Circle of Care
My friend Erica is a grief counselor for children. A heart-wrenching job, for sure. You enclose these kids in a circle of care, she says, to help them understand what’s happening to them and their world.
When she says circle of care, Erica holds up her arms in front of her for emphasis like she’s holding a laundry basket. Their lives are like a basket filled with things that have become soiled but can be made clean again. Erica’s job is to hold the kids loosely, but firmly, until they’re ready to unload their own basket.
I see this image of Erica with arched arms often when I think of Girls on the Run. Most recently at last weekend’s race.
On the way to the race, the SUV I was driving, loaded with nearly everything we needed for race day, was forced off the highway and into a cement wall, totaling the car. It was my mom’s SUV. She was my passenger. Miraculously, we are both fine.
Everything that was loaded into the SUV in an orderly, organized fashion suddenly looked like tornado debris. Somehow, with the help of my great friend Chris who showed up within minutes of being called, we were able to transport the race gear to the park in time for the run.
Each girl who participates in Girls on the Run receives a medal when she finishes the race. It’s a mark of accomplishment not only for achieving her race goal but for completing the entire season. 
I love to see the hanger full of medals strung from our tent, each one waiting to be hung around girls’ necks. This season, we arranged the hanger weeks before the event, just so we could look at it.
The medals swayed in the back of the car, streams of blue and pink, and jangled as we drove. When we hit the cement wall, the medals flew off the hanger in every direction and crumpled on the floor.
I picked up all I could find and held them in a ragged mound on my lap as Chris drove us to the park. There was no more order, only wrinkled or dirty ribbons speckled with broken glass. I carried them in my arms, a mangled heap, to our set-up site, still a bit dazed, wondering how to recreate order out of what had become chaos.
It was then I was reminded of Erica. I put the medals down and stepped away. Dozens of others stepped in and did what they were there to do. The tent and tables went up, gear was organized and distributed, girls and buddies signed in, medals re-hung. There was smiling, laughter, nervous anticipation. Clouds of pink hairspray.
And then, girls running. Not alone, but with their buddies.
At the finish line, I watched coaches drape a medal around each girl’s neck, followed quickly by a hug big enough to enclose us all.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )In Sync with Greensleeves
Greensleeves was in my sight from the moment the 10K runners split from the 5. There were only 4 runners ahead of me. Greensleeves was the closest.
This is a mistake, I thought as we approached the water stop before the turn, not to keep my eye on her but to even think the name Greensleeves.
Everybody knows “Greensleeves,” an age old song whose tune has been most frequently adapted to Christmas music. Think “What Child Is This” and you know the tune. Slow. Kinda pretty. Not exactly conducive to fast running.
But it wasn’t my fault that my brain chose to name her this. She was, after all, wearing green sleeves, a shoulderless running bra with unmistakeably bright green sleeves.
For almost a mile, I couldn’t shake the song from my head.
But I made a promise to run well. It was the Wild Woman 5K/10K, part of the first annual Wild Woman Weekend held in Blanco, Texas, and I needed to run faster than ever before.
I had to lose this stupid song.
When we turned at the halfway point, the stream of runners trickling along for a good half mile or more startled me. I had been focusing so intently on what lie ahead of me that I hadn’t even thought about what might lie behind. It didn’t register until that moment that I was actually running pretty well, but it would only take one powerhouse runner to catch her second wind and I’d be left in the dust.
That was enough to blow the song right out of my head—and to gain quickly on Greensleeves. Before I knew it, I was close enough to hear her iPod.
I hung back for a bit, debating what to do. We still had almost 3 miles to run and I didn’t want to pull out all the stops just to pass her and risk crashing close to the finish line.
I knew she knew I was there. She glanced back once or twice. We were running virtually alone on a country road outside of Blanco, and it felt a little creepy. I kinda felt like a stalker, running so close behind. So I pulled up to run beside her.
The next 2.5+ miles were some of the best running I have experienced. It was almost surreal. There were no people, only cows and birds, the wind and the smell of flowers. If there were cars, I don’t remember them. We simply ran, breathing simultaneously, keeping the same pace, feet striking the pavement in sync.
When we hit mile 4, there was no marker to indicate it. I held up 4 fingers. This is 4, I said.
That sucked coming down, Greensleeves said at the bottom of a steep hill.
It sucked going up, I replied.
There was no more talking, no need to. We were in stride, side by side, and running fast.
I’ve never checked my watch so frequently. I wasn’t interested at that moment in beating her. I was, instead, astonished at our pace: 7:37, 8:02, 7:58. For over 2.5 miles we maintained an 8-minute mile average. We might as well have been flying.
With less than 1 mile left, Greensleeves stopped to drink and, I think, to breathe. I kept running, but not as fast. It just wasn’t the same without Greensleeves.
She shot across the finish line only a couple of minutes after me. I waited, high-fived her when she crossed.
That was great, I said. Thanks.
Dang, she said, and we smiled.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 3 so far )Are You a Runner?
I have a friend who’s run 2 marathons and several shorter races since she took up running 3 years ago. She says she’s not a runner. She says her friend, on the other hand, is. We’ve had some lengthy discussions about what the heck she means.
What, exactly, does it mean to be a runner?
Runners run. At least at some point in their lives they did, even if they do not now. But there is something more to being a runner than running.
What are the physical parameters a runner maintains? Perhaps more important, is there something unique inside a runner’s head?
What do you think–what is a runner? Are you one?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 6 so far )Good-Bye No-Plan Plan, Hello (Torture) Structure
After three weeks of aimlessness, I have an official training plan.
Last Sunday I created a 3+ month training schedule and registered for the races I had already selected, one per month:
- March 23 – 10k
- April 6 – 10k
- May 18 – 10K
- June 22 – Sprint tri
What a relief. Sort of.
I kicked off my plan with a day of rest. I needed time to process the whole thing, for starters. Plus it was a Sunday, already late in the afternoon by the time I sat down to figure things out. It was also the first day of Daylight Savings Time, which I still am not adjusted to, and the day after my birthday, a late night to say the least. I actually slept until almost 10 am. A record, I think.
Even though I’m excited to have a plan again, it’s been a tough week of adjustment. I’ve had a hard time waking up at 5ish after three weeks of sleeping until 6 or 7, and an even harder time with daily motivation.
However, I figured out a long time ago that I’m the kind of person who needs the structure of a training plan not only to keep me on the right health track but also to keep me on-task in life. I am so much more productive in all other areas of my life when I can roll out of bed and run.
One more week, and I’ll be fine. It will feel less like torture and more like it should feel—fun.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Confessions of a Chocolate Hoarder
I’m off chocolate. Again. Soon, at least. Probably Sunday.
I have this scary addictive kind of relationship with chocolate. Once I get started, I have a hard time stopping.
It’s not the sugar in it that gets me. It’s the chocolate. I can do without all other kinds of sugary things.
Soda? Never.
Juice? I don’t get it. Why drink a fruit when you can eat it instead?
Cakes, pies, donuts, hard candies, Skittles, licorice, you name it. If it doesn’t contain chocolate, I don’t want it. It’s an easy pass.
Once I’m off chocolate, it’s gone, out of my life. That is, the idea of chocolate—its shadow or form, if you will—may exist in my mind (thanks a lot, Plato), but chocolate disappears from my home and from my physiological desire. I don’t need it anymore.
While I’m on it, however, it changes me. I am not the generous, sure-go-ahead-and-borrow-my-car-for-a-week kind of gal I usually like to be. Not if it involves chocolate.
No, you can’t have a bite of my death by chocolate cake. Slice your own piece.
What do you mean you want one of my Reese’s peanut butter cups? There are only 2. I have none to spare.
Selfish. A chocolate hoarder. That’s what I become. And, yes, please take my car for a week. That leaves me so much more time to sit home with my boxes of Girl Scout cookies and count them into nice, neat stacks. One for me. One for me. Two for me. Two for me. Now that’s my idea of fun.
It’s the getting off chocolate that’s not much fun. It only takes a few days, but during those dog days (even if it’s March), I even dream in chocolate.
So if it does all that, you might ask, why did I get back on?
It’s complicated.
See, there’s Easter, which weasels in to the local stores sooner with every year, and with Easter comes the dread Cadbury Egg. And, of course, it’s Girl Scout cookie season, which may or may not have similarities to deer season. And in between, I have a birthday. What is a birthday if not a day to eat chocolate cake?
But, of course, there is more. I met my running goal. My white-slate refrigerator side is once again empty, and I have no new goal visibly posted. There are goals in my head to get me through November, but until they are written, broken down into their daily tasks, organized into a training calendar, and pinned up in my kitchen, chocolate gets free reign.
So Sunday is the day. The day that daylight savings time begins. The day after my birthday. The day I will do laundry, so that the jeans that have been worn into looseness will tighten back up and cling in ways they were not intended to. I will create my training plans and post them.
Once again, it will be death to chocolate rather than death by chocolate.
Wish me luck.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 4 so far )Who Gave You Permission to Rest?
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I’ve had what my brain considers to be some very lazy days. The taskmaster part of my brain, that is. The part that creates my schedule, absolutely loves to-do lists, demands focus, and keeps me on-task, in work, sleep, fitness, and even fun.
I hate that part of my brain.
Particularly when my body and the rest of my brain are clamoring for free time. Enough already, they scream, so loudly sometimes they keep me awake at night.
Why can’t I be like normal people and take it easy from time to time? Assuming, of course, that’s what normal people do.
Since I completed a half marathon nearly 2 weeks ago, I have not gone out for a run or in to the gym for strength training. Instead of waking up before the crack of dawn, I have let my body dictate when it wants to rise. I still wake up (briefly) at 5 am, then roll over and promptly go back to sleep. When I do get up, dawn has cracked.
I know that it’s good for me to take a break from routine of any kind. It helps me to come back fresh, strong, whether I’m training for an event or tackling a work project head-on. Mental and physical breaks are a necessity, at least for me.
Plus, it’s not like I’ve done nothing. I’ve gone to a few Pilates classes, done some Yoga. I’ve focused on stretching and have resumed the daily core work my body needs. I’ve started a new work project and tied up some loose ends. I’ve even set a date to begin whatever it is I’m supposed to begin: March 1. A nice, round number.
So why does the OCD part of my brain keep picking on me?
Wednesday morning I caught myself staring uncomfortably at my refrigerator. No, I was not trying to invoke any x-ray vision gifts I might have miraculously been given by trying to see the stacks of Girl Scout cookies in my freezer. I already broke into those. Rather, I was noticing what was posted on the side. My half marathon training schedule, all penciled in. My race bib and finisher’s medal. A race bib and 2nd place medal from a mid-training race.
I took them down and put them away, leaving an empty white space in their stead. My OCD-brain breathed a sigh of relief. Order restored. A clean, white slate waiting to be filled. The fist between my shoulder blades unclenched.
There is promise ahead. But first, at last, there is rest.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )The End in Sight
In a little more than 48 hours I will have PRed the Austin Half Marathon.
It will be cold Sunday morning, somewhere in the mid to upper 30s. When my alarm goes off I will already be awake, half dreading getting out from under the warm covers so blasted early.
I’ll sit on the living room floor like I always do, cup (or 2) of coffee in hand, and stretch, not necessarily because I need to stretch promptly upon awakening, but because it’s a nice excuse to sprawl out on the floor and half-doze instead of crawling back into bed.
My dogs will look outside at the still dark sky, and then at me like I am crazy, burrow into a cozy nest in the throw on the couch, and go back to sleep. Like they always do.
But this Sunday won’t be like any other running day. No stalling on this cold morning with endless coffee or straightening up. This day is going to rock.
I have visualized race morning for weeks–waking up and getting ready for the race, driving to Austin, walking to the start line, warming up. I know what I will eat and when, what my clothing options are for any kind of weather (this is Texas, after all–the thermometer can fluctuate 40+ degrees within hours). I have reminded myself to press my Garmin’s ON button as soon as I cross the Start line.
I have visualized what my negative split will feel like, particularly the second half, fast and hard to the Finish line.
Most important, I have repeated in my mind’s eye crossing that line. Finishing strong. My best run ever.
Strangely, perhaps, visualization comes so easily for me that it often resembles daydreaming. Especially on long runs. Maybe my mind needs a distraction in order to let my body alone to do what it will. Or maybe I am simply determined to get the result I want. Regardless, I have seen the end of this race, over and again, and I know it won’t be good. It will be fabulous.
I can’t wait.
Come to think of it, I haven’t. I’ve seen it.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )The Blank Page
The page is almost full. Next Sunday–in 9 days–I will be in Austin well before the sun comes up, running a half marathon, the first I have been able to run since February 2010. At the end of the day, my last box will be checked.
When I posted my training plan on the side of my refrigerator just before Thanksgiving, the whiteness of the blank boxes and the progression of long-run miles daunted me. For a couple of weeks, I doubted I could actually do it. Run a half marathon, geez. What was I thinking? I hadn’t run that far in so long I found it hard to have faith in my ability to do it again.
Not only was the page too white, but there were lots of things that might get in the way of fulfilling my plan. Christmas, New Years, vacation, business trip, work. I had to remind myself that the holidays in particular were why I chose to run this particular half marathon at this particular time, why I chose to start training the week after Thanksgiving. I chose.
I knew from past experience how closely aligned race training is with project planning. Life planning. You set a goal and a date, break it down into its parts, plant the tasks on a calendar, and check off each task as it’s complete, recording your rate of success. Focusing on the small chunks, one week at a time at most, one day at a time for certain, is what determines success. We only live one day at a time. It’s our responsibility to focus on the moment, perform to the best of our ability, because the moment is all we are guaranteed.
But for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been looking at my plan with a different eye. When I glance at it from across the kitchen, I no longer see an intimidating white page. My plan has almost reached fruition. The boxes contain times and distances where I followed the plan, or diagonal lines where I didn’t. I am no longer afraid of this page. Rather, I am proud. I have come so far, and there is visual proof to remind me.
When I look at my plan, penciled, erased, circled, used, I get excited. Not only am I so close to reaching my goal, which is thrilling in itself, but I have had the joy (and pain) of reaching a goal every day. I see the results on paper, certainly, but also in the mirror. I am not the same person who started this plan on November 26. And I will be a different person again when I cross that finish line on February 17.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 3 so far )Two Weeks to PR
I did it. I finished my 10 mile run last Sunday 4:30 faster than my 10 mile run the week before. Not only am I completely thrilled with the fact that I beat myself, but I am now confident that I will PR at the Austin half in two weeks.
The last time I ran the Austin half, in 2010, I PRed. My goal was to finish in under 2 hours. I finished in 2:01:50-something. I know. I’ve been trying to block out the disappointment ever since. At least I’ve succeeded in kind of forgetting the tenth of a second part.
This time, I’m sure I can do it. Running has never felt so good, and I’ve never trained better. This time, there are two major differences.
My attitude.
I didn’t take up running until my early 30s, and it has probably saved my life on more than one occasion. Training for a race–having a goal, a plan, a block of time every day to disappear into and call my own–has sustained me through marital problems and divorce, death, illness, and countless lows that in a previous life would probably have resulted in self-destructive activities.
Running became such an integral part of my identity that for a long time I approached it with a certain rigidity. If I had a plan I’d follow it, come hell or high water. But in the past couple of years, I have learned to let go of the plan. This time around, my plan is tacked on my refrigerator, just as with any past race, but rather than stress about sticking exactly to it, I do what I can when I can. Give it my best, and leave the rest up to God. I’m finding that in running, just like in life, I get a much better outcome when I let go.
My strength.
It’s not that strength training never appealed to me, it’s that it never occurred to me. I was like most women I see at the gym even now: My idea of a workout was strictly cardio. Thanks to my sister, I have developed a love of strength training along with the understanding that if I want to run long and hard and fast, I need the musculature to support me. A strong core holds the body upright and prevents hip, back, and knee injuries. A strong upper body decreases tension on the spine when I’m slogging my shoulders and head along on those long runs. And strong legs? A no-brainer. I want quads that look like braided bread not because I find them sexy, but because I need to make it up some pretty steep hills. The stronger I get, the faster I get, and the more I enjoy running.
I’m not worried that I’ve jinxed myself by stating publicly that I believe I will PR in Austin. Even if I don’t (but I will), I know I will be proud of my run and the fact that I’m there, giving it the best I’ve got. Isn’t that what life’s all about?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )The New Normal
Last Sunday I ran ten miles. Ten. Miles.
To some of my friends ten miles is like a walk to the mailbox. To others it might as well be an ultramarathon. To me it’s incredible.
When I started training for a half marathon eight weeks ago my long run was five miles. Frankly, I was terrified. My friend offered to do my first long run with me, bless her heart, as long as–in her words–it was under fifteen miles. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or vomit. The thought of five was scary enough. Anything approaching double digits seemed impossible.
Now, I run five miles in the middle of the week. And it’s almost like a walk to the mailbox.
This Sunday I get to run ten miles. Again. Ten. Miles.
I’m sure I can beat last Sunday’s time because I plan to eat better this Saturday than I did last. My mother always told me that Cheetos are not a dinner food. I’m not sure she actually qualified it with “dinner,” come to think of it. Don’t tell her I said this, but she’s right. Cheetos don’t seem to sustain endurance or supply energy, even if they do stain your fingers a fine shade of day-glow orange that might actually help make runners more visible to cars. Nevertheless, Cheetos won’t be on my menu this weekend.
One of the beautiful things about running: I’m my own biggest competitor. I just want to do better than I did the week before so that what’s normal is always new.
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