only was I decked out-of-fashion for a fast-lane aficionado, I was the only gal there.
Later that night, having retrieved my shoes, I hopped on the treadmill for a quick 20 minute speed session. After maxing out at 17 minutes, I recovered my lungs and took a quick nap before starting my late-night pubtending shift.
5 hours later, Thursday morning arrived and I was reaching for my snooze button in vain. An afternoon hip-hop dance class toned up my hamstrings and a 3-mile run shortly afterwards forced me into an ice bath that evening. As I sat in the freezing cold water with my cup of cinnamon tea and woolly sweater, I calculated how much sodium I had ingested over the past 5 days, and briefly toyed with the idea of opting for a salt lick to hang by my sink. The event-heavy schedule of the week had rendered me powerless against smoked meats, cheeses, and the white shaker on the table. The cravings I'm sure were a result of being hit by a ton of bricks...and all the physical endurance I was burning thorough from dawn til midnight.
Thursday night was another pub shift, and while I had every intention of closing early, luckily a gaggle of Serbo-Croatians with a hankering for gin tonics and house techno music bombarded the joint until I had to politely urge them to put their shoes back on and exit the bar at 2am.
4 hours later, I groaned in my dream at the sound of an alarm and literally rolled off the bed in order to get dressed. I turned to coffee as a last resort to get me through the next 3 hours of physical and vocal work I had to accomplish at school.
I managed to take a nap on my coat on the floor of the hallway, and awoke sighing heavily at the prospect of what lay ahead this evening: a Chinese Cultural hour after-party that will inevitably last until 4am. Chopsticks and censorship and tequila shots...oh my! But, I'm sure I will want nothing more than to run 6 miles tomorrow morning in the icy weather.
I intend to load up on smoked salmon and Fritos to get me through the next 7 hours of work, and when I crawl (literally) into bed tomorrow morning, I will build myself a little brick canopy of darkness for sleeping and if you don't hear from me by next Wednesday, send some chocolate-covered pretzels.
Following an outdoor trip last weekend that involved snow tubing off 4-ft high jumps, snowshoeing across frozen lakes, and shoveling snow out of a bonfire pit the size of a small New York apartment, I woke up Monday to a very sore body and an insane amount of fatigue. No matter we had fed like hippos for two days - tromping about outdoors in the middle of winter will tire. you. out.
Luckily, Monday was a rest day. Unluckily, the rest of the week were full-blown work/train/work days.
Tuesday saw the appearance of some nasty weather that made getting to and from school a marathon event all its own. Tuesday evening, while reaching for my socks before heading to the gym, I realized I had left my shoes downtown at Shannon's after our Friday run, and thus had no athletic footwear to last me for 2.5 miles on the treadmill. Substitute? Shakin' it to some pop hits on grooveshark.com for about 30 minutes in my bare feet. The sweat output was comparable, thanks to you, Bruno Mars.
Wednesday was an early start, a trip to the local 50-metre indoor swimming facility a few blocks away. However, I had left my swim gear at home over the break, rendering me 0-2 in the workout gear preparedness test for this week. I dug out a fashionable brown tanning suit and a swim cap proclaiming "Tis the Season to Swim!" and borrowed some goggles from the lifeguard. Lucky I had a whole lane to myself and could dodge the inquisitive stares of neighboring swimmers; not only was I decked out-of-fashion for a fast-lane aficionado, I was the only gal there.
Later that night, having retrieved my shoes, I hopped on the treadmill for a quick 20 minute speed session. After maxing out at 17 minutes, I recovered my lungs and took a quick nap before starting my late-night pubtending shift.
5 hours later, Thursday morning arrived and I was reaching for my snooze button in vain. An afternoon hip-hop dance class toned up my hamstrings and a 3-mile run shortly afterwards forced me into an ice bath that evening. As I sat in the freezing cold water with my cup of cinnamon tea and woolly sweater, I calculated how much sodium I had ingested over the past 5 days, and briefly toyed with the idea of opting for a salt lick to hang by my sink. The event-heavy schedule of the week had rendered me powerless against smoked meats, cheeses, and the white shaker on the table. The cravings I'm sure were a result of being hit by a ton of bricks...and all the physical endurance I was burning thorough from dawn til midnight.
Thursday night was another pub shift, and while I had every intention of closing early, luckily a gaggle of Serbo-Croatians with a hankering for gin tonics and house techno music bombarded the joint until I had to politely urge them to put their shoes back on and exit the bar at 2am.
4 hours later, I groaned in my dream at the sound of an alarm and literally rolled off the bed in order to get dressed. I turned to coffee as a last resort to get me through the next 3 hours of physical and vocal work I had to accomplish at school.
I managed to take a nap on my coat on the floor of the hallway, and awoke sighing heavily at the prospect of what lay ahead this evening: a Chinese Cultural hour after-party that will inevitably last until 4am. Chopsticks and censorship and tequila shots...oh my! But, I'm sure I will want nothing more than to run 6 miles tomorrow morning in the icy weather.
I intend to load up on smoked salmon and Fritos to get me through the next 7 hours of work, and when I crawl (literally) into bed tomorrow morning, I will build myself a little brick canopy of darkness for sleeping and if you don't hear from me by next Wednesday, send some chocolate-covered pretzels.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The First 5
Friday was an outdoor run by the Hudson River - a five-miler, the first real long run outside and a chance to test the treadmill's accuracy. Result? Treadmills lie to you every step of the way.
(I believe that it has something to do with the innate mechanisms governing the machine itself, but that's another blog post.)
Friday turned out to be a great running day - weather-wise, we had just survived a large snowfall and the streets had enough time to become salted and cleared (thank you Bloomberg) - but only just enough. The streetlight intersections had three-foot tall piles of grey-spotted snow piled up between the crosswalk joints, so that you had to either leap over the curb to cross the street, or carefully tip-toe your way through some seriously icy sludge and over to the other side before a little orange hand signaled the return of raging traffic (traffic which presented another adventure called "Drive-By Snow Splattering").
Shannon and I started out running from the lower West Side with the turn-around point destination being 46th Street, where the Intrepid resides. Though it was cold, we warmed up pretty quickly and managed to chat the whole way. This supposed "easy" run day felt comfortable - I felt like we were running perhaps a 16:00-min mile pace, considering how it felt to be on the treadmill the past two weeks at a 12:00-min mile pace. The scenery was interesting - winter running definitely provides some experiences one cannot imagine encountering in any other climate. The sight of the frozen river was one pleasant surprise; the sight of a half-naked fellow runner was another shocking surprise. Let it be said: distance runners who train in the winter are either crazy, bad-ass, or have a serious addiction.
While the outdoor run was refreshing, it did compare to the treadmill on one particular point - the mental grit moments. Reaching the halfway mark, I was glad to have Shannon with me as we traded stories about what to do when you hit a block of mental sludge on the automatic indoor road. We experimented with a few techniques right then and there, like acuity skills (high knees, grapevines, running backwards), re-focusing form (propelling from the arms or from specific leg parts), and motivational visualization (crackheads are chasing you, or perhaps there's an eligible-looking bachelor ahead of you). Before we knew it, we had arrived back at our starting point, and in a mere hour and 3 minutes.
Now, you can imagine our surprise when we sat down to log the results and discovered that we had been averaging a 12:45-min mile. The surprise came not only from the fact the run had literally felt slow, but the realization that the treadmill had been training us at a deceiving pace, albeit effective.
Earlier, Shannon had asked me what the value of doing an outside run was, and while I couldn't clearly articulate why we should be braving the weather, I didn't need to explain it by the time we finished.
It was clear to both of us that we have to keep an eye out for lying machines from here on out.
(I believe that it has something to do with the innate mechanisms governing the machine itself, but that's another blog post.)
Friday turned out to be a great running day - weather-wise, we had just survived a large snowfall and the streets had enough time to become salted and cleared (thank you Bloomberg) - but only just enough. The streetlight intersections had three-foot tall piles of grey-spotted snow piled up between the crosswalk joints, so that you had to either leap over the curb to cross the street, or carefully tip-toe your way through some seriously icy sludge and over to the other side before a little orange hand signaled the return of raging traffic (traffic which presented another adventure called "Drive-By Snow Splattering").
Shannon and I started out running from the lower West Side with the turn-around point destination being 46th Street, where the Intrepid resides. Though it was cold, we warmed up pretty quickly and managed to chat the whole way. This supposed "easy" run day felt comfortable - I felt like we were running perhaps a 16:00-min mile pace, considering how it felt to be on the treadmill the past two weeks at a 12:00-min mile pace. The scenery was interesting - winter running definitely provides some experiences one cannot imagine encountering in any other climate. The sight of the frozen river was one pleasant surprise; the sight of a half-naked fellow runner was another shocking surprise. Let it be said: distance runners who train in the winter are either crazy, bad-ass, or have a serious addiction.
While the outdoor run was refreshing, it did compare to the treadmill on one particular point - the mental grit moments. Reaching the halfway mark, I was glad to have Shannon with me as we traded stories about what to do when you hit a block of mental sludge on the automatic indoor road. We experimented with a few techniques right then and there, like acuity skills (high knees, grapevines, running backwards), re-focusing form (propelling from the arms or from specific leg parts), and motivational visualization (crackheads are chasing you, or perhaps there's an eligible-looking bachelor ahead of you). Before we knew it, we had arrived back at our starting point, and in a mere hour and 3 minutes.
Now, you can imagine our surprise when we sat down to log the results and discovered that we had been averaging a 12:45-min mile. The surprise came not only from the fact the run had literally felt slow, but the realization that the treadmill had been training us at a deceiving pace, albeit effective.
Earlier, Shannon had asked me what the value of doing an outside run was, and while I couldn't clearly articulate why we should be braving the weather, I didn't need to explain it by the time we finished.
It was clear to both of us that we have to keep an eye out for lying machines from here on out.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Treadmill Tolerance
First week down, ten to go. I neglected to mention the race I'll be running is in April, it's in New York (Flushing Queens to be exact), and it's simply named "13.1 New York".
This week marked my return to the Big Apple, a return to East Coast winter weather, and a return to the musings one is prone to on a run longer than 30 minutes. Leaving California also marked the imminent doom of being stuck to a treadmill for the next 10 weeks. I had been ruminating over how and when I'd be able to get out of the gym and onto the pavement, and while my heart was willing, the ungodly cold froze my intentions the instant I stepped off the plane at JFK. Hence, Thursday and Saturday were spent staring at a shaded window and a blank TV. (There will be no television available on race day, so why rob myself of the opportunity to develop mental stamina now?)
Now, 26 minutes is fairly easy to sustain in one place. But after 45 minutes on the treadmill on Saturday sans music or scenery, with one mile left to go, I strained to keep my mind off any and every little discomfort available to my consciousness. I scanned to my right and left, skimmed over the dark silent TV, the lowered blinds, and a poster of the human anatomy entitled "Machine and Muscle Guide". Muscle guide, yes. Machine? I pondered this for a moment, as the poster had no technical instructions involved, but did bring up an oft-overlooked idea - we are human machines. Everything working in conjunction with an adjacent item of musculature to propel and retract. I suddenly realized why treadmilling irked me so much. Here I was: a "machine", running on top of a running machine, while staring up at a blank machine and checking the time pass on yet another machine, surrounded by fifteen other machines, going nowhere. Talk about grounds for an existential crisis.
Running outside, or any where for that matter - where I can see the propulsion of my feet as the scenery passes me by, where I can feel the thudding of my heart and taste the exhalation of my breath in the chilly climate, this experience reminds me that I am more than a machine...I'm a human phenomenon. And a natural one at that - not a machine, not something manufactured to produce a routine event over and over again in the same movement ad infinitum, but a living, breathing, celebration of movement.
The main reason I love running, I discovered, was the celebration involved in the event. Celebration of capability and of capacity, celebration of a natural phenomenon.
Running in place like a cog on a wheel hardly classifies as a celebration. Yet, there I was, running parallel to the irony beneath my feet, and I had three-quarters of a mile to go.
So I decided to celebrate.
I started with my left leg. I concentrated on celebrating its very own capability to swing back and forth, and tread...and tread some more. I repeated the celebration with my right leg. Then with my arms, and finally with my heart. The breathing, the pulsing, the movement - all of it caught my attention for just long enough. The only thing that did not want to celebrate with me was my mind, which was still trying to bring my attention to the ache in my lungs and the fact that I was obviously going crazy.
And then the machine beneath me stopped.
And I clapped my hands and let out a small whoop of joy.
And today I went outside to run, regardless of the cold. Sure, it was -8 degrees F with the wind chill. Sure, I could barely feel my legs. But it was glorious, it was celebratory, and you can be sure I had a smile frozen on my face the whole time.
This week marked my return to the Big Apple, a return to East Coast winter weather, and a return to the musings one is prone to on a run longer than 30 minutes. Leaving California also marked the imminent doom of being stuck to a treadmill for the next 10 weeks. I had been ruminating over how and when I'd be able to get out of the gym and onto the pavement, and while my heart was willing, the ungodly cold froze my intentions the instant I stepped off the plane at JFK. Hence, Thursday and Saturday were spent staring at a shaded window and a blank TV. (There will be no television available on race day, so why rob myself of the opportunity to develop mental stamina now?)
Now, 26 minutes is fairly easy to sustain in one place. But after 45 minutes on the treadmill on Saturday sans music or scenery, with one mile left to go, I strained to keep my mind off any and every little discomfort available to my consciousness. I scanned to my right and left, skimmed over the dark silent TV, the lowered blinds, and a poster of the human anatomy entitled "Machine and Muscle Guide". Muscle guide, yes. Machine? I pondered this for a moment, as the poster had no technical instructions involved, but did bring up an oft-overlooked idea - we are human machines. Everything working in conjunction with an adjacent item of musculature to propel and retract. I suddenly realized why treadmilling irked me so much. Here I was: a "machine", running on top of a running machine, while staring up at a blank machine and checking the time pass on yet another machine, surrounded by fifteen other machines, going nowhere. Talk about grounds for an existential crisis.
Running outside, or any where for that matter - where I can see the propulsion of my feet as the scenery passes me by, where I can feel the thudding of my heart and taste the exhalation of my breath in the chilly climate, this experience reminds me that I am more than a machine...I'm a human phenomenon. And a natural one at that - not a machine, not something manufactured to produce a routine event over and over again in the same movement ad infinitum, but a living, breathing, celebration of movement.
The main reason I love running, I discovered, was the celebration involved in the event. Celebration of capability and of capacity, celebration of a natural phenomenon.
Running in place like a cog on a wheel hardly classifies as a celebration. Yet, there I was, running parallel to the irony beneath my feet, and I had three-quarters of a mile to go.
So I decided to celebrate.
I started with my left leg. I concentrated on celebrating its very own capability to swing back and forth, and tread...and tread some more. I repeated the celebration with my right leg. Then with my arms, and finally with my heart. The breathing, the pulsing, the movement - all of it caught my attention for just long enough. The only thing that did not want to celebrate with me was my mind, which was still trying to bring my attention to the ache in my lungs and the fact that I was obviously going crazy.
And then the machine beneath me stopped.
And I clapped my hands and let out a small whoop of joy.
And today I went outside to run, regardless of the cold. Sure, it was -8 degrees F with the wind chill. Sure, I could barely feel my legs. But it was glorious, it was celebratory, and you can be sure I had a smile frozen on my face the whole time.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
One...and a Half
Hello Marathon Fans!
It's that time again. My running clock has woken from hibernation and is ready to take on another epic race. Given the constraints of weather (New York winter) and timing (last semester of the MFA degree), I've opted for a 13.1 race. Just enough mileage to get that mild ego boost from begin able to say I've run one marathon...and a half. Yes, it's crossed my mind that I could continue training beyond the race day for a full, but time will tell what the fates have in store for my legs this season.
I've been excited to get back to training, reading up on the knowledge I used to have about running techniques, proper injury prevention, and even some nutritional tips. I've mapped out an 11-week schedule that should be pretty easy to maintain between and after classes, although I anticipate some long sessions on a treadmill here and there.
Today was the first training session, and as the fates would have it, the dog accompanied me for all of 2 miles. The dog (who has recently built up more mileage in one year than I have in the past three years) proved to be an effective pacer: since we ran in a new part of town, he led the way, in excitement over all the new smells and potential potty spots. While I was trying to maintain a 12-min mile, his nose was keeping a 10-min mile. I noticed the familiar ache in my lungs during the last .4 miles, which reminded me that the runs get longer, but never easier; the burn will be there if I'm consistently training hard. The flip side is the mental grit that comes from working through the mild discomfort...another benefit of training that comes with the mileage. I can't wait until I can once again run more than 2 miles without feeling like I've just been "hanging on for the ride."
And although the dog will not be accompanying me again on a run (at least not for some time), I will say that nothing inspires mental toughness like having to pick up dog poop mid-stride.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Week 19: The Saddle Situation
This week was Bike-Seat War Week. For five straight days I battled a stubborn, sliding seat as I cycled up and down the West Side of Manhattan on my way to and from rehearsal. If there's one thing you don't need on a long bike ride, it's a seat that won't sit still.
The battles commenced in the early morning and continued into the afternoons. There was me, on one end (the top), and the seat, on the other end (the bottom), and a binder bolt device I shall name "Drunken Flamingo Metal Band", encircling the seat's post to secure the seat height. Secure, my butt. Whereas the encircling device should have been on my side of the battle (aka holding seat in place), it seemed to be drunk, and continually let the seat go whichever way it very well pleased: down, left, right...backwards. Just like one of those croquet-stick flamingos from Alice in Wonderland - you think you've got it straightened out and ready to go, and the next minute you're floundering about like a clumsy fool and falling backwards off your bicycle while enemy seat escapes behind you and Drunken Flamingo Metal Band shrugs off its security duties. Goodbye seat, hello post.
Luckily, this specific battle occurred right in front of a group of sombrero-wearing senior citizens assembled for a wheelchair picnic, so who's to say which was the more surprising spectacle, me or the festive elders?
As it turns out, the week-long war cost me not only public humiliation, but also my private dignity. Doing some research on seat parts and solutions, I quickly realized I had been battling myself; the seat and binder bolt were just victims of poor riding technique. Apparently, according to seasoned bicycling experts, an upright bicycle does not even have a "seat" - those in-the-know refer to it as a "saddle" ("seat" is usually reserved for a recumbent bicycle). The idea behind a saddle (or rather, under it) is that it is designed to bear some, but not all, of your weight. The arms and legs bear the rest of the weight on an upright bicycle frame. An amateur can be quickly identified by overly-bent knees (saddle being too low) - a sign that the legs and arms have tired and, as the rider has settled back from exhaustion, the saddle has accompanied the recline...in a downward fashion. Suddenly, I'm riding with my knees in my chest, instead of gracefully extending the legs towards the rushing ground. From ballerina to clown in three pedals or less.
Additionally, the Drunken Flamingo Metal Band - or quick-release binder bolt as seasoned saddlers call it - was hammered into submission during each battle - sometimes three to four times a day - as I manically clamped the lever shut, adjusting the bolt a little tighter each time...essentially stripping the bolt of its vice-like power with each ensuing battle. No wonder it wanted to join up with the enemy forces - I was slowly torturing it.
Consequently, the seated battling left me with no other choice but to seek out a third-party piece treaty via the Christopher Street Bike Shop. Like Switzerland, only they speak Cycle.
Lessons learned, but at a price.
The battles commenced in the early morning and continued into the afternoons. There was me, on one end (the top), and the seat, on the other end (the bottom), and a binder bolt device I shall name "Drunken Flamingo Metal Band", encircling the seat's post to secure the seat height. Secure, my butt. Whereas the encircling device should have been on my side of the battle (aka holding seat in place), it seemed to be drunk, and continually let the seat go whichever way it very well pleased: down, left, right...backwards. Just like one of those croquet-stick flamingos from Alice in Wonderland - you think you've got it straightened out and ready to go, and the next minute you're floundering about like a clumsy fool and falling backwards off your bicycle while enemy seat escapes behind you and Drunken Flamingo Metal Band shrugs off its security duties. Goodbye seat, hello post.
Luckily, this specific battle occurred right in front of a group of sombrero-wearing senior citizens assembled for a wheelchair picnic, so who's to say which was the more surprising spectacle, me or the festive elders?
As it turns out, the week-long war cost me not only public humiliation, but also my private dignity. Doing some research on seat parts and solutions, I quickly realized I had been battling myself; the seat and binder bolt were just victims of poor riding technique. Apparently, according to seasoned bicycling experts, an upright bicycle does not even have a "seat" - those in-the-know refer to it as a "saddle" ("seat" is usually reserved for a recumbent bicycle). The idea behind a saddle (or rather, under it) is that it is designed to bear some, but not all, of your weight. The arms and legs bear the rest of the weight on an upright bicycle frame. An amateur can be quickly identified by overly-bent knees (saddle being too low) - a sign that the legs and arms have tired and, as the rider has settled back from exhaustion, the saddle has accompanied the recline...in a downward fashion. Suddenly, I'm riding with my knees in my chest, instead of gracefully extending the legs towards the rushing ground. From ballerina to clown in three pedals or less.
Additionally, the Drunken Flamingo Metal Band - or quick-release binder bolt as seasoned saddlers call it - was hammered into submission during each battle - sometimes three to four times a day - as I manically clamped the lever shut, adjusting the bolt a little tighter each time...essentially stripping the bolt of its vice-like power with each ensuing battle. No wonder it wanted to join up with the enemy forces - I was slowly torturing it.
Consequently, the seated battling left me with no other choice but to seek out a third-party piece treaty via the Christopher Street Bike Shop. Like Switzerland, only they speak Cycle.
Lessons learned, but at a price.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Week 18: Back to The Big Apple
After an amazing respite in California over the weekend, landing in NYC on Monday was truly surreal. It's amazing in this day and age, how quickly we can be in two diverse and distanced places within a matter of hours. Even more amazing is the variance in lifestyle: it's almost like having a split personality - four days on being an irate, fast-paced New Yorker followed by waking up the next morning in California for three days of a smile on your face and a song in your mouth, compliments of Katy Perry.
Monday: Plane rides all day, arriving back in NY I had to do something to get the "airplane feel" out of my body - so I caught up on late-night television while on the StairMaster.
Tuesday: Yankees game (against the LA Angels) - a horrendous loss on the Yankee's side. But, secretly, I couldn't be broken-hearted since the Ms. Bay Area side of my personality had recently experienced the superiority of the West Coast less than 24 hours prior.
Wednesday: Full blown sweatfest in the gym with the ADD circuit and suspersets.
Thursday: Elliptical in the morning, and jaunting around lower Manhattan in the afternoon.
Friday: In preparation for the night's event, an East Village Pub Crawl, I hauled myself into the gym for some cardio. Then, I prepared my innards with appropriate alcohol-absorbing foods...like french fries. There was a tornado warning when we departed for the pubs, but it cleared by the time we got out of the subway. Oh the joys of being underground for an hour in air-conditioning.
Saturday: An early morning run to sweat out the residual beer, then a full day at the beach, playing in sand and surf, with colossal overhead waves, left over from the monsoon the night prior. Nothing like diving through a crashing whitecapped tidal wave and having it pull off your bikini bottoms to get the whole self involved in a strenuous physical feat of recovering your dignity while surviving Mother Nature. Was still amped up after we returned home, so I hit the gym again for weights and promptly passed out at 10pm.
Sunday: Rested all day with sore muscles and happy heart. Couldn't sleep however - I think the early evening sessions of working out are the trick to having a good night's sleep. At least, I'm too tired to do anything else and my body is screaming for recuperation. Instead, I was screaming for some kind of exhaustion.
Next up: The last week of July. Where did the summer go?
Monday: Plane rides all day, arriving back in NY I had to do something to get the "airplane feel" out of my body - so I caught up on late-night television while on the StairMaster.
Tuesday: Yankees game (against the LA Angels) - a horrendous loss on the Yankee's side. But, secretly, I couldn't be broken-hearted since the Ms. Bay Area side of my personality had recently experienced the superiority of the West Coast less than 24 hours prior.
Wednesday: Full blown sweatfest in the gym with the ADD circuit and suspersets.
Thursday: Elliptical in the morning, and jaunting around lower Manhattan in the afternoon.
Friday: In preparation for the night's event, an East Village Pub Crawl, I hauled myself into the gym for some cardio. Then, I prepared my innards with appropriate alcohol-absorbing foods...like french fries. There was a tornado warning when we departed for the pubs, but it cleared by the time we got out of the subway. Oh the joys of being underground for an hour in air-conditioning.
Saturday: An early morning run to sweat out the residual beer, then a full day at the beach, playing in sand and surf, with colossal overhead waves, left over from the monsoon the night prior. Nothing like diving through a crashing whitecapped tidal wave and having it pull off your bikini bottoms to get the whole self involved in a strenuous physical feat of recovering your dignity while surviving Mother Nature. Was still amped up after we returned home, so I hit the gym again for weights and promptly passed out at 10pm.
Sunday: Rested all day with sore muscles and happy heart. Couldn't sleep however - I think the early evening sessions of working out are the trick to having a good night's sleep. At least, I'm too tired to do anything else and my body is screaming for recuperation. Instead, I was screaming for some kind of exhaustion.
Next up: The last week of July. Where did the summer go?
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Week 17: I've lost track of time...thank God
Losing track of time means I'm obviously not living with any idea of what's coming next. Some might find this disconcerting, but I say: Hallelujah!
Present concentration, restored.
(Had to start this post actually on Monday last so I could remember what happened!)
Monday: Workout with a friend - a new circuit at the gym that involved supersets...supersets being two strength-training exercises rolled into one smooth movement, like a lunge with a shoulder press. A surprising amount of sweat cropped up all over the place...and continued well throughout the day. An evening in Queens performing a staged reading proved very successful...especially the subway adventure out and back. First, an evangelist assuredly pronounced to the Queens-bound passengers that Jesus was coming and "Anyone with two boyfriends...will not be going to Heaven." The return trip was even more humorous, as waiting underground for the #7 train for an hour left me feeling like I had just paid $2.25 to sit in a sauna with my clothes on. Funny, no?
Tuesday: A day with torrential thunderstorms, threatening the Shanghai Symphony and NY Philharmonic Central Park event. However, it held off and we camped out under an overcast sky, listening with thousands of others to Bernstein, Tchaikovsky, and Gershwin until it grew dark. Running early in the morning doing speed intervals wore me out...those supersets left me supersore.
Wednesday: Well, at this point, I forgot to write down what I did this day, so let's assume it was successful in terms of having fun and forgetting about time.
Thursday: Packing and running around completing errands before my weekend home. Some time was spent in the gym too, I think.
Friday: Up early and on planes all day. Walked miles through the CO airport on my layover to get some exercise and stretch my legs. Hello, moving walkways, I'm traveling without your help.
Saturday: An early run with superfit, super-duper friend K. After a night of wining and dining, the fresh CA air was almost too good to be true. The bridal shower surprise turned out to be successful as well.
Sunday: A surreal day, with visiting the Farmer's Market, enjoying some time with beloved friend J and soaking up much needed sunshine (apparently I'm "pasty"), and being home...away from "home". Did not look forward to the trip back to NY, oddly enough. I think my soul has been needing some West Coast rest. Prospects for returning were tempting.
Ironically, the losing track of time made me feel like I had never left California - it was so easy to slip back into the charmed life of a Bay Area resident - almost too easy. It left me thinking about the future for a few days however, and getting back to the present would take up time next week....
Present concentration, restored.
(Had to start this post actually on Monday last so I could remember what happened!)
Monday: Workout with a friend - a new circuit at the gym that involved supersets...supersets being two strength-training exercises rolled into one smooth movement, like a lunge with a shoulder press. A surprising amount of sweat cropped up all over the place...and continued well throughout the day. An evening in Queens performing a staged reading proved very successful...especially the subway adventure out and back. First, an evangelist assuredly pronounced to the Queens-bound passengers that Jesus was coming and "Anyone with two boyfriends...will not be going to Heaven." The return trip was even more humorous, as waiting underground for the #7 train for an hour left me feeling like I had just paid $2.25 to sit in a sauna with my clothes on. Funny, no?
Tuesday: A day with torrential thunderstorms, threatening the Shanghai Symphony and NY Philharmonic Central Park event. However, it held off and we camped out under an overcast sky, listening with thousands of others to Bernstein, Tchaikovsky, and Gershwin until it grew dark. Running early in the morning doing speed intervals wore me out...those supersets left me supersore.
Wednesday: Well, at this point, I forgot to write down what I did this day, so let's assume it was successful in terms of having fun and forgetting about time.
Thursday: Packing and running around completing errands before my weekend home. Some time was spent in the gym too, I think.
Friday: Up early and on planes all day. Walked miles through the CO airport on my layover to get some exercise and stretch my legs. Hello, moving walkways, I'm traveling without your help.
Saturday: An early run with superfit, super-duper friend K. After a night of wining and dining, the fresh CA air was almost too good to be true. The bridal shower surprise turned out to be successful as well.
Sunday: A surreal day, with visiting the Farmer's Market, enjoying some time with beloved friend J and soaking up much needed sunshine (apparently I'm "pasty"), and being home...away from "home". Did not look forward to the trip back to NY, oddly enough. I think my soul has been needing some West Coast rest. Prospects for returning were tempting.
Ironically, the losing track of time made me feel like I had never left California - it was so easy to slip back into the charmed life of a Bay Area resident - almost too easy. It left me thinking about the future for a few days however, and getting back to the present would take up time next week....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)