Like Mother…and liking it
No wonder I’m a runner. Just look at my mom. No, she’s not a runner. I have, in fact, no memory of seeing her run anytime, anywhere, in my entire life, ever. No. She’s decidedly not a runner.
She’s a shooter, and a darn good one. This year, she will be inducted into the National Skeet Shooting Association Hall of Fame. Quite an accomplishment, and one I am profoundly proud of her for.
You’d think with a mother possessing that kind of ability I’d become a shooter myself. Not a chance. I was never patient enough to shoot well. Plus, the whole thing seemed so involved. Too much equipment—and then you have to clean it. Too much effort to go somewhere other than out my front door to practice. No thanks. Not for me.
For a long time, I didn’t quite understand her obsession—for lack of a better word—with skeet. It wasn’t until I took up running in my early 30s that I began to understand how a person could spend so much time and so much effort doing something that seemed so, well, frankly so insignificant.
But my mom’s obsession is not with obliterating little orange targets. As mine is not with becoming perpetually faster. Medals aren’t the goal for either of us. Becoming a better person is.
In the past several years, I’ve come to see several parallels between running—a pursuit that requires no other equipment than a pair of shoes, can be practiced anywhere at any time, and can result in a conditioned body—and skeet shooting—an endeavor that requires expensive equipment and accessories, must be practiced at a specific venue, and rarely produces an increased heart rate.
Every time we step onto the playing field, we’re competing primarily against ourselves. Sure, it might be nice to actually win something, but becoming good enough to win consistently takes time. Hours and hours of time. Dedication. Persistence.
The goal I want to achieve at almost every event is to do better than I did the last time. Sometimes, my goal is simply to finish, uninjured. But I’m my own biggest rival. My most enthusiastic cheerleader and my worst enemy. Yet with competition comes the confidence acquired when reaching a goal as well as the quiet grace and humility attained when giving it everything yet falling short.
So we practice, because practice breeds perseverance. It makes us better, faster, stronger. More accurate, more consistent. This is, of course, true of any sport, but I’ve seen both shooters and runners practice in the absolute worst conditions. I long ago stopped chiding my mom for spending hours outside in the brutal Michigan winters or the searing Texas summers. How can I chide her when I have practiced my own sport in typhoon stage 3 readiness or cold so piercing that icicles formed on my hat, scarf, and mittens?
I realized, during one particularly cold run when I initially could not feel my legs, that we both live a sort of Senecan philosophy: If one prepares for the worst, she will be more likely to do her best when it counts. It is what self-discipline is made of.
Running and skeet shooting both are solitary endeavors. You might be surrounded by people, but most of the competition is meted out in your head. Your success depends largely on what you believe you can do.
But both are team sports too. Your friends are also your competitors. Mostly, they genuinely want to see you succeed. But they also want to succeed themselves. On the field, you are simultaneously together and alone, so deep in your own head that you could very easily lose the connection with the person standing right next to you.
But you don’t. Because you recognize the critical role support plays and how sometimes the difference of just one word of encouragement (or spite) can make or break you.
Ultimately, both sports are a test of character. Ultimately, neither running nor shooting is a game. How you show up in each is how you show up in life. I’ve seen people I thought were kind and compassionate off the playing field turn into mean, puerile creatures on. And I’ve been pleasantly surprised witnessing an act of kindness from a stranger.
At heart, what we are when we compete is who we are as people.
In all these years, my mom’s character has been refined by shooting. She possesses a quiet confidence in her ability yet a humility I sometimes find bewildering. She continually and sincerely roots for the success of strangers as well as friends. And I have never seen a more graceful loser. I am lucky to have her as a role model, a mother, a friend.
No wonder I lead an organization that inspires joy, health, and confidence in young girls. Just look at my mom. That’s what she inspired in me. In fact, she still does.
She took up shooting at a time when women were not allowed to be members at some clubs. At a time when girls didn’t do such things as shoot guns, get dirty, spend time outside in the cold and rain, in spaces dominated by men. Her family, some friends, much of society gasped in disapproval and said, No, you can’t.
With the determination and dignity she’s always possessed, my mother said, Really? Just watch me, and went on to become one of the best.
How many times in my life has that pernicious voice at my ear told me, No, you can’t. Sometimes that voice is my own. Yet there my mother is, standing beside me, in quiet faith insisting, Yes, you can.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 3 so far )Why Change?
Last time I checked, it’s still January. We’re just over halfway through with it and already change is hard. I didn’t make any New Year’s resolutions. Not really. I simply realized (once again) the need to be deliberate, to be present, since the present moment is all we are truly given.
A fortune from a cookie is pinned above my desk to remind me: “A focused mind is one of the most powerful forces in the universe.” I vow to start each day, before I ever get out of bed, focused with a prayer first of thanksgiving for this day, and then for guidance: Wisdom in my decisions, prudence in my actions, compassion in my communication. Then and only then will I allow my mind to be crowded with all there is to be done today.
But, as it turns out, even as small a change as this is hard to make. Just yesterday morning, for instance, my alarm went off at 5. I knew all the things I had to do that day, as I do every day, because I keep a calendar and a to-do list, both of which I review frequently. I planned to get up and run, then write, then work from home for a couple of hours before some afternoon meetings. If I didn’t get up in time, something would have to give. And I knew that something would be either my running or my writing, neither of which I am willing to sacrifice.
I have changed the way I think about both writing and running. I don’t have to do them every day, only some days, and on the days I choose to do them, I do them deliberately. So much pressure removed, so much focus added. Both activities improve tremendously, and so does my attitude about them.
But yesterday morning at the sound of the alarm, rather than starting my day with a prayer, I started with the rapid blur of mental gymnastics as I thought about how to change my day’s already-established plan:
I don’t really have to put in eight miles today I can do it tomorrow because tomorrow I have a running meeting on the Salado Greenway Trail at 11 and we’ll probably run four miles so I can always go early and put in four before or stay later but I can still get up at 5 to get my writing in because if I do run then instead of now that cuts into tomorrow’s writing time and…
It was cold and dark, you see, and I had eaten too many Cheetos the night before. I just wanted to lie in bed a little longer, until my stomach didn’t feel queasy. Or until spring.
And then it hit me. This whole idea of change. Not only that I was bucking against my own self-imposed new system, but that there was another change I needed to make too. I couldn’t go to the trail to run alone. Because that would be stupid. Unsafe. And the one change I felt compelled to make after New Year’s Eve was to not run alone in secluded places. Not since Lauren Bump’s murder.
So I rolled out of bed and got ready to run in a place that may or may not be safer than a trail: my neighborhood. I’ve always thought of my neighborhood as safe, just as I’ve always thought of the trailway as safe. Now, in my mind, they are equal. And now, for the first time in my life, I carry pepper spray. Another change to get used to.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Deliberation
Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.
~ Henry David Thoreau
Going into this New Year, I didn’t have much time to reflect. Usually, I like to spend a few days thinking. Looking backward and forward. Writing things down—a plan, a list, the Hamlet T-square of things to be or not to be. But this time, there simply was no time. Too much work, then too many parties, an abundance of family, and before I knew it, it was New Year’s Eve.
The whole time I wasn’t preparing, I recognized it, and it bothered me. I wanted to look, wanted to reflect. The past year stood before me like a full length mirror, but each time I tried to gaze into it, I was distracted by what was in front of me and couldn’t see in.
On December 30, I stopped worrying. I was talking with a friend about relationships, including our relationship with our self. We both agreed that many people can hardly see themselves as they truly are, may never see themselves as others’ do. My friend meant literally. I meant in every other way.
If we look into a mirror and cannot accurately see our own reflection, then how can we expect to look backward at a year and accurately reflect on ourselves? Our sight is often distorted. We see what we want to see, what we are able to see, what we are prepared to see.
I am thus going into the new year looking forward rather than back, even if 2013 was a good year. More important, I am focusing on—with appreciation, gratitude, joy—where I am today, since today is what I have. And the day has only begun.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )The Bravest Runner
By the time the 5K was over, word had spread about the young girl in stocking feet. Sobbing, she crossed the finish line without her shoes, her mother trailing not far behind. Her coaches saw her coming from across the line, where they stood holding finisher’s medals, waiting to crown their girls.
What happened? Her coaches surrounded her, concerned that she was injured.
It took awhile before she could stifle the tears enough to tell them. Blisters. Painful blisters bubbled up on her feet about a mile from the finish line. She could hardly go on in such pain, and her mother told her she could stop if she wanted to.
Not her. She was too close and had worked too hard, had been looking forward to this race for weeks and couldn’t possibly stop now, so close.
She took off her shoes instead and ran a mile in her socks, crying all the way.
A coach hugged her tight. If you can do this, she said shaking her head, you can take anything life throws at you.
My hero, the bravest runner at last Saturday’s Girls on the Run 5K. I hope I grow up to be just like her.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 1 so far )Recovery Doesn’t Have to Keep You Down
Courtesy 2milliondogsblog.wordpress.com
It’s been 3 years since I’ve run San Antonio Rock n Roll half marathon, and now I remember why. The weather in San Antonio is fickle. Last Sunday, race day, saw a record high of 89°F. This Sunday, we’re expecting a high of 42. Go figure. Nevertheless, it was a fun race with a great route. I’ve spent this week recovering, including not running but doing some stretching, strength training, and core work instead. I’d forgotten how much Pilates hurts.
Because of the heat on race day, it was a hard recovery. But following these tips helped ease the pain.
Ice, ice, baby
I know. I can’t believe I said that either. But an ice bath is the way to go. Get in the tub, run a couple of inches of warm water, switch the warm to cold until your legs are covered, then pour in the ice. Bags of it, to the tune of 30 lbs. You may need to wear your cold-weather running shirt in the tub with you. And you probably need to be clutching a very large cup of very hot liquid, but ice will ultimately make your legs happy. By the next day, they’ll be thanking you.
Hydrate
This was the first race where I hit every single water stop. With all that heat, I needed it. Drinking the day before and during the race, however, is not enough. I drink all day long after a race ends. I don’t mean beer, although there’s nothing like an ice-cold beer after a hard, sweaty run; I mean water and electrolyte-replacing liquids. You won’t wake up Monday morning feeling hung over if you keep the liquids coming.
Feed your body well
My body always feels weird the entire day after a hard race. I feel depleted and want to eat, but nothing sounds good. I’m often tempted to eat pizza or Cheetos. Racing is a nice excuse to offer myself that kind of reward, but there’s something about a greasy, cheesy slab of dough that just doesn’t sit right with me. Then again, neither does a steak. I can never decide. I find that I have to practically force myself to eat something, and I have to rationally choose the foods best suited to recovery, the right combination of healthy carbs and protein.
Fortunately, I survived the race—and the ice bath. When’s the next race?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Newton’s Laws of Motion
Liar liar pants on fire.
That’s what I said to myself the moment I hit Send on an email a couple of days ago. I was explaining to someone that I wasn’t too concerned about this Sunday’s half marathon. Since my training was interrupted, my intention was simply to go and have fun, run comfortably, not worry about time.
The truth is, however, that once I get there—heck, once I pick up my race packet on Saturday—I go into competition mode. In fact, I believe it’s already begun. The mental focus that blocks out nearly everything else. The tightening in my stomach, not nerves (yet), but a physical focus that starts at the core and radiates energy to my arms and legs. (It’s better than coffee by far.) The sudden urge for only healthy food, fuel. No slip-ups with ice-cream or the stash of bite-size Milky Ways in my freezer.
I can’t seem to help it—it happens automatically. And I’m not sure I want to.
I like competing. I love pushing my body so far that even I am amazed at what it can do. Racing is one of the few times when I am so attuned to my body that I can step outside of it, get out of its way and let it do what it knows how to do. It’s one of the few times I can be one and apart, alone and with others simultaneously. It’s a joy I cannot describe.
But I don’t have to. Talking’s not a part of it. I just need to run.
Where did I put those matches?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 3 so far )Dem Bones, or the Anatomy of a Writer/Runner
Courtesy of the Jersey Shore Running Club
Mrs. Morgan, my eighth grade music teacher, loved to sing songs that required us to move. Tap a foot, sway, snap our fingers, something, anything to keep us from standing still. I love music, but not necessarily that music. The sad part is, I remember most of the songs, particularly the anatomy song, “Dem Bones.” Everyone knows it, even if they don’t know they do:
The foot bone connected to the leg bone.
The leg bone connected to the knee bone.
Etc., etc.
Yeah, that song.
Turns out, they missed a link, the one that connects the runner to…well, to everything else: thought, creativity, productivity, organizational skills, and, for me, the ability to write. No running, no writing. It’s that simple.
Now I know this to be true—I do my best writing in my head during a run, starting around mile 3—but I sometimes forget the connection. Until it’s lost. Like during my recent 5 weeks of not running. No running, no writing. Lord knows I tried. I sat in front of my computer staring at a blank screen, and simply cried. I can’t do it, I thought. It’s just too hard. Maybe I’m fooling myself and am not really a writer after all.
But then the miraculous happened—again—the week I started running. Day 2, mile 3, and I’m rounding the little hill in the middle of a cul-de-sac where I usually slow down to count deer, and it occurs to me that I’m not running slower, I’m running faster. And I’m not looking for deer, I’m not looking for anything. My eyes are turned inward, and I’ve been writing, in my head, for the last mile. Not just half-baked thoughts but complete sentences, full paragraphs, developed ideas unfurling with the dawn. And I smile, relieved, and think thank God, thank you God, the connection is reestablished. Apparently laces are the missing link.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )May I Have a Word?
It’s noon on a Monday and I’m standing in my kitchen wearing the same t-shirt I slept in (one of the perks of working from home). I’ve just hung up the phone with Carrie and my head hangs in shame. I’ve been listening to myself explain to her that I can’t seem to find the motivation to run. I can’t do it. It’s just too hard.
It’s been 5 weeks since I’ve run. Carrie and I are only weeks out from the San Antonio Rock n Roll half marathon, her first. I promised I would run it with her, train for it with her, because your first half is a big deal. Every half is a big deal. But smack dab in the middle of a 10-mile run, I landed wrong on my foot. I tried to go on a little farther, but couldn’t. Carrie walked the 5 miles back to the car with me while I hobbled along feeling terrible about ruining her run. She’s done awesome with her training since then. I’ve done none.
I think about my mom. Her words ring in my head: “Because I said I would.” This was her reply to me in junior high when I asked why she was going to do something she was clearly too overwhelmed to do. Because she said she would. Because your word is that significant. It’s what you are.
Although it’s noon on Monday and I’ve never run at noon, I lace up my shoes and go. I run 4 miles. Just like that. On Wednesday, I run 6. Friday, 8. This week, a repeat, with a 10-miler on Friday. I am astonished I can pick up almost where I left off. Bodies are amazing. Minds more so. I am especially astonished at what I’ve talked myself out of. I wonder how many of those weeks spent telling myself that I can’t do it, it’s just too hard, were to protect something other than my foot.
So now I give my word to myself: It’s not too hard. I can do it after all.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )I Need a Sign
Life would be much nicer if we all carried signs. Not road signs, but the kind spectators do in races: “It’s kind of fun to do the impossible.” Or “I’m proud of you, Perfect Stranger.”
My friend Jill manages the blog Best Race Signs. People send her pics of race signs from all around the country. Some are inspirational; most are simply funny. I read all of them because no matter what else is going on in my day, these signs make me smile. They also make me wish life really were more like a race.
They say you can tell a lot about a person by the metaphor they choose for life. Is life really a race? What if it’s a test or simply one big party? My metaphor changes from time to time. Lately, I see life as an endurance race. However, there’s one thing missing: The signs.
Can you imagine walking down the sidewalk, driving in your car, or sitting on the subway and glancing up from your reverie to see a complete stranger holding up a sign: “You’re the sh*t,” for instance. Who wouldn’t be motivated by that and think, Well, heck, maybe I am. Maybe I can <fill in the blank> after all?
And wouldn’t it be nice if during our darkest hour we could lift our eyes from the road ahead, just for a moment, to find a sign of encouragement: “..let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us,” let’s say, or “The voice in your head that says you can’t do this is a liar.”
I can see how carrying signs might be inconvenient. Nevertheless, I think it would make for a much happier world. It might make people achieve more or go for their dreams. At the very least, it would make people smile. And on those days when someone feels like they’re running up a steep hill in the dark, what would be wrong with that?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )No Sweat
I’ve always associated endurance and perseverance with sweat. Atlas holding up the heavens with his shoulders. Sisyphus forever pushing a boulder up a mountain.
As runners, we know perseverance, endurance. We train to keep going, to run a little farther, a little faster, a little longer, to see if we can’t improve our form, our distance, our time. We persist through heat, rain, humidity, cold, snow, up big hills and across wide expanses of open terrain, under stars and moon and sun. A sweaty endeavor indeed. When we reach our goal, we have physical proof that we have persevered. We have endured.
Running develops these traits in us, as many runners will tell you, and they extend into so many areas of our lives. The past couple of weeks I’ve learned a new application of perseverance, one that is not so sweaty.
Stillness. To wait and do what at first seems like nothing. And nothing is a difficult thing to do. For all that running teaches us to endure, it should also teach us to endure not-running, not taking time but giving it, to accomplish those things that can only be achieved in stillness.
For me, the not-running started with a sprained ankle two weeks ago, but the lesson in persevering through stillness didn’t occur to me until much later. Runners lament not-running while non-runners look on quizzically. They don’t quite understand the stomach-churning anxiety that accompanies it. I don’t always either, to be honest. It’s just running, after all, and although I am a runner, I am so much more. Still. When a part of my identity is suspended indefinitely, it’s disquieting, to say the least.
But, I have found, if I’m quiet and let it be, if I can persevere through the stillness and simply wait, I improve in a different way: I develop an internal patience and peace. And, given time, I can say, no sweat.
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