Could I Possibly Be Any Slower?!

My husband liked to tease me when I first started "running".  He used to say that he could walk as fast as I ran.  And it was true, too, but at the time I would think, "So? At least I can keep it up for a while."  And I also thought that in time I would get fitter, stronger, and faster.  Fast forward seven years, and in the place of that runner stands a thin, wiry, fit woman who easily keeps up a nine minute per mile pace for four miles.

Er...not quite.

Before I go any farther in this musing, I would like to state three things: a)I KNOW it doesn't matter how fast I go, just as long as I get there. b) I KNOW I will become faster and stronger as long as I continue working hard. c) This is NOT a whiny showcase of low self-esteem.  You don't have to encourage me with a "No, you're doing great!" although those comments go a LONG WAY in helping me continue.  No, this is just a field note about where I am in this journey, and it will help me appreciate how far I've come when I get to my destination.

So back to the thin, wiry, fit woman.  I'll be the first to say I am neither thin (well rounded is how I like to describe myself,) wiry (more like stout,) and my "race pace" is a blistering twelve minutes per mile on a good run.  

I suppose it does bear saying that I had two long breaks in my seven year running career.  The first was when my daughter Mia was born in 2005.  I probably didn't get back into the rhythm of running for at least a year.  Then in 2007, when my second daughter Nikki was born, I quit running for another year.  In the summer of 2008 I joined a gym and started weight training, took a few group exercise classes, and around February of this year got on the treadmill and started slowly cranking up the speed.  And by "cranking up" I mean starting off at 4.0, then 4.5, then 5.0...two miles in 30 minutes, two miles in 28 minutes...I remember how much I worked to get my two miles down to 24 minutes or so.  I should add, however, that this was with a quarter mile or so of walking to warm up.  Then, in May of this year, I saw the little blurb in the People's Church bulletin..."Think you could never run a marathon?  Well, you can!"   That was all I needed, that and a little prayer to push me completely out of my running comfort zone and into the world of half marathon training.

It's both exhilarating and intimidating to train with a group.  A person finds out she's not the only runner in the world.  She also finds out she's not the fastest, or the slowest (if you include the walkers, God bless their souls,) the most fit, or the most out of shape.  But it certainly is an eye opener when you think you've been working hard and realize you are probably one of the slowest, if not THE slowest, runner in the group.  

I've been lapped several times by the trainers when out at the track.  Yes, these are the trainers, the "elite" of our little group.  But I've also watched in dismay during a Saturday run as an older lady with a bum knee slowly pulled away from me, then disappeared.  I was passed last week by just about everyone running the five miles, and some even doing the six, even though I turned back early out of concern for a friend.  I gasp on intervals at an 8mph pace.  I run out of gas so quickly on striders it's almost like someone pricked a balloon with a pin and *pffpfffffff*....aaand she's down!  

But I will continue on.  On my last run at the gym in my brand new shoes I did three miles in under 40 minutes, even though it felt like I had two concrete blocks strapped to my feet (more on that in the next post.)  So I am doing better.  I can go farther, if not all that much faster.  I can do the "warm ups"- although for me it's more of a workout-the skipping, high knee running, etc., with Roland fairly easily.  I can puff through a few 200m intervals at, say, an 8:30 minute pace fairly well.  I think I'm getting faster on the Saturday runs, although it's nearly impossible to tell for sure how far I go.  

So I'm not going to quit.  I'm not going to quit, and I'm going to continue trying to up my speed.  I may not be fast in my legs, but I'm fast in my mind.  And someday, the two just might meet up.  The fastest I've ever run a mile was in junior high when I was on the volleyball team.  A monumental 9:27 minute mile.  It was such an accomplishment I remember the time to this day.  And if I can ever do that again, I'm sure the time will be locked into my brain with all of my other hard earned accomplishments, large or small.

I was on Runner'sworld.com the other day and was reading John "The Penguin" Bingham's blog about running for no one else but yourself.  He'd said he was finishing a half marathon and was nearing the finish line when the crowd started cheering.  "What!" he thought.  "Are they cheering for me?" Then he realized the leader of the marathon runners was about to cross the finish line ahead of him.  But John didn't let this bother him.  He realized his accomplishment of finishing the half was just as remarkable as the other man's winning the marathon.  After all, he stated, "The miracle wasn't that I finished.  The miracle was that I had the courage to start."

Until the next run...

Coming soon..."Adidas vs. Brooks: Finding the Perfect Shoe"

Sunrise, Sunset

I have a love/hate relationship with Saturday mornings now.  First day of the weekend, Tony's off work, meeting the other MASHers for a nice long run.  What's not to love?  On the other hand, getting up at 5:45am, driving twenty minutes, meeting the other MASHers for a nice long run.  

When I was in school I hated getting up in the mornings.  Anything before ten o' clock was too early, and I would habitually stay in bed until the very last minute before throwing back the covers, washing up, eating, and running out the door to the carpool/bus stop/car.  It got to the point where, if I didn't get at least seven hours of sleep (preferably nine) I would be bleary eyed for most of the morning and have uncomfortable knots in my stomach until I got to take a nap after school.

So voluntarily waking BEFORE six in the morning was inconceivable to me just a few short weeks ago!  Oh, I would wake early for college classes, and later, for work as a teacher at an elementary school, but neither commitment got me out of bed before six-thirty.  I would schedule most college classes for mid-morning and was blessed with only a ten to fifteen minute commute to work, thus allowing me to continue the stay-in-bed-until-the-last-possible-minute routine.

I must admit I found out about the 6:30am Saturday morning long runs only AFTER I had signed up with MASH.  But, surprisingly, there was only a moment of "What have I done?"  I consoled myself by remembering that I could nap later in the day, or even in mid-morning, since Tony would be able to watch the girls.  

I never realized before just how beautiful sunrises are.  I've seen countless sunsets; those in my parent's neighborhood as the sun set over the empty bluffs were amazing.  I've seen the sun set on the California coast and off the shores of Hawaii, where a dazzling white line skims the top of the sun as it sinks seemingly into the water.  But I may have seen one, maybe two sunrises, and these I don't remember.  

There seems to be a different look to a sunrise as compared to a sunset.  Sunrises are brighter, with more whites and pinks and grays reflecting off of the clouds, if any.  Sunsets are more orange and red and yellow and fade quickly into the dark that follows on its heels.  Both are beautiful, both stir something in the soul, both remind me of God's presence in the world.  

When I drive eastward towards the sunrise I am struck with the realization of how many things a person can miss when the box we have carved in the world stays closed.  What passes us by when we make no effort to change, to try, to succeed.  When I step out of my car into the chilly dawn air I realize that yes, I did wake before six in the morning, and yes, I have survived.   And then I wonder, what other things am I capable of?

Coming soon..."Could I Possibly Be Any Slower?!"

And So It Begins...

So I just got back from my first Thursday training run for the Two Cities Half Marathon.  I'm running with MASH-I don't remember what it stands for and am too lazy right now to check-but they (we, I suppose) are a group that is raising funds for Medical Ministries International.  This organization provides medical supplies and basic medical care to nations around the globe.  

The team meets on Saturdays for a long run, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays for training runs.  The Saturday run is the more important of the three, as this is where distance training takes place.  Tonight we did intervals, which is slow runs interspersed with sprinting.

I arrived at Rio Vista school at about 6:50pm, elated that the location was so close to where we live.  I'm used to getting in the car and driving for at least 20 minutes when attending church events or visiting friends.  This was a five minute drive!  Yay!  There were about four or five people milling in front of the bleachers that faced the track.  I walked over and introduced myself.

Now, let me be clear that I have never, ever, run a race before.  Not a 5k, 10k, not even a two mile walk/run.  I pray it was the Holy Spirit that possessed me to sign up for this.  The Spirit, and the opportunity of getting to wear a team t-shirt and experiencing the bond that comes with reaching a difficult goal.  

Everyone was very nice.  Most were beginning runners, one was a walker; one girl was young and relatively small (relative to me...I consider myself big bone-ded) and looked fast.  I talked to a few as we waited for the coaches.  

It was pleasant to see a familiar face come towards us...Shane H.  I had gone to junior high and high school with him, and later ran into him occasionally at People's.  He is now a pastor at Northpoint, and has as much energy now as he did then, according to one of the others.

So we began.  We walked, we ran, we jogged, we slogged.  I walked a bit in the beginning, then broke into a jog and tried to do a few intervals.  I have to say, the first mile or so was tough.  I think I started out too quickly and didn't warm up enough.  My breath was coming too fast and I felt like stopping after three laps.  Then I hit my stride and was able to run fairly well, with two or so walking breaks.  I was slow, but steady.  I quit with the intervals halfway through, because I wasn't going very fast on them anyway.  My legs were already tired from a hard run the day before, and refused to sprint.  I gladly complied.

But it was a great run.  I love it when it feels like my legs can go on running forever, even if pace is just a notch above walking.  I love the sweat, the effort.  I like the idea that I will be fitter, faster, and hopefully thinner next week, next month...and I wonder how my running will be in six months.  Will I be able to break an 11 minute per mile pace?  I didn't even know how fast I was running because I lost count of my laps after the third time around.  Will I be able to even finish 13.1 miles?  I've never gone more than 3.5 in my life.  Will I be able to even wake up early enough for the 6:30am (gasp!) Saturday runs?  

I like to think I'll do okay.  With God, lots of water and new shoes, I'll slog through.  And just might make a new friend or two along the way.

Until the next run...

Fitness Foray

I hated running when I was young.  To be specific, I hated running when it was a forced, timed, results based event, i.e., the twice yearly mile run.  I was introduced to this dreadful event in  junior high.  Around the small eighth of a mile track we had to slog eight times.  In high school, the track got bigger, the lap number smaller.  Four times around a seemingly huge rubbery oval.  

I also can't do a pull up.  Never could.  In elementary school we had the choice of doing a pull up, a flexed arm hang, or, for those of us who could do neither, a laying pull up, which involved laying on your back with your hands clasping a bar, and pulling your chin up to meet it.  Not fun.  I could do, say, three or four before I would get either tired or bored and stop.

I didn't mind the sit-ups or the sit and reach.  Both were fairly easy and quick to accomplish.  Most everyone knows about the sit-up.  I could do, say, forty or so in a minute. And the sit and reach...sitting on your hiney and stretching your arms across a marked board that measured flexibility was my type of exercise.  

This wasn't to say I was completely out of shape or had no athletic prowess.  I enjoyed sports; being a tomboy, I played my share of basketball, flag football, softball, and volleyball.  I was on the basketball team in fifth grade (although my esteemed career ended with the season,) on the softball and volleyball teams in sixth grade, then made the volleyball team in the seventh grade.  I loved to play, loved to move, and loved to chase.

I guess I just didn't like being graded on my fitness (or lack of.)

Fast forward twelve or so years.  I'm married, teaching in an incredibly emotionally wrenching assignment, and have just moved into a house...a house surrounded by empty fields that borders a canal running east to west.  A packed earthen path meanders through the fields, just right for an overweight, over stressed woman and her new walking partner, Cheswick.  Cheswick the dog was a stray.  As a puppy I found him nosing his way among the student's leftover lunches at the school I taught at.  He was about three months old when I called my husband and told him about "this puppy with floppy ears and big brown eyes".  "Bring him home," he said, surprising me no end.  And thus started a relationship that opened my eyes to the pleasures of fitness...of goals, running highs, itchy shins, and hopefully, a 5k race or triathlon someday.  

And the pull up?  I'm weight training now, and up to 15 and 20 pound weights.  But I have not attempted to do a pull up in years.  I can do 10 "guy style" push-ups and carry both girls for a short distance.  But I still don't know if I can spear the white whale of my fitness journey.  We'll see.  Stay tuned...

Well, in defense of breaking my once a week resolution...I've actually written a few things on Facebook, and write at least twice a week to my Hawaiian (Hawaiian as a resident, not a native) cousin, Stephanie.  And my emails to Stephanie are quite lengthy.  I seem to purge the writing bug through that outlet.  Then when it comes time to write a post ideas flit in and out of my head like tiny homeless birds.

I've been thinking, though, that I would like to try to put into words how music has affected and shaped my life.  Talk about lofty aspirations...how hard is that?  How does a person attempt to describe emotion, revelation, change?  To discuss the merits of Huey Lewis vs. Sting vs. U2?  To make another understand how I felt when singing Mozart's "Requiem" in college or when leading worship in the present day?  To convey the frustration of having dozens of poems and lyrics at the ready but lack the understanding of theory and composition to finish them?  

Maybe...slowly but surely, I'll let the words find the way.  Perhaps in the midst of all of this sorting, shaping, and revelation...I'll figure out how to finish those songs.  Perhaps I'll find the music hidden somewhere, deep in the memories of my past or in the hope of the future.  

Perhaps all I have to do is to simply give everything to God and try again.