For weeks now, every night I have been pushing the little blue "Write Blog Post" bubble in my iCal over onto the next tomorrow. Given that I only have four more tomorrows until I actually run the race, it seemed about time to write something already.
A lot has happened - most notably, I ran the full 21K distance up at my cottage (please let those hills somewhat approximate what the actual run is like...), then jumped directly into the lake, pants and all. I can only hope my actual run is so victorious. Because there have sure been a surplus of not-so-victorious moments along the way.
Some lessons that I have learned this time around:
- I am terrible at writing consistent blog posts. This is a lesson any fool who has attempted to read this site regularly has also learned. Actual running trumps blog. Sleep trumps everything. Those are the rules.
- More than energy or fitness, training requires a commitment of time. When I signed up, I needed something to fill some time, to give it a goal. Now I can't wait to get all those evenings back, to run if I want, or do whatever the heck else I feel like doing. Including sitting on the couch and eating cookies for dinner until I feel sick.
- I really like alone time. I kind of failed at my goal to make friends through TNT. And the honest reason is not because anybody wasn't willing - every participant was more than friendly. The real reason is; I didn't try very hard. I like running alone. I have my best runs when I'm alone. I'm ok with that.
- People are really, unbelievably generous. I don't know if I'll ever be able to raise $4,000 for anything ever again. I fear it may be one of those situations where I've played my charity card, and you really can't overdo it with that card. But I will never cease to be amazed by the generosity of the most unexpected people. Thank you.
- There are three kinds of runs:
Number one, the Just F-ing Kill Me, is the most disheartening of the runs. 3K feels like 30K, mild cramps feel like bullet wounds, half marathons feel impossible. No you can't (the motto Obama wisely decided against). End of story.
Number two is the Comme Ci Comme Ça - it says, "hey, I'm French so I'm somewhat apathetic, but maybe this is doable." Perhaps, with a lot of pain in the process, I could finish this whole crazy thing. Maybe. If I can puff through the knee pain.
Number three is the Run of Gods. This is the kind of situation where i wish I could sell those few moments of adrenaline and endorphins produced. This is invincibility, world domination, superhuman endurance. There is nothing I can't do - that vertical climb is cake.
There are enough number ones and twos to make the threes a rarity - and thus all the more incredible. Without the benefit of contrast, we'd never know euphoria, right?
- There's no such thing as a "quick run". Even 3K involves a prep regimen to get things started on the right hamstring. Hydrating at work, eating, waiting for the food to settle, the gross sinus rinse process, clothing, water bottle filling, headphone wire placement. Do they all sound superficial, yes. But just today I thought I could skip a couple of steps and was felled by side cramps on a measly 3K run. Even the shortest shortcuts are no good.
- San Francisco is a hilly place. Not exactly a surprise, but I've taken a second look at the elevation chart, and I remain too afraid to put it in context for myself. On Sunday I will learn just how that chart translates to reality.
I will also learn how well I have prepared, though I will finish the thing if I have to crawl up those hills on hand and knee. And Sunday night will then involve room service and expensive hotel movies, in the company of my Tiffany finisher's necklace. Because perhaps the most important lesson I've learned, is that tireless perseverance should be handsomely rewarded.
See you on the flip side.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Hill Training
It's been another shamefully long silence since my last post, but I was inspired by my run today. I've been on a bit of a quest for the past few weeks, to find hills that I think could approximate something San Franciscan - flat Toronto doesn't have a whole lot to offer. Except (extreme forehead-slapping moment) a wicked valley about two seconds away from my house that I didn't even think of until now. Nine hills, one functional nostril, and still I had one of those runs that makes you feel like a god, drunk on endorphins.
It made me think about the philosophy of slow and steady winning the race, the tortoise and the hare, those old chestnuts. While they remain my guiding principles for my actual race pacing, that's certainly not how training has ever felt to me.
Three weekends ago I had my comeback run. It was my first official, all-in, post-laryngitis effort (don't worry, I'm knocking on a hardcover in my purse as a type - that counts as wood, right?) and it was So. Damn. Good. I was set to run 11K, but I figured it was probably a pipe dream at that stage of recovery, so I went in with no expectations. It turned out to be the kind of run that keeps me purchasing running shoes. No aches and pains, because my muscles weren't sore from a previous day's work. Perfect legging and tank top cohesion, which sounds ridiculous, but anyone who has had a run in new pants (after tossing old ones that were slipping down every three steps) knows the joy I am talking about.
The most magical moment, however, was when it almost fell apart - I got a little tired, a little bored with my playlist, a little overheated. Ok, a lot overheated - which was weird because it wasn't that hot, and it was dark out. Don't tell my mom about that; we have a don't ask don't tell agreement where she gets to pretend that I never, ever, run after sunset. Anyway, I was praying for rain. I'm not really a praying sort of person, so it was more like doing a little rain jog. And then, it happened - the clouds opened up, and on the count of one, two, amazing-Lady-Gaga-mash-up (8 Tracks, you have changed my life), the clouds opened up and I got my rain run. My iPod even did this creepy thing where it pumps up the volume completely of it's own accord. There I was in my own running shoe commercial, dripping wet and polishing off 11K, much the way I would later polish off an unreasonably large piece of pralines and cream birthday ice cream cake. It was magic.
Fast forward now to two Saturdays ago, when I rose at the crack of this-is-a-bloody-stupid-time-for-anyone-to-be-awake-on-a-Saturday-unless-they-are-still-finishing-off-Friday-night, and subwayed uptown to do a 19K group run. It was the longest distance I have ever covered that was a not a half marathon in itself. I ate a whole six pack of those gummy gel shot things, and they were both delicious and energizing. But if I have to stop, break, and walk, I consider it an unsuccessful run. Lost in Sunnybrook park (Can we please stop having runs there? Picturesque: yes, easy to navigate: no.), I used my little remaining energy to stop myself from crying, and I had to stop for a brief walk. I won't lie, I was rather crushed.
I kept running, eventually, but it was a constant, bitter struggle against my limbs. When I made it back to the gym where we meet, one of my lovely, enthusiastic co-runners asked how far I had gone, and then exclaimed with glee that I was "set" for my race. "But I had to stop and walk a few times..." I gave my feeble disclaimer. "But you still covered 19K!" Was her incredulous reply. She was probably right, but I still felt like hell. The duration of the run was awful, and I didn't feel any of that awesome payoff at the end. I couldn't wait for the final run to be over, so I could return to my post-office dates with the couch.
After tonight I'm back on top of the world, and I'm realizing that this entire, months-long process is a lot like hill training (and a little like manic depression...). Sometimes I am way up, and at others I feel as low as the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum (name that movie!). I will never be one of those people who wholeheartedly loves the act of running. I love it when it makes me feel good, and put up with it when it doesn't. Eventually there will always be another blissful downhill stretch, right?
It made me think about the philosophy of slow and steady winning the race, the tortoise and the hare, those old chestnuts. While they remain my guiding principles for my actual race pacing, that's certainly not how training has ever felt to me.
Three weekends ago I had my comeback run. It was my first official, all-in, post-laryngitis effort (don't worry, I'm knocking on a hardcover in my purse as a type - that counts as wood, right?) and it was So. Damn. Good. I was set to run 11K, but I figured it was probably a pipe dream at that stage of recovery, so I went in with no expectations. It turned out to be the kind of run that keeps me purchasing running shoes. No aches and pains, because my muscles weren't sore from a previous day's work. Perfect legging and tank top cohesion, which sounds ridiculous, but anyone who has had a run in new pants (after tossing old ones that were slipping down every three steps) knows the joy I am talking about.
The most magical moment, however, was when it almost fell apart - I got a little tired, a little bored with my playlist, a little overheated. Ok, a lot overheated - which was weird because it wasn't that hot, and it was dark out. Don't tell my mom about that; we have a don't ask don't tell agreement where she gets to pretend that I never, ever, run after sunset. Anyway, I was praying for rain. I'm not really a praying sort of person, so it was more like doing a little rain jog. And then, it happened - the clouds opened up, and on the count of one, two, amazing-Lady-Gaga-mash-up (8 Tracks, you have changed my life), the clouds opened up and I got my rain run. My iPod even did this creepy thing where it pumps up the volume completely of it's own accord. There I was in my own running shoe commercial, dripping wet and polishing off 11K, much the way I would later polish off an unreasonably large piece of pralines and cream birthday ice cream cake. It was magic.
Fast forward now to two Saturdays ago, when I rose at the crack of this-is-a-bloody-stupid-time-for-anyone-to-be-awake-on-a-Saturday-unless-they-are-still-finishing-off-Friday-night, and subwayed uptown to do a 19K group run. It was the longest distance I have ever covered that was a not a half marathon in itself. I ate a whole six pack of those gummy gel shot things, and they were both delicious and energizing. But if I have to stop, break, and walk, I consider it an unsuccessful run. Lost in Sunnybrook park (Can we please stop having runs there? Picturesque: yes, easy to navigate: no.), I used my little remaining energy to stop myself from crying, and I had to stop for a brief walk. I won't lie, I was rather crushed.
I kept running, eventually, but it was a constant, bitter struggle against my limbs. When I made it back to the gym where we meet, one of my lovely, enthusiastic co-runners asked how far I had gone, and then exclaimed with glee that I was "set" for my race. "But I had to stop and walk a few times..." I gave my feeble disclaimer. "But you still covered 19K!" Was her incredulous reply. She was probably right, but I still felt like hell. The duration of the run was awful, and I didn't feel any of that awesome payoff at the end. I couldn't wait for the final run to be over, so I could return to my post-office dates with the couch.
After tonight I'm back on top of the world, and I'm realizing that this entire, months-long process is a lot like hill training (and a little like manic depression...). Sometimes I am way up, and at others I feel as low as the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum (name that movie!). I will never be one of those people who wholeheartedly loves the act of running. I love it when it makes me feel good, and put up with it when it doesn't. Eventually there will always be another blissful downhill stretch, right?
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Halls of Shame
It has been two weeks since my last entry, and 11 days since my last run. It was a beautiful late night 15K, involving approach by a potential zombie, one short pit stop for air conditioning rehab, my first successful use of gel chew thingamabobs (so delicious!), and the first time in a long time that I arrived on my front porch and thought, wow, I might actually be able to do this thing in San Francisco.
And then, two days later, I awoke with the fires of hell bottled inside my throat; laryngitis. I've been speaking in part mouse-squeak, part man-voice for a full week now, and running has been out of the question.
In my quest to restore my health, I have consumed many things. Herbal remedies I can't pronounce from my lovely great aunt, tea, honey, a full 12 pack of root beer (the fizzing tastes like relief), ginger ale, iron and B12 supplements (boss says I just need a cheeseburger to make everything better), mutter paneer delivered by my father, cake and promotional Hershey's chocolate drops delivered by my brother, leftover codeine syrup from my bronchitis days, and in the highest volume: Halls of all flavours, left thoughtfully on the coffee table by my roommate.
Oh Halls. We have such a complicated history together. You're the partner in a relationship I love to hate. You get me to sleep, but you also leave a disgusting residue in my mouth. You suppress my cough for a moment, but when you are done with me I fear my throat is in an even worse condition than before. Despite our ups and downs together, however, you really have always been there for me, waiting conveniently at Shopper's Drug Mart, and so I forgave you your shortcomings. Until this round.
Peeling open a particularly shiny-looking pack of lozenges, I noticed new blue writing on the individual wrappers. Upon closer inspection, Halls was telling me to "March forward!" and "Don't try harder. Do harder!" Do what harder? Cough? I was instantly reminded of my outrage upon being given a box of Dove chocolates, when I discovered that inside each foil wrapper was a sappily patronizing "inspirational message" for women, such as "Shopping makes everything better!" Barf.
My friend Halls had turned on me. "Let's hear your battle cry"? I can't, I don't have a voice. Or do they mean the teary kind of cry, from the razor blade throat pain? But with my anger weakened more recently by my (incredibly) slowly mending body, I decided to answer one of Halls' calls to me. It suggested that I "impress myself today". And so, last night I built my mountain of pillows for vertical sleeping, and set out on an epic quest to rest without the aid of codeine, or even Halls. How did it go? 'Sleep' is a relative term in this case - 'cough while in bed' is perhaps more accurate. This morning I awoke, and just as Halls suggested, I was thoroughly impressed; by my body's ability to crave a single REM cycle more intensely than my roommate craves my last piece of chocolate birthday cake in our fridge.
Training is going brilliantly, in case you were wondering.
And then, two days later, I awoke with the fires of hell bottled inside my throat; laryngitis. I've been speaking in part mouse-squeak, part man-voice for a full week now, and running has been out of the question.
In my quest to restore my health, I have consumed many things. Herbal remedies I can't pronounce from my lovely great aunt, tea, honey, a full 12 pack of root beer (the fizzing tastes like relief), ginger ale, iron and B12 supplements (boss says I just need a cheeseburger to make everything better), mutter paneer delivered by my father, cake and promotional Hershey's chocolate drops delivered by my brother, leftover codeine syrup from my bronchitis days, and in the highest volume: Halls of all flavours, left thoughtfully on the coffee table by my roommate.
Oh Halls. We have such a complicated history together. You're the partner in a relationship I love to hate. You get me to sleep, but you also leave a disgusting residue in my mouth. You suppress my cough for a moment, but when you are done with me I fear my throat is in an even worse condition than before. Despite our ups and downs together, however, you really have always been there for me, waiting conveniently at Shopper's Drug Mart, and so I forgave you your shortcomings. Until this round.
Peeling open a particularly shiny-looking pack of lozenges, I noticed new blue writing on the individual wrappers. Upon closer inspection, Halls was telling me to "March forward!" and "Don't try harder. Do harder!" Do what harder? Cough? I was instantly reminded of my outrage upon being given a box of Dove chocolates, when I discovered that inside each foil wrapper was a sappily patronizing "inspirational message" for women, such as "Shopping makes everything better!" Barf.
My friend Halls had turned on me. "Let's hear your battle cry"? I can't, I don't have a voice. Or do they mean the teary kind of cry, from the razor blade throat pain? But with my anger weakened more recently by my (incredibly) slowly mending body, I decided to answer one of Halls' calls to me. It suggested that I "impress myself today". And so, last night I built my mountain of pillows for vertical sleeping, and set out on an epic quest to rest without the aid of codeine, or even Halls. How did it go? 'Sleep' is a relative term in this case - 'cough while in bed' is perhaps more accurate. This morning I awoke, and just as Halls suggested, I was thoroughly impressed; by my body's ability to crave a single REM cycle more intensely than my roommate craves my last piece of chocolate birthday cake in our fridge.
Training is going brilliantly, in case you were wondering.
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.
Friday, June 10, 2011
The Charlie Sheen of TNT Events
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.
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 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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