Running at midnight
Breathing air like thick pea soup
Blessed are sprinklers
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Championship Belt and Other Myths
Over a month ago (before this blog struggled through its haunting, extended near death experience), while I was in BC, I began a post about the belt that I thought had fixed all my problems. It started like this:
With the wisdom of my coach and my own water-bottle-free revelation, it was time to cave to the will of the belted ones. Out in Vancouver for a conference, I went for a run from my hotel out to Stanley Park, with a conveniently placed Running Room along the way. After choking on the price of the tiny bottled belts ($55 plus tax! For a piece of fabric and a few smurf-sized plastic bottles!), I settled for the kind with one big bottle that sits on your back. I still very much felt that I would belong in the Victoria cruise ship set if I turned it around to the front and pulled on some white knee socks, but I looked at it as I did my winter parka (read: sleeping bag with sleeves)—the death of fashion for the (unfortunately) higher purpose of function. My very own championship belt.
I never finished that post because the conference I was attending sucked up all my time and my energy, and life in general has seemed to do the same ever since. I have over-scheduled myself to a ridiculous degree, as tends to happen with my precious summer. At the end of the day, when my bed is singing that hypnotic song that calls me to its irresistible comforts (it sounds a lot like like Sarah Jessica Parker's creepy chant in Hocus Pocus: "come little Amy I'll taaaaaake thee away..."), the last thing I want to do is sit down and write something profound. Or worse, something crappy.
Training hasn't exactly been going so well. The Lance Armstrong certified Nikes that I waxed poetic about failed me. I could feel my knees and shins creaking in anger even when I wasn't running, and when I went into the Running Room to give insoles a try, I was told by a very knowledgeable fellow that these shoes were cushy, yes, but also very wrong for my feet. Thus began a parade of shoe purchases and returns, in all brands, from all stores. I am currently running in pair number five, and when even they made my feet go numb, it was podiatrist time.
Turns out I have two different feet... No surprise that not a pair of runners in the hemisphere could cater to both of their opposing demands. And so I've had casts made of my feet for orthotics (joy), which every man, woman, child and their cat seem to have prescribed to them as soon as they enter a podiatry office.
No matter—if they can help my feet I am on board. But I'm trying not to wrap all my dreams up in them. Because there really isn't any lasting 'fix'. No magical belt, no sweat-wicking shirt, no perfect shoe that will suddenly make it all easy. Some days, with all of my gear and preparations seemingly aligned with the stars, I still feel as though I am running on the borrowed legs of someone twice my age. I thought of my dad, who turned 57 last week, getting up at 5 am on a Sunday and running 16 km in shoes he most likely grabbed off a warped shelf at Wal-Mart. No music, no water belt, no fancy pants. I am a sissy in comparison.
This doesn't mean I won't take advantage of the gear I have access to. But the gear that is most telling is permanently connected to my hip bones, and didn't cost a penny. I will keep running on these borrowed legs until they are no longer.
With the wisdom of my coach and my own water-bottle-free revelation, it was time to cave to the will of the belted ones. Out in Vancouver for a conference, I went for a run from my hotel out to Stanley Park, with a conveniently placed Running Room along the way. After choking on the price of the tiny bottled belts ($55 plus tax! For a piece of fabric and a few smurf-sized plastic bottles!), I settled for the kind with one big bottle that sits on your back. I still very much felt that I would belong in the Victoria cruise ship set if I turned it around to the front and pulled on some white knee socks, but I looked at it as I did my winter parka (read: sleeping bag with sleeves)—the death of fashion for the (unfortunately) higher purpose of function. My very own championship belt.
I never finished that post because the conference I was attending sucked up all my time and my energy, and life in general has seemed to do the same ever since. I have over-scheduled myself to a ridiculous degree, as tends to happen with my precious summer. At the end of the day, when my bed is singing that hypnotic song that calls me to its irresistible comforts (it sounds a lot like like Sarah Jessica Parker's creepy chant in Hocus Pocus: "come little Amy I'll taaaaaake thee away..."), the last thing I want to do is sit down and write something profound. Or worse, something crappy.
Training hasn't exactly been going so well. The Lance Armstrong certified Nikes that I waxed poetic about failed me. I could feel my knees and shins creaking in anger even when I wasn't running, and when I went into the Running Room to give insoles a try, I was told by a very knowledgeable fellow that these shoes were cushy, yes, but also very wrong for my feet. Thus began a parade of shoe purchases and returns, in all brands, from all stores. I am currently running in pair number five, and when even they made my feet go numb, it was podiatrist time.
Turns out I have two different feet... No surprise that not a pair of runners in the hemisphere could cater to both of their opposing demands. And so I've had casts made of my feet for orthotics (joy), which every man, woman, child and their cat seem to have prescribed to them as soon as they enter a podiatry office.
No matter—if they can help my feet I am on board. But I'm trying not to wrap all my dreams up in them. Because there really isn't any lasting 'fix'. No magical belt, no sweat-wicking shirt, no perfect shoe that will suddenly make it all easy. Some days, with all of my gear and preparations seemingly aligned with the stars, I still feel as though I am running on the borrowed legs of someone twice my age. I thought of my dad, who turned 57 last week, getting up at 5 am on a Sunday and running 16 km in shoes he most likely grabbed off a warped shelf at Wal-Mart. No music, no water belt, no fancy pants. I am a sissy in comparison.
This doesn't mean I won't take advantage of the gear I have access to. But the gear that is most telling is permanently connected to my hip bones, and didn't cost a penny. I will keep running on these borrowed legs until they are no longer.
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