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.
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.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Club Beats
Have you ever felt like various parts of your body are at war with each other when you exercise? That was not the case this morning; they were in cahoots. It was a big dance party in my torso at 6 am.
It started well—the heart began with a nice baseline (thump-thud, thump-thud, thump-thud), and then the lungs chimed in (nts nts nts nts). The feet tapped out a snappy little melody.
But all too soon, this party took a turn for the douche. The stomach, drunk on peanut butter, started grumbling and stumbling about, like a dj who thinks his slurred shouting into the mic can improve a set. The side was in deep potassium withdrawal (just out of rehab), and it broke out the dreaded club siren, building to a deafening pitch. And just when you thought that was as bad as it gets, the ovaries blared the dreaded air horn.
Please just settle down and let me run, everyone—there's a new dj in town tomorrow morning.
It started well—the heart began with a nice baseline (thump-thud, thump-thud, thump-thud), and then the lungs chimed in (nts nts nts nts). The feet tapped out a snappy little melody.
But all too soon, this party took a turn for the douche. The stomach, drunk on peanut butter, started grumbling and stumbling about, like a dj who thinks his slurred shouting into the mic can improve a set. The side was in deep potassium withdrawal (just out of rehab), and it broke out the dreaded club siren, building to a deafening pitch. And just when you thought that was as bad as it gets, the ovaries blared the dreaded air horn.
Please just settle down and let me run, everyone—there's a new dj in town tomorrow morning.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Noise Complaint
Today I had to do my first pre-work run in a long time. I have a schedule for my training, and while I'm going to run at night whenever I can, if I have evening plans then it's gotta be a 6:30 wake up. Or a painful, drawn out 6:52, in the case of this morning. As I hauled/peeled/forced/yanked/winced (choose your own awful verb!) my way out of my warm, fluffy duvet, I looked outside at the rain with my squinty eyes—a definite treadmill day.
A moment's pause to thank my dad for not forcing me to give that treadmill back, even though he has now moved into a house that obviously has the space for it. Also to my roommates, for letting me keep it behind the couch in the living room (an interior decorator's dream), despite the fact that we don't have a lot of space for it. And a special nod to my iPhone case, for bravely protecting my phone against the brutal face of the subway floor while i just dropped it mid-paragraph. I digress.
I got on the treadmill. For the first lap or two I wasn't even fully conscious that I was running. Once I woke up a little, I realized I was trying to run kind of quietly (which you definitively cannot do on a treadmill, I know this). I didn't want to wake the downstairs neighbour. Then, my mind flashed back to two nights ago; our new basement neighbour's Incredible Howling Beagle (an interesting superhero name, no?) left alone at 12:30, baying as though the world would soon end. But end it did not. IHB was still howling continuously at 1:30 am. And 2:30. And 3:30. And shoot me.
Banging out my run through the ceiling suddenly didn't seem so bad. And by the time the song from 28 Weeks Later came up on my playlist, I was flying. The song is called In The House In An Instant, by the way: the best building crescendo song of all time. It is not for use outside at night, however, because if you have seen the movie, you'll become convinced that you're running for your life from the 'infected'.
Twenty minutes later I had a text message from downstairs, asking what that loud banging was, and wasn't it "a little early for that." A little early indeed, neighbour. Ah, poetic retribution.
A moment's pause to thank my dad for not forcing me to give that treadmill back, even though he has now moved into a house that obviously has the space for it. Also to my roommates, for letting me keep it behind the couch in the living room (an interior decorator's dream), despite the fact that we don't have a lot of space for it. And a special nod to my iPhone case, for bravely protecting my phone against the brutal face of the subway floor while i just dropped it mid-paragraph. I digress.
I got on the treadmill. For the first lap or two I wasn't even fully conscious that I was running. Once I woke up a little, I realized I was trying to run kind of quietly (which you definitively cannot do on a treadmill, I know this). I didn't want to wake the downstairs neighbour. Then, my mind flashed back to two nights ago; our new basement neighbour's Incredible Howling Beagle (an interesting superhero name, no?) left alone at 12:30, baying as though the world would soon end. But end it did not. IHB was still howling continuously at 1:30 am. And 2:30. And 3:30. And shoot me.
Banging out my run through the ceiling suddenly didn't seem so bad. And by the time the song from 28 Weeks Later came up on my playlist, I was flying. The song is called In The House In An Instant, by the way: the best building crescendo song of all time. It is not for use outside at night, however, because if you have seen the movie, you'll become convinced that you're running for your life from the 'infected'.
Twenty minutes later I had a text message from downstairs, asking what that loud banging was, and wasn't it "a little early for that." A little early indeed, neighbour. Ah, poetic retribution.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The Lone Wolf
My roommate once told me (in a complimentary fashion, I hope), that I am a "lone wolf". She has a point—I'm not exactly a prolific joiner. I love my close friends, but I'm not much for networking, and I have also been informed that my Neutral Bitch Face (NBF - a condition in which one's natural, neutral expression looks unwelcoming and superior, despite their feelings to the contrary) is detrimental to my first impressions.
Sometimes, however, when I know it would be good for me, I force myself into joiner-ish situations. Herein lies the reason for this blog's creation; I have signed myself up for the Nike Women's Half Marathon in San Francisco, with a fundraising group called Team In Training. I did this for a lot of reasons.
One: I would like to run the New York City Marathon. I don't know when, I don't quite know how, but I would like to do it before I die. And I think this is another step in that direction.
Two: I needed a 'thing'. I've been feeling pretty stagnant lately, and I needed something that I was working on, a goal to move towards. Blame my father, he had me writing a list of about 20 goals/resolutions down every New Year's Eve when I was a kid - and I loved it.
Three; helping others. My goal is to raise $3,500 for Leukemia and Lymphoma research before the half marathon. This seems somewhat crazy at the moment, but I'm told that other participants achieve that and more every season, so I'm going to do my best to live up to my promise. (If you want to help out, go here.)
Four: the travel. I have always wanted to go to San Francisco, and I'll be the first to admit to my travel addiction; I never say no to another trip.
Now to return to my lone wolf-ness - yesterday morning I got up at 6:30 (what have I done?) to go for our first group training run, up at Yonge and Eg. I bravely passed by the intoxicating scent of Cinnabon (how does anyone who uses that station face it on a daily basis?), I wore my special team t-shirt, I even clapped and quietly "woohoo-ed" (I am so not a woo girl...) when we were supposed to be team spirity. But then one of our coaches announced his no headphones policy. I had a minor panic attack. What do you mean no headphones?? No music? No motivational Dragonette lighting a fire in my new shoes? But why?
The reasons were not ones of training, but of socializing. To meet new people and talk while we ran. I am only mildly ashamed to say that this filled me with an irrational anger. Why would I want to do that? How can you breathe properly while you're talking?
As much as I am a lone wolf, I am also generally a rule follower. So I did it. I crammed my iPod (I'm so sorry, little Pheidippides) into the tiny back pocket of my stretchy pants, and proceeded to run the longest and least fun 5K of my life. I did run alongside some new people, though I can't say I did much talking.
One of the trainers promised me afterward that training with other people would inevitably speed up my race time. I'm not exactly convinced yet, but I'll keep you posted as I test out the pack life.
Sometimes, however, when I know it would be good for me, I force myself into joiner-ish situations. Herein lies the reason for this blog's creation; I have signed myself up for the Nike Women's Half Marathon in San Francisco, with a fundraising group called Team In Training. I did this for a lot of reasons.
One: I would like to run the New York City Marathon. I don't know when, I don't quite know how, but I would like to do it before I die. And I think this is another step in that direction.
Two: I needed a 'thing'. I've been feeling pretty stagnant lately, and I needed something that I was working on, a goal to move towards. Blame my father, he had me writing a list of about 20 goals/resolutions down every New Year's Eve when I was a kid - and I loved it.
Three; helping others. My goal is to raise $3,500 for Leukemia and Lymphoma research before the half marathon. This seems somewhat crazy at the moment, but I'm told that other participants achieve that and more every season, so I'm going to do my best to live up to my promise. (If you want to help out, go here.)
Four: the travel. I have always wanted to go to San Francisco, and I'll be the first to admit to my travel addiction; I never say no to another trip.
Now to return to my lone wolf-ness - yesterday morning I got up at 6:30 (what have I done?) to go for our first group training run, up at Yonge and Eg. I bravely passed by the intoxicating scent of Cinnabon (how does anyone who uses that station face it on a daily basis?), I wore my special team t-shirt, I even clapped and quietly "woohoo-ed" (I am so not a woo girl...) when we were supposed to be team spirity. But then one of our coaches announced his no headphones policy. I had a minor panic attack. What do you mean no headphones?? No music? No motivational Dragonette lighting a fire in my new shoes? But why?
The reasons were not ones of training, but of socializing. To meet new people and talk while we ran. I am only mildly ashamed to say that this filled me with an irrational anger. Why would I want to do that? How can you breathe properly while you're talking?
As much as I am a lone wolf, I am also generally a rule follower. So I did it. I crammed my iPod (I'm so sorry, little Pheidippides) into the tiny back pocket of my stretchy pants, and proceeded to run the longest and least fun 5K of my life. I did run alongside some new people, though I can't say I did much talking.
One of the trainers promised me afterward that training with other people would inevitably speed up my race time. I'm not exactly convinced yet, but I'll keep you posted as I test out the pack life.
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