Who’s the Chick with the Legs?
That’s the question a group of women asked after our last Girls on the Run 5K. That chick is certainly not me. It’s my sister.
Marika has the hardest—but the best—responsibility at our 5K events. She’s the course monitor. It is her task to run the course in circles, ensuring that each girl sticks with her running buddy. When Marika encounters a girl running on her own, she asks where her running buddy is. If the girl points behind her and says, somewhere back there in the dust, Marika pairs her up with the nearest buddy team keeping the girl’s pace. If the girl is alone because she’s too tired and discouraged and ready to quit, my sister encourages her along, refusing to let her stop. For the last half of the race Marika runs the quarter mile before the finish line, back and forth and back again, like a pinball ricocheting between two levers, guiding every girl and her running buddy to the finish line. I have seen her take a number of girls by the arm or around the waist and virtually carry them just short of the line, where they cross on their own.
I have seen her do this—and more—because I have the second best responsibility at the race. I get to stand on the other side of the finish line and help the coaches put medals around the girls’ necks as they finish the race. Think you can’t run or that there’s not much rewarding about doing a 5K? Check out your local Girls on the Run council’s next 5K. I can almost guarantee you’ll walk away completely uplifted and probably in tears.
But I digress. We were talking about my sister’s legs. My sister is assigned the hardest job—running in a very short time more than double the 5K—because she has the strongest legs. I wish you could see for yourself, but Marika is modest and refused me permission to post her picture. What you would see is quads like braided bread. Something like this:
Well, maybe not quite like this, but you get the picture. Marika didn’t get those quads from running. She has been running for almost 3 years. I have been running for 10. For years, I tried to get her take up running, but for years she refused. Each time I brought it up, she pulled out her arsenal of studies demonstrating the damage running does to the body, particularly cartilage and joints.
Marika chose, rather, to strength train, and has been doing so consistently for 5 years, intermittently for maybe 3 years before that. For years, she tried to get me to take up strength training, but for years I refused. I wanted to focus on running—what did I need muscles for? My leg muscles would be just fine, thank you very much, from the workout I gave them on each day’s run.
Or so I thought.
When Marika finally took up running in 2009, she did so for much the same reason I did. She was trying to work out a problem and needed fresh air to help her think, so she went out walking. Some issues are too big to be confined by four walls and a ceiling, and they need a large expanse of sky and open space to be properly taken out and turned over, mulled through and examined.
It was during one of her walks at dusk in the late fall that she was caught in the rain about two miles from home. It wasn’t a nice Texas mizzling kind of rain, part drizzle, part mist. It was a cold, pelting, stinging rain that she wanted to escape. The quickest way to get home was to run. Somewhere in that two miles, something clicked.
Two weeks after Marika ran, I was set to participate in a half marathon, for which I had been training. She thought she’d give it a try too. She had been running for only two weeks, mind you, before she entered this half marathon.
She beat my time by 5 minutes. I couldn’t decide if I was awed or ticked.
(What’s the difference between friendly non-competitiveness, healthy competitiveness, and the urge to pummel someone to the ground? I don’t know either, but I’m working on it. When I figure it out, I’ll write about it.)
Granted, Marika has a strong cardiovascular system. There is no way she would have been able to complete a half marathon without one. But I am convinced that her strength drove her along. She has been running ever since—and running fast.
But that’s not all. I finally convinced her to enter a sprint tri with me. We trained together for 8 weeks to compete in the Gator Bait race just last month. She whined the whole time we trained. Although she had a bike, she hadn’t actually been on it in a couple of years and couldn’t remember how to shift gears. The first two times out, she wiped out and scraped her knees and, we think, broke a bone in her hand. Swimming was even worse. Although we had grown up on water, Marika had never swam laps in a pool. Half way through a lap, she was sputtering for air.
Don’t worry, I told her, I’ll teach you everything I know about biking and swimming. It might not be much, but it will get you through the race. Do it for fun. This is only about fun, not really competing, and not winning, but only to see if you can.
I knew I was in trouble on our fifth or sixth bike ride when she powered past me up a hill. I could see her quads pumping like a freight train, while I was wheezing my way up. She barely broke a sweat.
And then she did it again. Come tri day, she beat me. By 7 minutes.
(How do I feel about this? See the above parenthetical.)
I tell you about my sister and her legs and her accomplishments to make a point. Probably several points, but here’s the one I’m sticking with: Strength training is imperative to performance. It doesn’t matter how much cardio you do, how many miles you run or swim or bike, your muscles must be in prime shape in order to serve you to the best of your ability.
Strength training is important for so many other reasons—including preventing bone loss, especially in women, as you age. But I won’t go into all that now. I simply wanted to tell you about my sister.
And what she’s done to my training. Since the sprint tri, my focus has not been on cardio or mileage, but on strength training. I’m in the gym at least three days a week now, and it’s paying off. Last weekend I went for a long bike ride and found that the monster hill at the end of my route is getting easier. Maybe one day soon I’ll be able to power up it myself, and pass my sister.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 4 so far )Outpacing My Pace
It’s official: I’ve stopped wearing my watch during races. Why time myself when there’s a chip and a big clock to do that for me?
Actually, I’ve decided to stop wearing my watch for a really good reason. I run faster without it.
It might sound crazy, but it’s true. I’ve always had this idea that I am a 9 minute miler. My watch has been witness to this truth. On good training days when I push myself hard, I may be an 8:45 minute miler, and on harder days when I’m still pushing myself, I might be a 9:13 minute miler. Any way I’ve calculated it, I’ve averaged out to 9.
For the past couple of years I’ve been mostly ok with this. I injured my hip training for a marathon two years ago, and for too many months I couldn’t run at all. When I started to run again, I was happy to slide back into 9. Just like before.
I wear a Garmin to track my mileage and my pace, though I don’t really need to track my mileage. I know all the routes that lead from my front door and can turn around (or not) when I hit my mileage mark. But I like to track my pace. Because I’d like to get faster. (Which is why I started doing sprints again after taking a few weeks off.)
One recent morning I was out for a run, cruising along at a pretty good clip. I felt good, like I could keep that pace for at least a couple more miles. Since it felt faster than usual, I thought I should check to see how fast I really was running. I was astonished to find that I was running—and holding—a 7:48 minute mile.
I was so astonished, in fact, that my mind made sure my britches didn’t get too big, running so fast. Whoa, it said, slow down there, princess. Who do you think you are running so fast? You’ll never maintain it. You’re a 9 minute miler, not a sub 8!
(No, my mind doesn’t really call me princess—it doesn’t call me anything.)
And what did my body do? It obeyed, and slowed me right back down to the “right” pace.
A couple of days later the same thing happened. I felt like I was running faster than usual and verified my pace: I was running an 8 minute mile. This time, however, when my mind told my body to stop, I intervened. When my mind said you can’t maintain this pace, I said why not?
As it turns out, I can. If this is true, then why haven’t I? It seems I have done in running what I do in life—what most of us, I would argue, do in life. We tell ourselves that we are (or are not) a certain kind of person or that we do (or don’t do) a certain kind of thing. We often unconsciously create an image of ourselves—good, bad, or indifferent—and we become that image. We set the standard, the pattern, the status quo, the place we “belong,” and allow that space to become our comfort zone. Often, we stay there. Rarely do we stray.
We are what we think. We do only what we believe we can. No more, no less. In other words, we are limited by our minds.
I have run only two 5Ks in the past year+, 14 months apart, one with training preceding it and one without. For the first 5K I forgot my watch and kicked myself during the whole run. I must have kicked myself pretty hard, because I ran an 8:07 minute mile. For last weekend’s 5K, I intentionally left my watch at home. I ran an 8:12 minute mile, proof to myself that I am not what I thought I was. Happily not.
Now my task is to figure out how to monitor my pace to become faster without actually monitoring my pace. I’ll have to learn to run with a watch but not look at it. Maybe I should strap it to my ankle.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )Running to Freedom
In honor of the 4th of July, I’d like to share a story about my dad, who loved America and, consequently, loved the 4th of July. It’s not a story about running in the literal sense, but it is nevertheless a story about running.
My dad was a Freedom Fighter in the 1956 Hungarian Revolution. Hungary at the time was Communist; the revolution was designed to overthrow Communism and establish democracy. Like most revolutions of its kind, it was short lived, lasting only 10 days, and it was led by the country’s youth. My dad was one of them, barely 16 years old, when the tanks rolled in to Budapest to squelch the uprising. It didn’t take long for the Communist army to put down the revolt. By the end of it, if you were one of the organizers, one of the fighters, you had a choice: Spend the rest of your life rotting in a horrible prison (that is, if you weren’t killed) or run. My dad chose to run.
He left his home—his mother and little sister—in the middle of the night. He didn’t tell them he was leaving. He knew his mother would beg him to stay and he’d not be able to resist, so he wrote a letter instead and left it in the mailbox. He didn’t say where he was going, exactly, partly because he wasn’t quite sure and partly because he realized that the less his mother knew, the better.
He took most of the money he had saved, leaving a good chunk for his mother, and wheeled his bicycle quietly away. His girlfriend, Marika (which is, coincidentally, my sister’s name), who was even younger than him, waited in the shadows outside her own house. They stole through the side streets and alleys, out of the city, and into the open fields in the general direction of a train they hoped would take them to Austria, where they could begin to find freedom.
My dad’s flight out of Hungary was harrowing and with enough drama to fill a book. In a nutshell, although he made the train, he was forced from it in the middle of nowhere, where his money was stolen and his girlfriend betrayed him. He was left with virtually nothing, but eventually managed to make his way to Michigan, where he tracked down his father. My grandfather too had been forced to leave Hungary, right after WWII, and my father hadn’t seen him, his own father, in a decade.
My dad told me his story of escape more than once before he died in 1993. I think of it often, yet there are two images that stick with me. When he was forced from the train in the dead of the night, my dad found himself in a field pretty close to the Austrian border. Hungary at the time had a vested interest in keeping her citizens to herself; the borders were surrounded with armed soldiers with shoot-to-kill orders.
So when my dad left the train and trudged through field after field and finally saw the border, when he knew that if he made it, he’d made it to freedom, he ran. Of course the soldiers did what they were ordered to do: They fired. This is the image I carry with me. A young boy running across a field as fast as he can, supported by thin, tired legs nearly spent from lack of food and water, but suddenly so wired by adrenalin that they do what human legs are designed to do. They run. They carried him away from danger, away from the machine guns exploding around him like a string of firecrackers and toward safety.
Sometimes when I am running, my mind takes me to this place, this field showered by machine gun fire and a boy running for his life, and it leaves me breathless. I am thankful it is I place I can only imagine and not a place I have lived.
The other image I carry with me is this. My dad lost everything on his journey to America. When he arrived here, all he had was a paper bag containing a tie and 2 oranges. He was so happy to be here that before he stepped onto American soil he put on his tie and gave away his oranges. I picture my dad, a gangly pimple-faced kid in crumpled clothes, adjusting his tie, smiling huge at all the strangers passing by. It makes me smile too.
I am thankful that my dad’s love for America was contagious. I suppose it is no wonder I would become an English professor who taught American literature. It is stories, after all, that make us who we are and shape us into what we will become.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )Between Goals
Last Saturday I participated in the 2012 Gator Bait Sprint Triathlon at beautiful Lake Boerne, Texas. The race was capped at 300, and for the third year in a row it sold out. Redemption Race Productions puts on the race, and this is the first one of theirs I’ve done. They’re a lot of fun and well organized, and they put on some interesting races—like a duathlon that starts in a cave. You better believe I’ll enter that one.
The Gator Bait started with a 500 meter swim—a big triangle out into Lake Boerne, followed by a 13 mile bike up Heartbreak Hill, and ended with a 4-ish mile run through the park. (The run was 4-ish because the park layout recently—and apparently surprisingly—changed, so Redemption wasn’t quite sure how long the run actually was. Relieved is what I was. We guessed it was about 3.5 miles.)
Heartbreak Hill is aptly named—about ½ very steep mile right before the turn-around point. I promised myself at the beginning of the race that I would NOT get off my bike to walk it up. Thankfully, I made it, moving so slowly at one point that I was sure I was going to roll backward down the hill.
I am happy to say that I finished the race under my estimated time, and at a personal best. Yay!
It’s been two years since I’ve done a sprint tri, and I had forgotten how nice it is to hang out for a few hours with triathletes. Everyone was kind and supportive, and it was inspiring to see so many people in such great shape. It made me want to do more triathlons.
But I have spent this week laying low, focusing on strength training and core work, getting ready to hit the cardio hard again next week. It’s nice to be in limbo, on the Nonplan Plan, for one whole week.
But I know it will be even nicer this weekend to pick out the next race, set the next goal, and get focused once again on running.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )Keeping Time
This Saturday is the sprint tri for which I’ve been training for the past 8 weeks. I’m pretty psyched about it and feel both mentally and physically prepared. The tri legs are a 500m open water swim, a 13 mile bike, and a 4 mile run. I would be happy to finish it in under 1:45, which would be a personal best. I think there are some pretty serious triathletes—like training for an Iron Man serious—in my age category, so I don’t expect to place. And I’m good with that. It’s been a great experience simply training, and I love being in the race itself.
What I love about training and racing is that when I’m in the moment, I’m truly in the moment. It’s one of the few times in my day when I have learned to be present. I don’t think about what’s coming next or what’s come before; I can simply be. My mind is laser focused, and, if what my latest fortune cookie tells me is true, a focused mind is one of the most powerful forces in the universe. I believe it.
So I was a little bit surprised last week when I had a moment of fear during one of my runs. I realized that race day was almost here and my training would be done. Then what? Go back to sleeping late, eating the Girl Scout cookies still hidden in my freezer behind a wall of vegetables and chicken, regrow my toenail? For the first time in weeks my mind strayed into “what comes next?” mode, and it wasn’t pretty. I lost track of what I was doing—my breathing, form, and pace—and when I came in I actually got out my calendar and got on my computer to see what sprint tri or half marathon might be coming up in a month or two.
Thankfully, reason dawned. There was no need to panic—there are loads of races all the time. I had no business looking for one then; there was still 10 days to this race, and this race was all that mattered. More important, perhaps, my run that day—or any day—is all that really matters, because that’s all there is. We aren’t promised the race or the finish. We are given only the day. All we can be sure of is the moment we are in, so we need to make the best of the moment, focused like a laser.
So I am ready for Saturday’s sprint tri. Now, if I can only apply that kind of focus to the rest of my life…
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )Diet Is a 4-Letter Word
I had a run-in with my arch nemesis this week. Fritos. He won. What’s worse, he has a friend. Julio’s. If you’re from Texas, you’ve probably seen Julio there on the shelves between his rival corn chips, and if you’ve had him you understand his power of persuasion.
It seems I had a fiesta in my pantry this week. The timing figures—on the heels of my thoughts about garbage. Thankfully, the fiesta is over. Has it affected my training? Fortunately, no. My sprint tri is in two weeks (yay!), and my workouts have been going well. Has it affected the way I feel about myself? You bet. Disappointment is the first word that rolls to mind, like a thundercloud.
But the big question is this: Will my lapse in nutritional judgment this week cause me to change what I eat next week? That is, will I go on a diet? The big answer: Absolutely not. In my opinion, diet is a 4-letter word.
There are dozens of diets on the market, always have been, always will be. Each time a new study touts the superpowers of one kind of food or the evil powers of another, there’s bound to be a book, an infomercial, a talk show segment, or some other media blitz right on its heels. That’s not to say the studies aren’t important. They are. But information is only good when it’s used wisely.
A diet cannot last forever. A healthy lifestyle can. What’s the difference? A diet has a beginning and an end. Many diets require the dieter to eliminate entire food groups or to overindulge in others. They require an exorbitant amount of willpower, which always fails, partly because it is physiologically impossible and certainly unhealthy to eliminate or overindulge, and the dieter’s body will pressure her into balance—which means she eats what she “shouldn’t.” She gets frustrated and quits, or she meets her prescribed time limit and, inevitably, the diet ends.
Most diets also require the dieter to consume less calories than he expends. Makes sense, especially if weight loss is the goal. But often, the number of calories prescribed by the diet is far less than a body actually needs to function—which means the dieter loses energy, gets weak and lethargic. Cranky.
The body knows what it needs. It needs calories to pump the heart, run the brain and nervous system, move the muscles and the bones they’re attached to. If the body doesn’t get enough calories from all the food groups, it goes into starvation mode, slowing down metabolism to conserve energy—hoarding all that fat the dieter is trying to shed.
No diets for me, thank you. I prefer to live a healthy lifestyle. What this means to me is that there is no beginning and no end to proper nutrition. I eat all the food groups, every day. I don’t worry about what time I eat my last meal. My body doesn’t refuse carbs after 3:00. I don’t panic if Fritos wins for a couple of days.
Let me repeat that. Sometimes Fritos wins for a couple of days. But since I’m not on a diet, that’s ok. It’s my mind—my opinion of myself—that pays the bigger long-term price than my body. This is because I have chosen to live a healthy lifestyle rather than to be (forever) on a diet. I know what the effects of saturated fat are on my arteries when the Fritos win. That—and not the effect on the elastic in my pants—is why I’m disappointed in myself.
I do have some general rules of thumb I try to follow:
- If God didn’t make it, don’t put it in my mouth. This prompts me to eat more whole foods and far less processed foods. (Yes, I still try to argue with myself how God did, in fact, make Fritos since he made the people who invented, manufactured, packaged, shipped, and shelved Fritos, the corn that’s in the Fritos, the people who created and operated the machinery that made all the other gunk that’s in the Fritos. You see how it goes. It’s exhausting, really, this kind of logic. Still, sometimes I let it win…)
- Graze like a gazelle. If I eat small portions all day, I feel better. And who doesn’t want to eat all day? When I do, my metabolism runs fast and steady throughout the day. I have less of a desire to overindulge in anything because I’m always satisfied, never starving, and I don’t overeat to the point of discomfort. I know I’ll be eating again in just a few hours. It’s a beautiful arrangement.
- Don’t eat anything bigger than my head. Seems like a no-brainer when it comes to foods like watermelon. But this also means that if I choose to have pizza, I can’t actually eat the whole thing. I would. But I can’t.
These rules of thumb have come after years of learning to listen to my body when it tells me what it needs. They’ve come because I do read the reports about nutrition and exercise. They’ve come because my main goal for my body is disease prevention. If I focus on keeping my body healthy and disease-free, I gravitate to the foods that will do that and steer away from the foods that won’t. In the process, my weight corrects itself. My tastesbuds have more than adapted to whole foods—I actually look forward to them. And I have more energy, more clarity of mind, and feel better than I have in my life.
What are your thoughts about diets?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 7 so far )Garbage in, Garbage out
I love food. Always have. I love to eat it, cook it, smell it, look at it, think about it, and talk about it. Sometimes I even dream about it. But I can’t tell you how many food conversations I’ve had during which one of the participants holds up a hand dismissively and says, “Well, you’re a runner. You can eat anything.”
That sentiment, I’m afraid, I do not love.
Many people take up running because they want to drop a few pounds. They know they need to get some cardio work into their routines—or they need to start a routine—and running seems like a fit. Some lose weight, some do not. The difference? It’s not only the output. More than likely, it’s the input.
I took up running for a much different reason than weight loss. A nice by-product has been that I keep my weight in check. I don’t do this by eating “anything.” I do, however, eat what I want. And lots of it.
A funny thing has happened over the past several years. My wants have changed. I used to be the queen of canned ravioli and packaged macaroni and cheese. Now, you couldn’t hold me down and force feed me either.
Sometimes I think I crave, say, macaroni and cheese, and sometimes I even talk about it for days on end. What I crave is not the food itself, but what the food represents. I now know enough about my body to know that if I did break down and eat macaroni and cheese, 1) I would be immensely disappointed in the taste, and 2) I would feel sick for at least a day, probably more.
The more I’ve run (and biked and swam), the more efficient my body has become at metabolizing food—if it’s the right kind of food. For me, that includes oatmeal, fruit, sweet potatoes, kale, and just about any other vegetable I can get my mouth on. It’s not cake and crackers and pizza. Even if I think I want it to be.
When I eat “anything,” I cannot run. That is, my sleep patterns are interrupted and I feel lethargic the next day. I feel like I’m running with a boulder in my belly, and my legs feel like lead. Those factors do not make for an enjoyable run, at least not for me. And for the rest of the day, I’m not the most pleasant person to be around.
That doesn’t mean that I never eat “anything.” Sometimes I choose pizza or bananas foster over running. But I recognize in the moment that it is, in fact, a choice, the consequences of which I will have to live with the next morning.
You’ve heard people say that our bodies are like machines and need the proper fuel to keep them operating the way they’re intended to. I’m not going to say exactly that, because I believe our bodies are so much more than machines. But there’s something to it. Garbage in, garbage out. Just like our computers. Our eyes. Our thoughts. Our bodies are no different.
So you’re a runner but some mornings a sharp stick in the eye seems like it might feel better than even your 2 mile route? Take a hard look at what you’re eating. Are you serving what you want—and is what you want serving you?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 7 so far )At the Core of the IT Band
I remember the first time I saw the Ice Capades. This was in Dorothy Hamill’s day, and she was my idol. I wanted to be a princess on ice, just like her, twirling and gliding, hair bobbing in the breeze. I even had her haircut. She was my star.
Until intermission. Which was also the first time I saw a Zamboni.
While my brothers and sisters flocked to the snack stand to load up on cotton candy and Cokes, I sat mesmerized watching what appeared to be magic—a giant bulldozer-like machine gliding over the ice, smoothing over the cuts and scrapes left behind by sharp blades. It was a thing of beauty, and suddenly my highest ambition in life was not to be a figure skater but to drive the Zamboni.
Making order out of chaos. What greater serenity could there be? I have since found the same satisfaction I experienced watching the Zamboni in ironing and mowing the lawn. There is something supremely peaceful in smoothing over creases, evening out irregularity. Finding balance, perhaps. Symmetry.
So you’d think I would find the same satisfaction in my foam roller as it smooths over the bubble-wrap tendon that has become my IT band. Alas. It is not so.
My IT band tightens pretty regularly, throwing off my body mechanics when I run. It took me nearly 6 months of incredible marathon-training-stopping pain to figure out what my IT band actually does. I experienced hip pain so devastating that for a while I could barely walk. (Did this keep me from limping out to the road every morning anyway to see if I could run? Of course not. Someone smack me in the head.) All the research I did on running injuries related the IT band to knee pain, not hip pain, so I couldn’t figure out what was wrong.
I finally saw a doctor, who referred me to a physical therapist (the best, I might add, in San Antonio). She solved the problem. Sure, my IT band was a mess, she concluded, but that would be relatively easy to straighten out. Simply foam roll regularly and see a massage therapist as often as I could stand it. Easy enough. I bought a foam roller and started massage therapy (lucky for me I found the best massage therapist, I would also add, in San Antonio).
However, the crux of the problem, my physical therapist pointed out, is not my IT band. My IT band transforming into bubble wrap is the symptom, not the cause. The real problem is at the core. Literally.
A strong core is the basis of all good form, no matter what sport you participate in, including running. Most runners I know, particularly women, seem to think that all they have to do is run to keep up the muscles that help them run. In reality, you need strength training to help with speed and endurance. But even strength training alone—if it doesn’t include core work—won’t get you very far.
My ongoing task has been to strengthen my stabilizers. It’s one I haven’t been very diligent about maintaining. I seem to go at it in bits and spurts, a few weeks on, a few weeks off. What reminds me to get back to core strengthening is both my foam roller and my massage therapist. When a date with either of them forces words from my mouth that would make my mother blush, I know I’ve been neglecting my core.
What kinds of core exercises do you do to maintain stability?
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 7 so far )The Art of Swimming, or how Ben Franklin helps me train
Any time I think of Ben Franklin—and yes, oddly, I think of him a lot—it’s never as a swimmer. Yet there I was in the pool this week working on my stroke when who should I think of but Franklin.
Franklin has been one of my heroes, I suppose you could say, since I first read his Autobiography in high school. (I know. I was an odd kid.) What appealed to me about Franklin then appealed to me throughout college and well into now. Franklin was all about self-improvement. He was a planner, a list-maker, an organizer of days and details, who believed that hard work, patience, and discipline lead to progress.
He went so far as to devise a character development project—The Art of Virtue—in the hope of attaining “moral perfection.” To this end, he listed 13 virtues or qualities of character he felt most important, with an explanation or precept beneath each one. He made a chart listing the 13 virtues down the side and the 7 days of the week across the top. Each week, he focused on one virtue.
He carried his chart with him everywhere he went, and each time he failed to live up to that week’s precept, he’d make a mark on the chart. The fewer the marks on the chart, the closer he came to meeting his idea of moral perfection. The next week, he’d focus on the next virtue, and then the next, until he worked his way through all 13. Then he’d start over again.
He kept his chart for 50 years. He never quite reached moral perfection (I highly doubt he ever thought he would), but he became a better man by marking himself through life.
So why was I thinking about moral perfection while swimming this week? I wasn’t. I was thinking about my elbows. Was I lifting them high enough out of the water? Were they coming up in the shape of a pyramid? Or maybe a chicken wing wrapped tightly to the body strapped on a rotisserie, turning maybe 75°, but not quite all the way around, just enough to twist my body up and around to take a deep breath of air? (I know. I am an odd adult too. Sometimes I get hungry while I swim. Usually, I think of oranges. This time, it was rotisserie chicken.)
My elbows. That was my focus, just for this week. Last week it was my kick. Next week it will be something else. Each time I get in the pool I try to practice proper form, but I realized this week that I focus on only one thing. Enter Franklin.
I won’t go so far as to make a list of 13 swimming components I need to improve, but I have one in my mind. In all other endeavors I have undertaken that involve self-improvement, I have made a plan—created a list, kept a calendar, somehow marked my progress and lack thereof. I have done this, in part, to keep from being overwhelmed. A project is always easier to undertake if I break it down into smaller parts.
Triathlon training is easier to undertake if I break it down into smaller parts.
I don’t have to master the art of swimming in just one week. Not even in one month. There are too many components to take into account, at least for me. But if I focus on just one thing at a time—just one week at a time—I will at least get better. And all I ask for is improvement.
So thank you, Ben, for once again reminding me that improvement comes in small measures, over the course of time.
I said that before this week, I had never thought about Franklin as a swimmer. Heck, I never thought of him as athletic at all. Come to find out, he not only taught himself how to swim in a time when almost no one went swimming, but he invented fins. He is, in fact, the only founding father to be in the Swimming Hall of Fame. I wonder what his training log looked like.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 2 so far )In Medias Res
This post is longer than usual for me, in large part because it’s a complicated subject for me. I suspect it is for others too. Goals. Not goal setting, which many of us do, but goal revising, which many of us stop short of doing and choose instead to call our missed goals failures.
I have set my share of goals, most of them fitness-related, especially in the past decade. (Note: When you start talking about your life in terms of decades, you know you’re getting old.) Sure, I have set work-related goals. For the most part, they’ve been called deadlines. To my way of thinking, that’s not quite the same thing as setting goals.
Many people use New Year’s resolutions as their goal-setting strategy. But the idea of making resolutions has always bugged me—why pressure myself to set goals during this monumental goal-setting time once a year? And if January passed and I hadn’t resolved to do much of anything, I was off the hook for another year, drifting about on the Nonplan Plan, which is what I did for a year or two. Maybe three. Which is, perhaps, why New Year’s resolutions bugged me.
I know a bit about goal setting and time management. I’ve taught the principles and the actions and I know what I’m supposed to do: Set big (challenging), specific, measurable goals with realistic deadlines, long and short. Write them down. Read them regularly. But other than fitness-related training goals with the requisite plan tacked on my refrigerator, I hadn’t written down any goals. Instead, I kept them in my head. Picked a vague date. Figured I’d make it. Or not.
So this past January, I tried something new. I made two lists, one of priorities and the other of short- and long-term goals, and taped them to my bathroom mirror. They were the first thing I saw every morning and the last thing I saw every night. And since I work from home, I saw them a number of times in between.
I listed my priorities first. My goals wouldn’t mean much unless I knew what larger picture I was trying to paint. Additionally, no matter what I have planned on any given day or week, life happens. The time or effort I have to put toward my goals often conflict, and I have to choose. Reminding myself of my priorities makes it easier to know what choice to make. At least in theory.
My priorities, listed in order of importance, looked like this:
- God
- Health
- Relationships
- Writing
- Work
My logic went something like this: Life is not about me, it’s about serving others (God). In order to serve others to the best of my ability, I need to take care of myself (Health). The things in life that mean the most to me—the things I serve—are not things, they’re people (Relationships). The abilities, skills, and passions I have to serve others with are gifts, and gifts are meant to be opened, not kept under wraps. I am blessed with the gift of writing—what can I do with my writing to help others see (Writing)? I am blessed with the ability to run—how can I extend my life-altering passion to others (Work)?
Under each priority, I jotted down a few phrases about what the priority means to me. Under God, for example, one of the things I wrote is to keep my light on a table, not under a bushel. Under Health I wrote only one thing: You know what to do. Just do it. (Clearly, I have set the most goals in my life around this priority.)
Next, I wrote out some goals: 8 for the month of January—specifically under the priorities I knew I would struggle with most; five 3-month goals (end of March); three 6-month goals (end of June); and two one-year goals (end of December). I intentionally set fewer long-term goals, as I knew that 6 and 12 months were too far out to set very specific goals, and I would need to revise accordingly.
Revise accordingly. This is where I am now.
I achieved 7 of my 8 January goals. By the end of March, I achieved only 2 of 5. I am on track to achieve maybe 1 of my 3 June goals and maybe 1 of my 2 December goals. I took the papers off my mirror at the end of April. Not because I failed. But because I choose to succeed.
I fail now only if I choose to do nothing. I succeed if I revise.
Revision, as it turns out, can be pretty tricky. It’s a lot like what Ernest Hemingway said about writing: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
Revision means not only reevaluating your goals, but why you set those goals in the first place. The goals that I haven’t met, for instance, can be lumped into two categories: those that depend on others to achieve and those that have to do with writing. Once I can see a pattern emerge—two categories—I can figure out how to revise.
Goals that depend on others to achieve, as it turns out, are not really goals. At least not my own personal goals. Unless I checked with those “others” to see if their goals align with mine. If I haven’t, then I’ve set unrealistic and probably immeasurable goals. Every single goal I missed in this category has to do with work.
I feel so passionate about the mission of my organization and I see very clearly in my mind where I believe we need to head. My vision, however, doesn’t match my past few months’ experience. Does this mean that I should ditch the organization and our goals because we’re not where I wanted to be?
Hardly. Rather, I can use life experience to reshape not only our goals, but my goals. I can learn what to measure, understand what’s realistic, and check with others first. Then I can set new goals, making sure to set goals that are “mine,” not “ours.” There is most certainly a place for “our” goals, but that place is not necessarily on my bathroom mirror.
The other category of goals I didn’t meet has to do with writing, which is pretty high on my list of priorities. It’s the first of things I “do” after things I “am.” In other words, it’s action rather than character. Sort of. Because I am, and have always been, a writer, whether I have been a paid writer (sometimes) or not (most of the time). Writing, writers know, is part of one’s essence.
If a priority is that high on my list and I fail to meet most of the goals associated with it, then, as painful as it might be to even suggest it, maybe my priority is not really a priority. My boyfriend reminded me of this indirectly just the other day. I can’t very well get my book published if I’m not sending it out to agents. And I can’t get a novel published if I haven’t yet finished writing it.
So why haven’t I been doing the things I know I need to do—that I really want to do? In part, it’s because of competing commitments and accountability. If there are X hours in a day and I have set aside a block of them to write but a work issue arises that needs to be addressed immediately, there goes writing time. Two goals—two priorities—competing for the same block of time. Which one wins?
Technically, it should be the higher priority on my list. In this case, writing. Practically, what wins is the priority that serves the most people, most immediately: Work. At work, I am accountable to over 100 girls, 30 coaches, 5 sites, and whoever reaches out for information. In writing, I am accountable to only me.
And it’s this thing called accountability that often causes the bleeding and makes us feel as if we’ve failed when the deadline for a goal has passed with the goal unattained. We are, in the end, always accountable to ourselves. Goals are, after all, ours. We set them.
Who says we can’t revise them?
Revision is part of progress. How do I know where I’m going if I don’t know where I am or where I’ve been? I need to set my goals. Measure and monitor them. And when life happens, as it inevitably does—and thank God it does—revise accordingly.
I wish I could say I have done this already and that I have solved my dilemma of competing commitments. But I have not. I am in medias res, and in the middle of things is not such a bad place to be. I will figure it out. And if I’m wrong, I’ll revise.
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