I was leafing through my datebook the other evening, jotting down personal obligations, new races, basketball practices and out of town trips, when it struck me that perhaps I have bitten off a bit too much to chew.
This is not a new problem. When I moved to Florida, my best friend made me a crafty sign that said "DO NOT VOLUNTEER, NO MATTER WHAT." She made me promise to hang it on the back of my front door for at least one year - which I did, and I was unbelievably bored.
For as long as I can remember, I have had the tendency to believe that I can, in fact, squeeze every single event into my schedule, that I have the most amazing time management skills on the planet. If this were true, I am certain that I would be more successful in the workplace - or a doctor, perhaps.
The truth is that I hate saying no and disappointing people. If you invite me somewhere, I will try my best to attend, because I believe that if you took the time to extend the invitation, it is important to you that I be there. This may be a bit egotistical, but I will try be there because I was invited.
I also believe that I have more time than I actually do, that somehow my days are magically longer than the 24 hours everyone else receives, that I won't get stuck at work until 6pm, that it won't take me more than an hour to get across the bridge at rush hour, and that not only can I work full time, train for a Half Iron triathlon, a half and full marathon, fundraise to find a cure for cancer, coach high school jv basketball, spend quality time with my family, friends, puppy and boyfriend, whip up a homemade dinner every night, do laundry and keep a clean(ish) house, but that I believe that I can do all of this successfully.
And most days, I actually DO accomplish just about everything I have listed above, sans the clean(ish) house part. Luckily I have a boyfriend who supports my insanity and does the cleaning for me, as well as all the housework that needs to be done so that I can go out and ride my bike.
Every now and again, though, it catches up with me. I neglect to look at my planner (yes, I actually still use a paper planner) and think I know what time everything is occurring, and then I end up overbooking myself or planning around what I thought I had planned, only to find that I mixed up the time of the events and miss out on the fun completely.
Every once in awhile, I am so utterly exhausted that I find myself wishing I was a celebrity so that I could check into some swanky spa for down time. I am sure that I am able to check myself in at a nice spa in South Tampa, but I'd have to work off the bill and wind up more tired than when I arrived! Instead, I pass out on the couch before 9pm and drink enormous amounts of black coffee the next day, haha.
Yes, I am tired. Yes, I probably signed up for one too many races this year. And yes, perhaps I should have declined to coach my jv girls to focus on my job and my training.
I can assure you that I will sign up for another race because a friend asked me to run it with them or because I liked the medal, that I will pour my heart into coaching my girls, that I will continue to train for each event I commit to, and that I will not stop fundraising until a cure for cancer is found.
No matter how tired or defeated I may feel, I will continue to learn how to effectively manage my time. I will train, cook, clean, socialize, support, fundraise, coach and work, not because I have more time in each day or because I think "I'm Every Woman" (thank you, Whitney), but because it is part of who I am.
And so I run.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
"Age ain't nothing but a number"
Thank you, R. Kelly and Aaliyah for bringing this saying to the mainstream. Once again, I am using pop music to describe my running tales. This will be a recurrent theme, I am sure, as I LOVE music (the cheesier the better). You have been warned!
A couple of years ago, as I was miserably struggling through a double digit training run at a 14 minute per mile pace, I asked my coach how long it would take until the running got easier. His response? At least two years, consistently. WHAT???? Did he just say TWO WHOLE YEARS? No way will I still be running in two years, thought my 28 year old self. No more marathons. This is it. I am done.
If you know me, you know that I say those words often, and when you hear them, you chuckle. If you don't know me, never believe me when I utter the words "I am never doing this again." My monogram should be "this seemed like a good idea six months ago (TSLIAGISMA)." That may be kind of hard to fit on a hand towel though.
Anyway. After that horrid marathon season, I signed up for 2 halves and another full. I figured that since I was already sort of in shape, I might as well keep going. I followed my training scheduled (mostly), convinced some friends to run with me, and even found myself enjoying the runs.
When the time came to run the Anchorage marathon in June of 2011, I was clocking 11 minute miles. As I stood at the water stop with my fellow Team In Training TEAMmates from all over the country, it dawned on me. Coach was right. I had been running consistently for two years, and it had gotten easier. I ran my PR in Anchorage - 5:09:47. I felt fantastic, and probably could've finished faster, but we stopped to take pictures of the awesomeness that is Alaska.
I have never actually felt my age. Even after playing basketball in some capacity for 20+ years, running 4 marathons and all of the other athletic undertakings I have done, I have never felt like I had been hit by a truck. At least not during a training run. I have also never had the opportunity to be demobilized by an "injury" for more than a good night's sleep.
Until this week.
Monday night I went for a run on one of my favorite routes - downtown Clearwater to Sand Key. From the beginning, my legs felt like cinder blocks, but I am used to that from triathlon training. It usually works itself out around mile 3. Not this time. It took extreme effort to take every step of the 6.4 miles. I was frustrated a bit, because just 3 days prior I had run the same exact route, plus an additional mile, at a 9:46 pace, but I kept going and finished the run. As soon as I reached my car, I began stretching. I could tell I was going to be sore from pushing, but it is a familiar feeling that comes with the territory of endurance sports. The trick is having a mind strong enough to quiet the pain electrodes in the brain. Or an enormous amount of stupidity. I'll go with the former, because it makes me appear fierce.
The following morning, I heard my alarm sound. My brain told me to roll over to shut it off, but my body was not cooperating. I couldn't move. My entire upper back was stiff as a board. Awesome. Being as my boss is in town, there was no way to be a crybaby and wallow in self misery at home (even if I do have plenty of sick days available). I managed to get dressed, make coffee and get to work 20 minutes early. I walked around like an un-oiled tin man all day long. When did I get so old, I thought? What is happening to me? Advil used to fix this.
As I was slowly making my way to the cafe for a cup of green tea, a co-worker stopped me to tell me that she would be leaving the company at the end of September and is moving to Miami. We got to talking, and somehow my age came up. She asked how old I was, and when I replied "33. No, wait - 32. I'm 32 (stupid USAT)," her mouth dropped. She said "I swear you were only 23 or 24. There's no way you are 32." Um, yes. I am, in fact, 32.
I have my mom's grandmother to thank for my youthful genes. My gram turned 83 today - Happy Birthday, Gram! - and you would think she was at least 10 years younger. I like to think that my sunny disposition also contributes to my youthfulness. I like to try new things, I am excited to see my friends, families and strangers experience goodness, and I am grateful for every day that I wake up.
But yesterday, oh, yesterday. I felt like I was 74. My back hurt so badly that it was making me exhausted. The soreness had wound its way into every fiber of my body with no signs of vacating. It made me wonder just how long I have until something gave out, how far I can push without my body shutting down. I don't know the answer to that, but it's not going to stop me. I am, after all, only 32. I see age groupers 5 tiers above mine making their way to the finish lines of every event I do. I want to be that person. I want to be 80 and still running. I am a glutton for punishment, and I know that I will continue to push, because stopping is not an option.
And so I run.
A couple of years ago, as I was miserably struggling through a double digit training run at a 14 minute per mile pace, I asked my coach how long it would take until the running got easier. His response? At least two years, consistently. WHAT???? Did he just say TWO WHOLE YEARS? No way will I still be running in two years, thought my 28 year old self. No more marathons. This is it. I am done.
If you know me, you know that I say those words often, and when you hear them, you chuckle. If you don't know me, never believe me when I utter the words "I am never doing this again." My monogram should be "this seemed like a good idea six months ago (TSLIAGISMA)." That may be kind of hard to fit on a hand towel though.
Anyway. After that horrid marathon season, I signed up for 2 halves and another full. I figured that since I was already sort of in shape, I might as well keep going. I followed my training scheduled (mostly), convinced some friends to run with me, and even found myself enjoying the runs.
When the time came to run the Anchorage marathon in June of 2011, I was clocking 11 minute miles. As I stood at the water stop with my fellow Team In Training TEAMmates from all over the country, it dawned on me. Coach was right. I had been running consistently for two years, and it had gotten easier. I ran my PR in Anchorage - 5:09:47. I felt fantastic, and probably could've finished faster, but we stopped to take pictures of the awesomeness that is Alaska.
I have never actually felt my age. Even after playing basketball in some capacity for 20+ years, running 4 marathons and all of the other athletic undertakings I have done, I have never felt like I had been hit by a truck. At least not during a training run. I have also never had the opportunity to be demobilized by an "injury" for more than a good night's sleep.
Until this week.
Monday night I went for a run on one of my favorite routes - downtown Clearwater to Sand Key. From the beginning, my legs felt like cinder blocks, but I am used to that from triathlon training. It usually works itself out around mile 3. Not this time. It took extreme effort to take every step of the 6.4 miles. I was frustrated a bit, because just 3 days prior I had run the same exact route, plus an additional mile, at a 9:46 pace, but I kept going and finished the run. As soon as I reached my car, I began stretching. I could tell I was going to be sore from pushing, but it is a familiar feeling that comes with the territory of endurance sports. The trick is having a mind strong enough to quiet the pain electrodes in the brain. Or an enormous amount of stupidity. I'll go with the former, because it makes me appear fierce.
The following morning, I heard my alarm sound. My brain told me to roll over to shut it off, but my body was not cooperating. I couldn't move. My entire upper back was stiff as a board. Awesome. Being as my boss is in town, there was no way to be a crybaby and wallow in self misery at home (even if I do have plenty of sick days available). I managed to get dressed, make coffee and get to work 20 minutes early. I walked around like an un-oiled tin man all day long. When did I get so old, I thought? What is happening to me? Advil used to fix this.
As I was slowly making my way to the cafe for a cup of green tea, a co-worker stopped me to tell me that she would be leaving the company at the end of September and is moving to Miami. We got to talking, and somehow my age came up. She asked how old I was, and when I replied "33. No, wait - 32. I'm 32 (stupid USAT)," her mouth dropped. She said "I swear you were only 23 or 24. There's no way you are 32." Um, yes. I am, in fact, 32.
I have my mom's grandmother to thank for my youthful genes. My gram turned 83 today - Happy Birthday, Gram! - and you would think she was at least 10 years younger. I like to think that my sunny disposition also contributes to my youthfulness. I like to try new things, I am excited to see my friends, families and strangers experience goodness, and I am grateful for every day that I wake up.
But yesterday, oh, yesterday. I felt like I was 74. My back hurt so badly that it was making me exhausted. The soreness had wound its way into every fiber of my body with no signs of vacating. It made me wonder just how long I have until something gave out, how far I can push without my body shutting down. I don't know the answer to that, but it's not going to stop me. I am, after all, only 32. I see age groupers 5 tiers above mine making their way to the finish lines of every event I do. I want to be that person. I want to be 80 and still running. I am a glutton for punishment, and I know that I will continue to push, because stopping is not an option.
And so I run.
Friday, August 17, 2012
I get knocked down, but I get up again
Why yes, I did just reference the chorus of Chumbawumba's massive hit song, "Tubthumping." Thank you for noticing! I chose this particular song because it seems to pop into my head at my most ungraceful athletic moments; sorry to disappoint you if you were, perhaps, expecting stories of overindulgence. Maybe another time :-)
When the song was released way back in the late 90s, it was nothing but a fun party song. One day, during a van ride to a game somewhere in Western PA, it came on the radio. My college basketball coach turned around and said "Super, this song always makes me think of you." And then she laughed. She was, of course, referring to the countless times I ended up on the floor on the court during the course of a game or at practice. My teammates used to joke that I fell simply to get a rest from running up and down the floor - completely untrue, by the way. Every time I ended up on the floor, my brain would launch into a rendition of the chorus "I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
Fast forward [gasp!] 10 years. I am in Seattle, Washington, running my 1st marathon as a part of Team In Training. I felt good - a little cold, but good - and was running along at a decent pace, enjoying the crowds and cheers. As I was looking to my right for a glimpse of Lake Washington, a fellow runner crossed right in front of me to shoot the gap and pass some of us slower runners. Before I knew what happened, my foot shuffled and kicked the dinner plate sized reflective plate on the center line, and BOOM! Down I went. I fell hard, and it hurt really, really badly. I was embarrassed, and got to my feet as quickly as I was able, hoping that no one had noticed. No such luck - there was a huge TNT cheering section there, as well as some of our awesome coaches. They asked if I was okay, and I waved them off with a smile, saying "I'm fine, don't worry about me!" I refused to cry, even though there was a hole in my sleeve and a big cut on my left elbow. I simply counted steps as I softly sang "I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
Spring ahead another 2 and a half years to present day. A couple of weeks ago I went to Panama City Beach, Florida, for a beach weekend. I was excited, not only to see my family, but also to get in some solid training on the famous IM FL (Ironman Florida) course. I had mapped out my routes and carefully double checked to see that I had all of my gear, and I headed north west.
Saturday morning I was up before the sun, and I prepared for my planned 32 mile bike ride. I was not familiar with the roads, but Panama City Beach is much like Clearwater Beach - the most dangerous thing in the area are the tourists trying to drive.
At one point, the bike lane dissipated, and I was forced to ride the white line and pray that the early morning drivers were paying more attention to the road than to their coffee and donuts. A car whizzed by me, shaking my confidence slightly, and when I looked down to see if I could move over to the right a little more, my front tire caught the lip of the road, and BOOM! I crashed. It happened fast - maybe a few seconds, total. I was lucky, though, because it was happening in slow motion in my mind, which gave me time to react properly. I couldn't stop the fall, but as soon as I hit the ground, I unclipped my feet, glanced over my left shoulder to see if there was oncoming traffic and hurriedly pulled myself and my bike out of the road up onto the sidewalk. And there it was, blaring through my brain "I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
It has now been two weeks since my bike crash. I was a wimp for the first week, babying my cut and trying not to irritate it any further than was necessary. But then a funny thing happened. I was driving to our new house, impatiently flipping through incessant talking by every radio DJ on air, and I heard it on 92.9.... "I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
Something clicked as I sang aloud, and I realized that I needed to get back on my bike, and soon. Miami Man was 3 months away - I couldn't afford to sit in the house any longer. Saturday I went for a run with Team In Training. The sweat stung, but it wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared. Sunday I met a couple of friends for my first bike ride since the fall. I was a bit nervous, but a couple of miles in felt as though I hadn't missed a step. My arm did not feel fantastic, but it held up for a 42 mile ride. I knew then that I was ready, that there was nothing stopping me except for my fear.
This past week I have rode and ran, but have avoided the pool. I know the heavily chlorinated water is going to sting, but if I don't get in soon, I am seriously jeopardizing my success in Miami. There are people counting on me to finish that race - my TEAMmates, my coach, my supporters, myself. While this is a huge personal achievement, I do not do this for myself. I do this for every person that has been affected by cancer; I train and race to fund the research that will one day find a cure for cancer.
"I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
And so I run. . . .
When the song was released way back in the late 90s, it was nothing but a fun party song. One day, during a van ride to a game somewhere in Western PA, it came on the radio. My college basketball coach turned around and said "Super, this song always makes me think of you." And then she laughed. She was, of course, referring to the countless times I ended up on the floor on the court during the course of a game or at practice. My teammates used to joke that I fell simply to get a rest from running up and down the floor - completely untrue, by the way. Every time I ended up on the floor, my brain would launch into a rendition of the chorus "I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
Fast forward [gasp!] 10 years. I am in Seattle, Washington, running my 1st marathon as a part of Team In Training. I felt good - a little cold, but good - and was running along at a decent pace, enjoying the crowds and cheers. As I was looking to my right for a glimpse of Lake Washington, a fellow runner crossed right in front of me to shoot the gap and pass some of us slower runners. Before I knew what happened, my foot shuffled and kicked the dinner plate sized reflective plate on the center line, and BOOM! Down I went. I fell hard, and it hurt really, really badly. I was embarrassed, and got to my feet as quickly as I was able, hoping that no one had noticed. No such luck - there was a huge TNT cheering section there, as well as some of our awesome coaches. They asked if I was okay, and I waved them off with a smile, saying "I'm fine, don't worry about me!" I refused to cry, even though there was a hole in my sleeve and a big cut on my left elbow. I simply counted steps as I softly sang "I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
Spring ahead another 2 and a half years to present day. A couple of weeks ago I went to Panama City Beach, Florida, for a beach weekend. I was excited, not only to see my family, but also to get in some solid training on the famous IM FL (Ironman Florida) course. I had mapped out my routes and carefully double checked to see that I had all of my gear, and I headed north west.
Saturday morning I was up before the sun, and I prepared for my planned 32 mile bike ride. I was not familiar with the roads, but Panama City Beach is much like Clearwater Beach - the most dangerous thing in the area are the tourists trying to drive.
At one point, the bike lane dissipated, and I was forced to ride the white line and pray that the early morning drivers were paying more attention to the road than to their coffee and donuts. A car whizzed by me, shaking my confidence slightly, and when I looked down to see if I could move over to the right a little more, my front tire caught the lip of the road, and BOOM! I crashed. It happened fast - maybe a few seconds, total. I was lucky, though, because it was happening in slow motion in my mind, which gave me time to react properly. I couldn't stop the fall, but as soon as I hit the ground, I unclipped my feet, glanced over my left shoulder to see if there was oncoming traffic and hurriedly pulled myself and my bike out of the road up onto the sidewalk. And there it was, blaring through my brain "I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
It has now been two weeks since my bike crash. I was a wimp for the first week, babying my cut and trying not to irritate it any further than was necessary. But then a funny thing happened. I was driving to our new house, impatiently flipping through incessant talking by every radio DJ on air, and I heard it on 92.9.... "I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
Something clicked as I sang aloud, and I realized that I needed to get back on my bike, and soon. Miami Man was 3 months away - I couldn't afford to sit in the house any longer. Saturday I went for a run with Team In Training. The sweat stung, but it wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared. Sunday I met a couple of friends for my first bike ride since the fall. I was a bit nervous, but a couple of miles in felt as though I hadn't missed a step. My arm did not feel fantastic, but it held up for a 42 mile ride. I knew then that I was ready, that there was nothing stopping me except for my fear.
This past week I have rode and ran, but have avoided the pool. I know the heavily chlorinated water is going to sting, but if I don't get in soon, I am seriously jeopardizing my success in Miami. There are people counting on me to finish that race - my TEAMmates, my coach, my supporters, myself. While this is a huge personal achievement, I do not do this for myself. I do this for every person that has been affected by cancer; I train and race to fund the research that will one day find a cure for cancer.
"I get knocked down, but I get up again/Ain't never gonna keep me down."
And so I run. . . .
Thursday, August 16, 2012
First things first
A year (or more) has passed since I first had the gumption to start a blog. I got as far as setting up my page in a rudimentary fashion before I fell off the horse. On several occassions I logged in, only to sit and stare at the screen, paralyzed by a severe case of writer's block.
I'm not quite sure what prompted me to start writing today, except perhaps a major case of procrastination, but I will take it! The way I see it, the most difficult step is usually the first one, whether it's walking, running, cycling, swimming, starting a new job, doing the dishes, or sorting through boxes upon boxes filled with who knows what from a recent (or not so recent) move.
I have always been athletic - I played soccer and softball in my younger days, before my heart and soul fell in love with basketball. I picked up a ball when I was 10 or 11, and haven't let go. I played a couple of years in college before I turned to coaching, which I absolutely love and have had the pleasure of doing for 10 years now. With any athletic endeavor, there is some running, err, conditioning, involved. When all you want to do is play, the conditioning is torture - at least it was for me. I hated running, and only did it because I had to if I wanted to be on the court.
In my early 20s, I dabbled mostly with yoga, step-aerobics and spin classes at the YMCA, exercising to work off some of the weight I had gained in college - and it wasn't all from beer and pizza, but more about that later. When I was 23, my dad passed away from a massive heart attack. It was the single most devastating day of my life. I didn't know what to do with myself, and I was simply going through the motions of everyday life just to have something to do to take my mind off of my sadness. It was right around this time that I had seen an ad in the paper for volunteer basketball coaches. I made the call, passed through the interviews, and was awarded a team of 12 year old girls to lead and teach. Those girls saved me from myself. I was responsible for their well being, for being a good example. I went to coaching clinics, watched countless dvd instructional videos, and read everything I could get my hands on - how was I supposed to make these girls better if I didn't start by making myself better? And so began my life as a runner.
I started by running sprints and conditioning drills with the girls, and then added a few runs of 2-3 miles per week into the mix. I joined a running group at the Y, ran a 5k. I didn't really enjoy it; I was tired, sore, and always huffing and puffing. "Who likes to run?", I'd ask myself. The response to myself was always the same - "it doesn't matter if you like it, you have to do it. You have to take care of yourself."
I had a friend from my very first job who is an Ironman. It was unfathomable to me - swimming, biking and running? All at once? For 140.6 miles? What is wrong with you? After a few years of listening to him tell me about his racing adventures, he finally convinced me that I should sign up to run a full marathon. I agreed because it was in Big Sur, California. I had never been to the west coast, and I wanted to see the Pacific Ocean. So I paid the $100 and ordered a training booklet. I kept on spinning, because I really enjoyed it and the instructor was fantastic. I ran when I had time, following the training plan sporadically. I was working full time at an accounting firm and coaching D-3 college basketball; oftentimes all I had time for was a spin class and a 6 mile run.
In March of that year, the training plan suggested signing up for a 1/2 marathon, and since I had never run more than 6 miles, I thought that this would be a good idea. I registered for Just A Short Run, which was held in North Park (outside of Pittsburgh, PA). It was freezing on race day. I put on as many clothes as I could without looking like the Michelin Man, and followed the signs to the starting line. I remember looking at everyone there, all svelt and dressed in sleek clothing, and I wondered silently what on earth I was doing. The gun went off, and I followed those in front of me, trying to remember what I had read in my training booklet. I used a walk/run method - not intentionally, but because I was tired and cold and really wanted to stop. I had some Cliff shot blocks, and counted steps. Somehow I made it to the finish line and was awarded a medal. I didn't hang around. I was miserable. I went home, took a hot shower, made some pasta for lunch, and climbed into bed. I stayed there all day, trying to figure out how I was going to survive a race double the length of the one I just finished.
But somehow, I did exactly that. I finished the 2008 Big Sur International Marathon with a time of 5:26:12. I have never been happier to finish something - until the 2010 Seattle Rock N Roll Marathon - and I was so proud of myself for pushing through the event. I had a great experience, and I haven't looked back.
It took another couple of years for me to consider myself an actual runner. I'm not fast or graceful, but I run. I have finished 4 full marathons - Big Sur (2008), Seattle (2010), Anchorage (2011), and Space Coast (2011), and am signed up for my 5th - Disney (2013).
What have I been doing this year, you ask? Remember how I said swimming, cycling and running was insane? Well . . . I am now a triathlete! That's right - 3 endurance sports, back-to-back-to-back. I have finished 2 sprint tris and 1 Olympic tri. I have 1 more sprint and 1 more Olympic on my calendar before my HALF IRON triathlon this November 11th in Miami, FL. I am nervous that I won't be ready and that I haven't been training near enough, but I persevere. I stick to my schedule, listen to my body and adjust as needed. I keep my mind and body strong, knowing that only my own two feet will get my across the finish line before the clock runs out.
And so I run . . .
I'm not quite sure what prompted me to start writing today, except perhaps a major case of procrastination, but I will take it! The way I see it, the most difficult step is usually the first one, whether it's walking, running, cycling, swimming, starting a new job, doing the dishes, or sorting through boxes upon boxes filled with who knows what from a recent (or not so recent) move.
I have always been athletic - I played soccer and softball in my younger days, before my heart and soul fell in love with basketball. I picked up a ball when I was 10 or 11, and haven't let go. I played a couple of years in college before I turned to coaching, which I absolutely love and have had the pleasure of doing for 10 years now. With any athletic endeavor, there is some running, err, conditioning, involved. When all you want to do is play, the conditioning is torture - at least it was for me. I hated running, and only did it because I had to if I wanted to be on the court.
In my early 20s, I dabbled mostly with yoga, step-aerobics and spin classes at the YMCA, exercising to work off some of the weight I had gained in college - and it wasn't all from beer and pizza, but more about that later. When I was 23, my dad passed away from a massive heart attack. It was the single most devastating day of my life. I didn't know what to do with myself, and I was simply going through the motions of everyday life just to have something to do to take my mind off of my sadness. It was right around this time that I had seen an ad in the paper for volunteer basketball coaches. I made the call, passed through the interviews, and was awarded a team of 12 year old girls to lead and teach. Those girls saved me from myself. I was responsible for their well being, for being a good example. I went to coaching clinics, watched countless dvd instructional videos, and read everything I could get my hands on - how was I supposed to make these girls better if I didn't start by making myself better? And so began my life as a runner.
I started by running sprints and conditioning drills with the girls, and then added a few runs of 2-3 miles per week into the mix. I joined a running group at the Y, ran a 5k. I didn't really enjoy it; I was tired, sore, and always huffing and puffing. "Who likes to run?", I'd ask myself. The response to myself was always the same - "it doesn't matter if you like it, you have to do it. You have to take care of yourself."
I had a friend from my very first job who is an Ironman. It was unfathomable to me - swimming, biking and running? All at once? For 140.6 miles? What is wrong with you? After a few years of listening to him tell me about his racing adventures, he finally convinced me that I should sign up to run a full marathon. I agreed because it was in Big Sur, California. I had never been to the west coast, and I wanted to see the Pacific Ocean. So I paid the $100 and ordered a training booklet. I kept on spinning, because I really enjoyed it and the instructor was fantastic. I ran when I had time, following the training plan sporadically. I was working full time at an accounting firm and coaching D-3 college basketball; oftentimes all I had time for was a spin class and a 6 mile run.
In March of that year, the training plan suggested signing up for a 1/2 marathon, and since I had never run more than 6 miles, I thought that this would be a good idea. I registered for Just A Short Run, which was held in North Park (outside of Pittsburgh, PA). It was freezing on race day. I put on as many clothes as I could without looking like the Michelin Man, and followed the signs to the starting line. I remember looking at everyone there, all svelt and dressed in sleek clothing, and I wondered silently what on earth I was doing. The gun went off, and I followed those in front of me, trying to remember what I had read in my training booklet. I used a walk/run method - not intentionally, but because I was tired and cold and really wanted to stop. I had some Cliff shot blocks, and counted steps. Somehow I made it to the finish line and was awarded a medal. I didn't hang around. I was miserable. I went home, took a hot shower, made some pasta for lunch, and climbed into bed. I stayed there all day, trying to figure out how I was going to survive a race double the length of the one I just finished.
But somehow, I did exactly that. I finished the 2008 Big Sur International Marathon with a time of 5:26:12. I have never been happier to finish something - until the 2010 Seattle Rock N Roll Marathon - and I was so proud of myself for pushing through the event. I had a great experience, and I haven't looked back.
It took another couple of years for me to consider myself an actual runner. I'm not fast or graceful, but I run. I have finished 4 full marathons - Big Sur (2008), Seattle (2010), Anchorage (2011), and Space Coast (2011), and am signed up for my 5th - Disney (2013).
What have I been doing this year, you ask? Remember how I said swimming, cycling and running was insane? Well . . . I am now a triathlete! That's right - 3 endurance sports, back-to-back-to-back. I have finished 2 sprint tris and 1 Olympic tri. I have 1 more sprint and 1 more Olympic on my calendar before my HALF IRON triathlon this November 11th in Miami, FL. I am nervous that I won't be ready and that I haven't been training near enough, but I persevere. I stick to my schedule, listen to my body and adjust as needed. I keep my mind and body strong, knowing that only my own two feet will get my across the finish line before the clock runs out.
And so I run . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)