I Tried
Believe it or not, I survived last Saturday’s Gator Bait sprint tri at Lake Boerne, Texas. Better yet, I actually enjoyed it. Once I got there.
My day did not go quite as planned. But they never do.
Prerace
For once, I don’t wake up before my alarm. When it sounds at 4 am, I’m startled from a dead sleep and am so disoriented that I contemplate sleeping for another hour. But then I remember the race.
I packed up my gear the night before, pinned my bib to my shirt, loosened my shoes. You know, all that prerace stuff. All I have to do is drink lots of coffee, force my pre-run breakfast down (buckwheat, banana, honey, chocolate almond milk, and blueberries), shower (Yes, I know, I’m just going to get all gunky with lake water and sweat and dirt, so why bother? Because it wakes me up and helps me focus. Showering is my second most powerful think time.), and load my bike onto my car.
My plan is to leave at 5, but secretly I know I can leave at 5:15 and still be way on time. Start time isn’t until 7, and it’s about a 45 minute drive. I’m one of those people who get anxious if I’m not at least 45 minutes early to a race (10 minutes early for everything else), so I factor in plenty of time.
So I think.
Even though my plan is simply to enjoy the day and not stress about my time or drowning or anything else, an unusual prerace anxiety kicks in. To make a long and unpleasant story short, I don’t leave until almost 5:30.
I drive 70ish mph (the speed limit) with one eye in my rearview mirror. My bike rack, you see, is almost older than I am, and I rarely use it. It’s one of those models with lots of straps and buckles and only one brace. My worst nightmare is that my bike will fly off the back of my car and onto someone else’s hood.
(I’ve been procrastinating getting a new rack, simply because I don’t use it that often. For the most part, I bike from home. Although that would probably change if I had a bike rack I felt comfortable with, right?)
So. Ten miles out from my exit, one eye in the rearview mirror, and I realize I can’t see my bike’s front tire anymore. That can’t be a good sign. I pull over at the next exit. Sure enough, a strap has loosened and the rack has slipped. My front tire is only inches from the road. I tighten up the straps, readjust my bike, and decide to take the frontage road the rest of the way. I swear once or twice (maybe three times), and vow to throw my bike in my car on the way home, ditch the stupid rack, and get a new one.
I drive 55ish mph (the speed limit) with one eye still in my rearview mirror. Before I know it, I’m in the middle of lovely downtown Boerne, where the speed limit is 25, there are lots of stop lights, and the road is under construction. Apparently, the frontage road doesn’t front I-10 for the whole stretch. I swear once or twice (maybe three times), turn around, and try to figure out how to get back to the highway. Eventually, I do. My heart rate is slightly elevated.
I arrive at the park at 6:30. Just enough time to pick up my chip, get body marked, and spread out my stuff in the cramped little corner area that’s left in transition. Barely enough time to stand in the massive porta-potty line, where I meet a nice woman who says her husband told her she should just pee in the water while she’s swimming. We agree that this is not an art either one of us has yet mastered, but if they teach it in triathlon courses, we may just take one after all.
The Swim
I decide that if I’m going to enjoy the race, I should be one of the last people in the water. I haven’t been in the water as much as I’ve liked, and I really don’t want to deal with elbows and feet slapping me around. I stand toward the end with a dozen or so first-timers. We joke and laugh and I loosen up enough to have fun.
It’s a windy day and the water is choppy. I try to swim slow and steady. Every time I turn my head for a breath, a wave slaps me in the face and I inhale water. A couple of strokes in I revert to the breaststroke, which is my strong suit, but not what I have been practicing for nearly a month. I try at every turn to swim freestyle, but quickly switch to breaststroke so that I can breathe easy and see in front of me.
I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, but I don’t really care. I swim at a pace I can comfortably sustain, with my eye on the guy in front of me, who I secretly want to pass. I do, finally, and am later stunned to find that my time is less than 20 minutes.
500m swim time: 12:17 = 2:27/100m
TI
What can I say about a transition? I don’t practice them. I was wet. It was hard to pull on my shirt. But I remembered to stick a piece of gum in my mouth.
T1 time: 2:37
The Bike
I love my bike. It’s about 7 years old, bottom of the line. It’s a hybrid, with slightly thicker tires than pretty much everyone else’s, has mountain bike handlebars, and is relatively heavy. I don’t care. It’s my bike, and it gets me where I want to go.
The 13 mile ride is an out and back, with a turnaround on the top of aptly named Heartbreak Hill. We head into the wind. A half mile out, three miles of road has been freshly graveled and tarred. The out is slow-going, but breezy, and at least I dry off relatively fast.
I pass a guy as the sun peeks out from behind some clouds and shines on his backside. He is wearing gray spandex, and as soon as the sun hits him, his shorts become less opaque than he is probably aware. I gasp and wonder if I should tell him later. A guy passes both of us. He is wearing black spandex. The sun has the same effect on his shorts. I make a mental note that they are both wearing regular old spandex and not tri shorts. I chuckle, but then realize that so am I. This is no longer funny.
(Later that morning, I drag my boyfriend outside into the sun, bend over, and ask him if he can see through my shorts. He cannot. I am relieved beyond words.)
I start my way up Heartbreak Hill, giving myself a pep talk. I rode all the way up last year, dang it, so I’ll be danged if I’m going to walk it this year. Two-thirds up my quads are burning, I am traveling at a speed of 2 mph, and I realize I still have to run. I swallow my pride, dismount, and run my bike up the hill at over 4 mph. At least I’m gaining speed.
The most beautiful thing about Heartbreak Hill is that you get to go down. I do, feeling like that stupid pig in the insurance commercial as I squeal “Wheeee!!” all the way down. Seriously. It was fun. Plus no one was around.
Because I was one of the last in the water, much of the bike route has cleared and during most of my ride I am alone. I hit a stretch of road with a breathtaking view of misty, rolling hills; birds sailing; flowers blooming; fingers of sun touching here and there. I dawdle along, gaping, thanking God that I am here, until the little voice in my head screams that this is a race, dang it, not a joy ride, and I better step it up.
I do, and truly enjoy the entire ride, minus the gravel and tar. Later, however, I will be disappointed in my bike time. It’s the nature of the racing beast, I guess.
13 mile bike time: 54:32 = 14.3 mph
T2
I approach the transition area with a little boy who’s maybe 10. He’s in my way and I want to run him over, but decide that might look bad, as the spectators hanging around the area ooh and aah about a kid in the race. I give him a wide berth and run to my space. He pulls up next to me. (Go figure.) I start to feel bad about the urge to run him down, so I make small talk.
“How was it?” I ask as I change shoes. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was fun. But not that bad. I rode 56 miles last Sunday.”
The pummeling urge resurfaces, so I quickly look for the exit.
T2 time: 1:54
The Run
I am a runner. Have I mentioned that? This is the leg I am looking most forward to.
The run is several out and backs on 3.5 miles of trail. The trail is rockier than I remember, with steeper hills. I feel like I’m running through molasses at first, and consciously make myself run faster. I fix my eyes on the trail ahead of me, repeat a mantra in my head: Slow and steady, slow and steady. I level at a pace I could maintain for hours.
There are no mile markers on the route, and I have no idea how far I’ve run or exactly how much farther there is to go. The wind picks up, and my hat flies off twice. I run clutching it in my hand until I can finally keep it in place on the last stretch.
I feel good, and when we turn the last corner I am surprised to see the finish. Surely we can’t be done already? I turn to cross the field toward the line, and a runner comes up behind me, yells at me to pick it up. Her encouragement lights a fire under me, and we sprint together to the finish line.
3.5 mile run time: 29:19 = 8:22 min/mile
Post Race
I did it. I finished the sprint tri without drowning, twisting an ankle, lobbing my bike onto someone’s windshield. I even came in under my goal time of 1:45.
Overall tri time: 1:40:40
I guess the bottom line is this. I am a runner. But I love the heck out of training for tris. I have my eye on an Olympic distance in August. It will be my first. At least it will prompt me to finally get a new bike rack.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )When You’re Smiling, the Whole World Smiles with You
If there’s one thing that bothers me it’s being ignored. Not by my mom or siblings or friends, but by complete strangers. It seems odd to me to pass another person and not make eye contact, whether I’m in a hallway, on the sidewalk, or in a grocery store. I find it especially weird to not acknowledge someone when we are the only two people in sight. Like, say, on a trail in the middle of a forest.
I try to be a friendly everywhere, even when I run. I like to smile and say hello to everyone I encounter. On long runs, however, I may not always smile at passers-by. If you catch me in the last quarter or so of my run, you may get only a nod, a flick of the hand in your general direction. Eye contact, for sure, but it may be the case that all the extra energy I have is expended by looking at you.
However, I rediscovered something during last weekend’s long run. The power of a smile. I don’t mean how a smile affects the recipient—at some point in my run I really don’t care. I just want to get the damn thing over with and get back to my car. I mean the power a smile can have on your energy level.
I started my run a little later than usual last Saturday on a trail I haven’t run since February. It was packed—alarmingly packed—with people of all persuasions: Runners, walkers, bikers, stroller-pushers, dog-walkers, meanderers, and even kids on Big Wheels.
I found all these people to be a challenge. On the one hand, I was happy they were there, particularly the runners. My competitiveness piqued and I ran a little bit faster because of it. On the other hand, there were so many people (dogs, bikes, walkers spread in a horizontal line across the trail—and even a startled deer) to dodge that I initially found it difficult to get into my own head space.
But once I was there, it was bliss. Thank God. The reason (one of many) I run.
Since it was later in the morning than dawn, the Texas sun was up and blazing. Since it was later in the morning than I’m used to, I didn’t think to bring a hat or sunglasses. I headed back to my car squinting into the sun, sweating profusely, and probably not quite the friendly runner I try to be.
Before long, my squint screwed into a scowl. I didn’t really notice it, however, until a pack of people came into eyeshot, walking slowly toward me. Somehow, I had been running a stretch of trail virtually alone. Just me and the cardinals and an errant mosquito or two. Bliss. Thank God. Another reason I run.
Because I had such a long stretch alone, I forgot about people, pulled into my head, and apparently twisted my face into a grimace. When I passed this mob of walkers, I forced myself to make eye contact, and I smiled.
Incredibly, all the tension in my body melted away. A simple smile loosened my facial muscles, which are connected to my neck muscles, which are connected to my shoulder muscles, then back, arms. You know the song. It’s all connected, and like a ripple the tension throughout my body released. I felt stronger, lighter, and faster. In short, I hauled.
And then I remembered that I had heard this before from numerous sources: We tend to clench our jaw, tighten our face when we’re stressed. If we can remember to relax our face, our whole body loosens and we de-stress. What better way to relax your face than to smile?
So I tested this theory for the rest of my run by making faces. I must have scowled, grimaced, frowned, glowered, glared, smirked, and puckered, then alternately smiled, beamed, grinned, and glimmered. It was amazing what a difference a simple expression could make in the whole experience of my run—my pace, gait, attitude, and posture improved remarkably.
I made it back to my car and walked around the park a bit, drinking water, cooling down. Another group of walkers I vaguely remember passing must have parked there too, because they came back loudly, chatting it up. Until they saw me. They stopped, quieted down, and gave me a wide berth. I guess I had forgotten to pay attention to passers-by mid-experiment.
I made a point of walking by them as I left. I smiled, Chesire cat-like, and nodded. They averted their eyes nervously, as if I wasn’t there. For once, I didn’t mind being ignored.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )You Can Always Go Home
Sundays are bike + run days. I ride for time or distance, then follow it with a run, adjust to the jarring transition from legs churning like a windmill to legs thick and heavy like sacks of water balloons tight and full and ready to pop.
My sprint tri is in two weeks. Even though I fell way behind in my training, spent three weeks doing nothing, then two more unable to swim or strength train, I’m getting less anxious. It feels good to be back on my training schedule. I simply do what I can, as hard as I can, each day.
On Sunday I rode my long route for the first time since last summer. I debated taking this route until the final minute, when the last option to turn whizzed by. I hadn’t even driven down this road in weeks, so I didn’t know what shape it was in. For a long time, the westbound lane was under construction, the shoulder ripped to shreds.
If the road gets too bad, I thought as I headed east, I can always turn around and go home.
Biking for me is different from running. My head gets lazy when I bike. My thoughts drift off and leave my body to fend for itself. As a result, my legs sometimes forget that I can pull the pedals up as hard as I can push them down, and I slow down. I have to remind myself frequently what proper biking technique should feel like.
So on Sunday, I’m dawdling down the road, coasting up and down the hills like I’m on some pleasant carnival ride, scanning the pavement for smushed walking sticks (they grow to the size of hot dogs in Texas—apparently everything is bigger here), and I forget to pay attention to the westbound lane. Ten miles out at the bottom of a hill I realize I have no idea if I can get home.
For a moment, I panic. It’s later in the morning than I usually ride, and there is more traffic. The last thing I want to do is ride a narrow shoulder into traffic for the ten miles home.
Isn’t that life, I think. We get so focused on traveling in one direction that we forget to plan for correction, just in case. And before we know it, we’re so far gone that we fear we can never go back the same way again, that maybe we can’t go home.
But here’s the thing. With experience, you learn that you can. Sometimes you adapt, sometimes you simply get lucky. Sometimes the ride is smooth, other times you have to get off and walk in another direction. There is always, however, a way, and if you have faith, you’ll find it.
I got lucky and made it home, bike and tires intact. But I found one more thing I forgot to take into account. I live on the fringe of Texas Hill Country, where the ripple effect of the land tapers off into rolling waves, and the road I traveled was more roller-coaster-like than I remembered. Even though it’s been a few days, my legs can’t seem to forget.
This Sunday, I think I’ll take the same route. Keep my head in the ride this time, give my quads a break. I know what to expect of the road, at least ten miles out. But this time I think I’ll go farther, see what’s over that hill.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Where Do We Find Courage?
“I really like to run,” the woman at my elbow was saying. I was only half listening. The 3rd Annual Girls on the Run Cupcake 5K Fun Run, our annual fundraiser sponsored by Kate’s Frosting, was about to begin and we were gathered at the start line.
Was everyone here? Did they know where the start line began? Was the water stop ready? Was it 8:00 yet? My attention was divided between too many things to listen adequately.
“I really want her to like running,” the woman nodded toward her 10-ish daughter who was pacing the curb, drawing a line on the pavement with her toe, “as much as I do.”
“Yes,” I murmured, still distracted. Kate was setting up the tower of cupcakes at the finish line.
“You know I’ve run 14 marathons,” she said nonchalantly, as if she declared she’d eaten 14 cupcakes instead.
For perhaps the first time during our conversation, I looked straight at her. She was shorter than me, the top of her head reaching maybe my chin. Not muscular or runner thin. Plump, to be precise.
I closed my gaping mouth before a fly landed in it, acutely aware and somewhat ashamed that—blink—just like that I had made a judgment about this woman and her ability or propensity to run. Unconsciously, I had observed and assessed her. She didn’t look like a runner—whatever that means—to me.
Two seconds, Malcolm Gladwell contends, is all it takes for us to decide. In the blink of an eye we make up our minds about what something—or someone—is or is not.
Fourteen marathons. Four. Teen. Never in a million years would I have guessed. I must have looked as surprised as I felt because she smiled wryly and nodded. “I’ve done a half Ironman too.”
“No way!” I blurted, no longer able to contain what by now had become excitement.
When I closed my gaping mouth I fortunately opened my mind. Standing here in front of me was true inspiration. If she could do these things, then why couldn’t I?
It’s been in the back of my mind for years that maybe one day I could do a half Ironman. Maybe start with an Olympic distance tri. I’ve still never run a marathon. Trained for 2, but stopped by injury. What was I waiting for to try again?
Inspiration. Courage.
I have had neither, and didn’t even realize it until I met the marathon woman. I haven’t lived up to the message that’s been posted on my refrigerator since January 15, 2009, the date on the tattered calendar square that states:
“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”
– Anaïs Nin
This square of paper has stared me in the face for four years in two different homes. The message travels with me, so that I don’t forget it. Some days I stop as I’m rummaging through the fridge and read it. Other days I don’t see it at all, hanging amid the Mickey Mouse and bluebonnet magnets.
For the past 3+ weeks, however, I have seen it. Read it anew. Each time, I think of this woman and her fourteen marathons, her half Ironman, and I see my own possibilities expand.
I am excited to try something new. And when I think about this woman, I remember her daughter tight-rope-walking the curb and think what a lucky girl, to have a mom who can show her so many things.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Reason #15
My friend Stephanie loves to run. A poster listing 22 reasons why–hers specifically–has hung on a wall for a few years, no matter where her office has been.
Reason #15: There’s no better way to explore a city or enjoy the spring flowers or fall leaves.
If I had my own poster, this would be on it. I’ve been in State College, PA, visiting family. Not only is State College, home of Penn State, a cool town all around, but the area it’s nestled in is incredible. It’s been 13 years since I’ve experienced a spring in this part of the country, and although I thought I remembered how beautiful it is, apparently I’d forgotten.
Morning runs here have been spectacular. Maybe a little dangerous, but spectacular nonetheless. Trees grow much taller in Pennsylvania than in Texas. During most of my first morning’s run my eyes were up, gazing at the towering trees rather than ahead watching for traffic, curbs, and road signs.
So what if I ran a couple miles farther than I planned. (Have they considered placing road signs in the trees for out-of-towners?) And, thankfully, cars are apparently used to pedestrians cluelessly crossing the road when the big red hand is flashing.
I haven’t seen or smelled peonies, lily-of-the-valley, dogwood, or sumac in what seems like forever. Nor have I seen an overabundance of cottontail rabbits congregating in yards and on roadsides. And, of course, there are chipmunks too.
If I hadn’t run through the streets of State College I would have missed all these things. The sights. The smells. The way the breeze feels against your cheek, on the nape of the neck. I wouldn’t have seen the high school cross country team practicing, wouldn’t have noticed the architecture of the church set back from the road. Wouldn’t have seen west campus and the row of old buildings turned into warehouses.
Nor would I have had the same conversations with my brother, who accompanied me a couple of mornings. We ran the same path, past the warehouses, cottontails, and sumac, yet I can’t say that I saw them. Our relationship was exposed in a different way, made possible, I believe, by the vulnerability running requires.
Maybe it’s time to write my own running love list. I would start with Reason #1: There’s no better way to experience lilac in spring and the company of a friend.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )(Temporarily) Unstoppable
“With an unmanned, half-mile-long freight train barreling toward a city, a veteran engineer and a young conductor race against the clock to prevent a catastrophe.”
When Unstoppable came out in 2010, I wondered how anyone could squeeze an hour and a half out of a story about a runaway train. I skipped the movie and promptly forgot it.
Until this week. It seems to be cable’s movie-of-the-week and I can’t get away from it. Believe me, I’ve tried. It finally caught up with me one brain-dead night, and I decided to give it a shot.
Half an hour was all I could stand. And that’s 30 minutes of my life I will never get back.
Still, this week seems to be a fitting time for Unstoppable. My training has derailed.
No swimming or weight training until further notice. Doctor’s orders. Which is fine, considering my shoulder doesn’t want to move too much anyway.
I didn’t bother to ask him about biking or running. I figured I’d do it anyway, so why ask?
The thing is, I just don’t feel like doing it.
Between healing and then coming down with some kind of virus, it’s been 10 days since I’ve done much more than walk my dogs. Although I’ve walked them a lot (one now hides at the sight of her leash), my energy level won’t move into overdrive.
Ever have those days when your head really wants you to be out there doing something, but your body refuses? Each morning, I set my alarm, planning to get up and run. Each morning, I shut it completely off thinking maybe I’ll bike later (I don’t) or run tomorrow (I haven’t).
I catch myself instead staring wistfully at my training log as I mark another X through an unachievable workout, distraught by the momentum of nothingness that seems to be building.
I am hoping this lag in training is not unstoppable. I’m not quite sure what to do to get back on the right track. If I know my body, it will start one morning on its own, without telling me.
(Sort of like the jack-in-the-box you had when you were a kid, and you kept cranking and cranking and thought you were getting nowhere and then Pop! goes the weasel, and you jumped about a mile out of your skin. Stupid toy, scaring kids to death like that.)
I just hope it doesn’t take catastrophic explosions, the destruction of small towns, or Denzel Washington to get me re-railed.
Well, maybe Denzel Washington.
Any suggestions?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )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 )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.
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