First of all:
THANK YOU!
To the 76 amazing people who have donated to my run so far; you did it! Last Friday afternoon I reached my fundraising goal of $3,500, and let me tell you, I never dreamed that I could raise that much money at all, let alone in 20 days.
It's all if you who make it possible for me to run this race, and it was with those mammoth bragging rights (third highest fundraiser on Canada, baby!) that I forged on into my second music-less group training run. Awake at 6:30 am on a Saturday. Bravely striding forward past the evil scent of Cinnabon. You know the drill. I won't lie - my iPod was concealed in my back pocket should I need to break protocol for this 7K.
But I never had to use it. I nearly made a running friend, but she left me shortly into the run, firstly because I was too slow, and secondly because my conversation skills are considerably limited while I'm trying my utmost to just breathe through my nose. Alternately, she may have run up ahead because she was threatened by my superior fundraising abilities. Who could blame her.
Despite my progress in the friendship area, I was still making none with my enemy - the right side stitch. And so, in the new found spirit of joinery, I jogged up to our most official looking coach, and as I ran alongside him I gasped out my predicament, not unlike the irritating best friend from Malcom in the Middle (remember that atrocious show?).
"Same stitch?" he asked. "Always in that exact same spot?" We discussed (ok, I huffed and nodded, he discussed) the many variables of food and stretching, breathing and hydrating. Yes, I was experimenting with all of these. Would just have to keep at it, I conceded. And then, he looked over at me and he said, "have you ever tried carrying that water bottle in your left hand instead?"
Aha, you're all thinking. What a stupid girl, her alignment was all off from the one sided arm weight. But I wasn't a stupid girl. Halfway through my run I switched the bottle into my left hand and it made no difference - the cramp was firmly entrenched. I finished the distance, but barely.
But wait - I was, in fact, a stupid girl. On Monday night I stepped out onto my porch, water bottle in hand, and thought, I could probably run 3K without water. Might as well give it a shot. And so I ran the scheduled 3K - without a minute of pain. And as I got back to my house, I felt like I could do the same route again. So I did. I might as well have danced that last kilometer of six, and I'm pretty sure I was singing along to my iPod aloud ("excuse me... I might run a little more than I should, tonight..."). I leaped into the living room to announce my success, and if I could have bottled the endorphins that were running through my body, I would have Ebay-ed them for thousands. Or perhaps hoarded them for myself, to use on some dark day in the future.
I couldn't contain my excitement (or even sit down) for about half an hour. My roommate said I was so happy it almost made her want to start running again. Looks like I'm going to have to buy one of those ridiculous belts with all the tiny water bottles that I've always made fun of. They can laugh, I'll be laughing too.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Fire in Your New Shoes
There are certain times (pretty much all of them) and certain people (mainly the ones I care about most) who I cannot fight with without crying. It's an uncontrollable reflex that I despise (and blame heredity for), because it undermines you in an argument.
Picture it - get raging mad, full of venom and frustration, and just when you get to the point where you're going to make your knockout argument, out pour the tears. 'Get back in there!' you scream at them. 'We're not even sad right now, we're just pissed, what are you doing?!' But there's no stopping the flood now - and the more that come out, the angrier you get about it. And the angrier you get... Well, you can see where this is going.
I fought with myself yesterday - my roughest opponent. And while no tears actually came out (I wouldn't let them) it was a close call.
Yesterday was new shoe purchase day and I found what I thought was "the shoe". Now don't assume I've been brainwashed by some jump-cut Nike commercial - I am aware that there is a limited amount of assistance that your equipment can offer before it's all on you. But on the flip side, little malfunctions can drive you nuts (like falling down pants - I now have leggings that pretty much go up to my armpits, senior-in-Florida style, but I am so much happier!), and eventually cause you pain if they're more serious.
Back to the shoes - they're a Nike Pegasus (maybe I was subliminally messaged by Nike after all) and boy was I ready to fly. My previous beloved running shoes were so old that I might as well have been running with a small slab of concrete strapped to each foot for cushioning.
When I got out on the road (leggings pulled up over my belly button as ever) the first few minutes felt like running on two tiny trampolines... The kangaroo heritage in my blood was activated. But it didn't last long before the rest of my body dragged my feet down off the trampolines like quicksand. My shins were still bitter about the time they'd suffered in the old shoes. The familiar stabbing in my side picked up in intensity until I felt Brutus was surely getting his final dig in.
I had tried all day to hydrate, I ate my potassium-rich banana, but no - I still had not appeased the running gods. And so, just as I was at my angriest and most frustrated, and wanted to chuck my water bottle at the heads of the cuddly couple blocking my path on the sidewalk, my tear ducts threatened to mutiny. Which made me angry enough that I refused to let them have their cry. And I drank more water instead of committing assault with the bottle.
Shoe day did have one notable success - like the cartoon penguins, I have happy feet. Now I just have to experiment and tweak until everything from the ankle up feels nearly as content.
Picture it - get raging mad, full of venom and frustration, and just when you get to the point where you're going to make your knockout argument, out pour the tears. 'Get back in there!' you scream at them. 'We're not even sad right now, we're just pissed, what are you doing?!' But there's no stopping the flood now - and the more that come out, the angrier you get about it. And the angrier you get... Well, you can see where this is going.
I fought with myself yesterday - my roughest opponent. And while no tears actually came out (I wouldn't let them) it was a close call.
Yesterday was new shoe purchase day and I found what I thought was "the shoe". Now don't assume I've been brainwashed by some jump-cut Nike commercial - I am aware that there is a limited amount of assistance that your equipment can offer before it's all on you. But on the flip side, little malfunctions can drive you nuts (like falling down pants - I now have leggings that pretty much go up to my armpits, senior-in-Florida style, but I am so much happier!), and eventually cause you pain if they're more serious.
Back to the shoes - they're a Nike Pegasus (maybe I was subliminally messaged by Nike after all) and boy was I ready to fly. My previous beloved running shoes were so old that I might as well have been running with a small slab of concrete strapped to each foot for cushioning.
When I got out on the road (leggings pulled up over my belly button as ever) the first few minutes felt like running on two tiny trampolines... The kangaroo heritage in my blood was activated. But it didn't last long before the rest of my body dragged my feet down off the trampolines like quicksand. My shins were still bitter about the time they'd suffered in the old shoes. The familiar stabbing in my side picked up in intensity until I felt Brutus was surely getting his final dig in.
I had tried all day to hydrate, I ate my potassium-rich banana, but no - I still had not appeased the running gods. And so, just as I was at my angriest and most frustrated, and wanted to chuck my water bottle at the heads of the cuddly couple blocking my path on the sidewalk, my tear ducts threatened to mutiny. Which made me angry enough that I refused to let them have their cry. And I drank more water instead of committing assault with the bottle.
Shoe day did have one notable success - like the cartoon penguins, I have happy feet. Now I just have to experiment and tweak until everything from the ankle up feels nearly as content.
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