Mental Preparation for an Uphill Battle
In the thick of a Texas summer, even the angels appear to sweat.
The Angel Moroni still stands high atop the Mormon temple at the pinnacle of Stone Oak Parkway, heralding the dawn. Temple Hill, I call it, the tallest, steepest local hill for serious repeats. My friend Carrie and I tackled this hill in our training for two half marathons, a couple of 10ks. She moved north in June. 
I haven’t been here since. Never been here alone.
Training for my fall half marathon begins officially next week. My plan has been tacked to my refrigerator for the past two. Mental preparation. I like to see what’s coming, think about it, visualize it, prepare for the way my body will feel. This week, I’m preparing my body in person. It needs to remember hills like this.
This morning when I stood at the bottom of Temple Hill, looked up to gauge the distance and realized I had forgotten how blasted long it is, the sun was just about to rise. Not in stunning pinks and oranges, but in the hazy yellow-gray that amplifies the heat, the heaviness of summer. The air felt thick in my lungs. The Angel Moroni shimmered in the distance like a mirage.
I spent a lot of time this summer running with others, as a mentor, a friend. Keeping the pace and marking distance, chatting, encouraging. Or simply running side by side in silence, listening to the synch of others’ cadence with my own. Breathing in unison. Resting in the knowledge that we didn’t have to tackle the road or trail alone.
This morning when I stood at the bottom of Temple Hill, looked up to gauge the distance, I didn’t feel alone. My body remembered what it was like to run this hill with a friend, and I ran faster. Did one more repeat. Ran up and up until the angel stopped shimmering, reflected the sun in burnished gold.
Muscle memory. Of friends, community. It sets in. Pushes you to give your best, be your best, not give up. Even when you’re alone.
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Good-bye Summer Joy
My ode to summer joy officially ended on Monday, June 23, at 5:48 am.
I know. That’s less than 48 hours after summer officially started. But I can explain.
You see, I live in Texas. Summer in Texas is pretty much like I imagine the fourth ring of hell to feel like. Maybe muggier.
We were spoiled this year, however. We made it well into June lulled into a false sense of comfort. The start of summer here felt almost like summer in Michigan. Pleasant, breezy, green. You could sit outside and enjoy your yard, your grill, the sunset. You could roll out of bed in the morning and go for a pleasant run.
But then it all ended when summer officially arrived, rolling in on blanket of hot, wet air, which wrapped itself heavily around my shoulders and worked its way deeply into my lungs on the morning of Monday, June 23, when I stepped outside at 5:48 am to run. 
Texas is now officially into the season of running clothes drenched with so much sweat you have to wring them out and lay them in the sun for an entire day to dry; two or three shower days; lethargy; pulling the grill closer to the back door; watching the sunset through the window (if you can see around the mosquitoes); and much earlier morning runs.
As much as I am cursing Texas summers this week, I know that I will soon adapt and forget how much it sucks. By mid-July, I will have pulled the grill back out to where it belongs, purchased more citronella candles or Off, and created a sweaty-clothes-drying-only bench on my deck. Two showers a day will be nothing. Maybe one of them will even be a swim. If memory serves me right, the kids don’t get to the pool until well after sun-up anyway. Maybe a little chlorine to temper the sweat isn’t such a bad thing after all.
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Just the Facts, Ma’am
You need to post more information about yourself, my editor tells me. People need to know you.
Why? I ask. Whoever reads my blog knows me by what I write. The stories. The struggles. The voice and tone. What more is there to know?
It’s been a battle of the wills for months, but she will inevitably win. Writing a memoir is hard, the distillation of a lifetime through a funnel called Running, Community.
It starts in a blog, a series of posts, and expands ever outward, from blog to memoir to a compilation of runners’ stories woven together like a tightly knit shawl. To be complete by the end of summer. Draft 1.
The hardest question to answer: Tell us about yourself. Writing a bio of even three sentences is excruciatingly hard.
What is it people want to know, the facts (or the truth behind them)?
My favorite colors are blue and green (the colors of peace and tranquility—like floating under water, suspended by saline and waves; the only sound your breath, to know you are alive; surrounded by fish the color of the sun or the sky at dawn, a funnel cloud of rainbow eddying around you).
But this is no longer eighth grade and the relevant facts do not involve (so I am told) colors or music or movies.
Do they want to know the history (or the narrative)? Dates or events comprise the skeleton, stories connect the organs and flesh.
It takes a lifetime to build a body.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Happiness Is…
Peace. Calm. 
That’s the conclusion my friends and I came to this week. Peace and calm, we realized, is actually the precondition for happiness, at least for the three of us.
Each month, my friends and I meet to talk about the issues that pertain to running a business, leading as a woman. This month’s topic: happiness.
What makes you happy? The question that launched the discussion, based on an article we read in USA Today. Our answers weren’t what some may think—not money or material goods, not power or prestige, not hedonism. They are, in fact, the simple things.
Running.
Practicing yoga.
Sitting on the deck in the sun listening to the breeze stirring wind chimes.
Cleaning the garage.
Spending time with people we care about.
As we worked through the question of happiness, we realized that a sense of order, peace, calm was part of the equation. Creating order is a necessary component of happiness. The symmetry, cleanliness, beauty, peace come first. The result? Happiness.
Not the cleaning itself, but the having cleaned.
Not the writing itself, but the having written.
A goal met. A sense of achievement. And in the midst of it all, the flow of time suspended.
Which is what I get when I run.
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To Say It Makes It So
I’m in the process of writing a book about—wait for it—running. I know. Who’d have thought?
The book is part memoir—how running has transformed me personally and professionally—and part community collaboration. It will include the stories of remarkable women I’ve been fortunate to know here in San Antonio and how running has transformed them too.
It’s because of these women that I found the courage to write this book. And I was lucky enough to meet them because of the work I do as council director for Girls on the Run of Bexar County. Through it all, I am learning what it means to be part of a community. And I am learning so much more.
Writing is a tricky process. It comes in fits and starts, and sometimes goes even quicker. There are days when I can’t wait to get in front of my computer to dump out the piece of story that’s written itself in my head, and days when I can’t, for the life of me, string together one true sentence.
But it’s coming together nevertheless, slowly but surely. I’m half way there. Over the hump. Which is why I feel safe enough to say it out loud. And you know how words work. To say it makes it so.
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Community Trust
“Trusting.”
Not a question but an imperative. The girl in the middle closes her eyes and tells her team she is ready.
“You can trust us.”
In unison. They are prepared. To bear her weight, right her when she tips too far out of balance.
It’s a risky game for all involved. A frightening prospect particularly for the one in the middle, who must rely on her peers.
And so begin the Girls on the Run lessons in community. I’ve witnessed this lesson half a dozen times over the past several seasons, showing up by chance to observe a team on the day it’s facilitated.
Only I don’t believe in chance.
This time, something about the game strikes me. Why is it that the very first in a series of games to reinforce the concept of community is about trust? There are so many components of community: What we have in common—values, attitudes, interests, demographics, language, geography—and what we don’t. None of that sort of glue requires trust.
Why do we expect these girls to throw their weight on their team, and why do we expect the team to support it? Is it too much to ask?
I sit on a rock in the shade and watch the girls stand vigil, shoulder to shoulder, over the girl in the center, their eyes somber with responsibility. They giggle and squirm but never remove their gaze from the girl who is trusting, and they never lose their footing.
They seem to know instinctively the importance of their role. If they step aside, a gaping hole remains and the girl in the center falls. There is no one to fill their space. Each of them is necessary.
I watch from the sidelines feeling both hollow and filled. Each time I observe a team I am astonished by the wisdom and strength of these young girls, blown away by their mutual encouragement, moved to tears by their interaction with their coaches.
Yet, each time, I walk away feeling alone. Not lonely, but solitary.
I head back to my car mulling over this day’s lesson and the relationship between trust and community. Most of my own involvement in community has been in the outer circle, standing shoulder to shoulder with others. I have yet to spend much time in the middle, as the girl who is trusting.
I chuckle at the realization and my emptiness dissipates. I have witnessed this lesson half a dozen times over the past several seasons. Today I finally get it.
I don’t believe in chance.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Creating Order out of Chaos
My new training plan is posted on the side of my refrigerator, a black and white grid containing daily directives and empty white space awaiting my penciled-in results. I love a new plan. It’s challenge and promise weigh equally. It gives me a sense of purpose each day. A reason to get out of bed earlier than the birds. And the direction and clarity to know what to do even after the white space is filled in.
That’s the key, really. The “after” part of completing the daily plan.
Sure, running is the reason for the plan. And, for now, for my new 16-week plan, biking and swimming is too. It is the reward, the goal, the tool, the end in itself and the means to a greater end all rolled into one. There is freedom in running. There is joy and health and confidence.
But there is more.
Running helps me to create order out of chaos. And chaos is, after all, life, mostly.
It is a million different forces all pressing on us at once, vying for our attention, demanding action. It is a million bits of information clamoring to be heard, absorbed, incorporated into the design.
It is a million blades of grass forming a raggedly blanket of a lawn that the HOA insists must be flattened and smoothed.
I get tremendous satisfaction in mowing my lawn. Watching straight lines form in the grass behind my mower, leaving a wake of structure.
So it is with me in running. The sheer act of physical movement, of allowing my mind the freedom to construct my day, week, month, story, life at the dawn of each day produces the structure for all else. Without it, I cannot write, at least not well. Without it, the organization I lead would not be led strategically, compassionately, or wisely, a goal I mindfully set each day, but instead would become like the field behind my house, overgrown with weeds.
My desk has always faced a wall. Until recently, the wall has been blank. Now, a corkboard hangs in front of me, the center space empty, all else tacked to the sides. Whenever I look up, I see the vision of what will be that my mind’s eye projects there, like a movie on a screen, the endless possibilities a swirl of chaos. Writing and leading an organization have this in common: You must always keep your vision in front of you to make the right choices, choose the right ideas, to create order out of the chaos.
My new training plan started this week. The Royal Empress and Mountain Laurel have just begun to bloom. Their fragrance rolls out before me like a red carpet when I run. There is so much promise in the newness of spring, its plan unfolding.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )What Would You Give?
For years I have not observed Lent. At first because I dropped out of the church, and then later, when I dribbled back in, because I got tired of seeing Lent trivialized. It’s not the latest diet, the Lenten 15, say, a plan to drop those last stubborn pounds in anticipation of swimsuit season. And it’s not an excuse to cut out meat on Fridays, only to show up at your local fish monger and indulge in lobster.
I, of course, have done these things in the name of Lent. Deprived myself of chocolate and Fritos or wine and beer in an effort to reach an objective that was personal and selfish, not communal and considerate of others. I have established my goal, created my plan, and expected my God to follow along granting my desire. Like Aladdin’s genie, but maybe not so blue.
I have thought that if I could demonstrate to God my ability to deprive myself of certain things, then He would reward me. With what, I wasn’t sure. Nice things, a great job. Happiness, maybe. A medal.
I have even made running my idol, expecting God to affix wings to my heels.
But, as Woody Allen asserts, if you want to make God laugh, just tell him your plans.
What I’m figuring out, I think, is to focus not on the goal or the plan but, rather, on the gift, the ability God has given me. Like writing. Compassion and empathy. Mercy. And even running. And to remember that these gifts are not mine to keep. Gifts are meant to be given.
So the question I face this Lenten season is not what do I deprive myself of. Not exactly. I know that I can be self-disciplined. But what do I give of myself. What can I offer to others so they can be happier, better, stronger? How can I bring someone joy or compassion or love? Consciously and deliberately. Not accidentally or incidentally.
It’s Ash Wednesday today, the day I write this, and I’m still not sure how to observe Lent. A funny word, “observe.” Implying that we will hang around and passively watch something happen rather than actively participate. But action is required. It is the end of reflection.
And, I think, it’s never too late to pare ourselves down to the bone, to become less in order to give more.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Juggling Oranges
Tuesday was one of those days I wondered why I do what I do for a living. Why, exactly, am I here? Nothing was going as planned. The day was supposed to be devoted to grant writing. A deadline is coming too quickly. Just a matter of days.
The disruption started at 5:42am with one crisis and then continued until well past 7:00pm. It’s always the small things that get you, and the immediacy they demand. A coaching situation to resolve right now, a shortage of supplies at three sites to be remedied today, a promise to 18 girls that must be kept.
The confusion in time zones that causes you to miss a call you’ve had scheduled for two weeks.
And then the big things: Remember that conference on Thursday? Guess what? You get to deliver a piece of it. Start preparing. Oh, and, to help, our team will have a one and a half hour conference call this afternoon.
Timing is everything. How to participate in a conference call while driving to three sites and take adequate notes while running supplies into buildings? We are on point number two in the call, two points away from my piece. Surely I have time to sprint up to the school with 15 pounds of oranges, drop them where they belong, and sprint back to my car with my phone on mute before they ask me for my input? Barely. But I try. I can still answer questions out of breath, car door slamming, engine starting before I break three laws and drive in a school zone with my phone on speaker, resting on my knee.
But I am irritated. Anxious. There is too much to do and not enough time. I hear my other line ringing and messages piling up. Hear texts chiming, emails accumulating. My eye is on the clock and I’m thinking about the grant and remembering the other phone calls I was to have made today. An office day, it was supposed to be, an administrative day. A day to write that grant.
As I sprint two blocks from my car to the last school, up two flights of steps, and down the hall juggling another 15 pounds of oranges and my phone, muted conference call still going at my ear, I see her come out of the bathroom.
I don’t know her name, but I know her, this little girl. We met last week when I subbed for her team. She is shy, chubby. Tilts her head down and smiles bashfully when she sees me. She is wearing a chain around her neck, the chain she got in Girls on the Run to collect little sparkly feet on. One foot equals one mile. The girls accumulate feet all season as they accumulate miles.
One sparkly foot dangles from her chain. Last week, her teammates each got at least two feet. One girl earned four.
She stops walking and stands there quietly in the hall, rocking a little from side to side.
I know this girl. Shy, chubby, not athletic, wanting to speak but too timid to do so. Waiting patiently just the same. She is me when I was 9, 10.
I take the phone away from my ear.
“You’re wearing your foot,” I say.
She nods slowly, smile broadening, and raises her hand to her chain.
I nod back. “Think you’ll get another today?”
She nods again, a look of determination deepening her smile, and clutches her foot.
“I think so too,” I say.
She raises her chin just a little and walks proudly back to her classroom.
“Hey?” I hear someone say my name and I remember my call. “Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” I take the phone off mute and watch the girl walk down the hall. Now I remember why I’m here.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )Do You Recognize Improvement When You See It?
Two weeks ago, I stood at the bottom of Temple Hill, the steep half-mile hill with the false top three quarters of the way up, my hill-repeat nemesis, and stared up. It was cold that day. Windy. But it was the last day for hill repeats in this round of training, for this particular half marathon, and Carrie and I had just finished our series of repeats. I wanted to mark the hill in my head. Remember the grade, the cold and wind, the burning that did not transpire in my lungs or quads. Not this time. We had improved.
Improvement can be such an elusive thing. Often not because it doesn’t happen, but because it can be so slight it’s almost imperceptible. If we don’t pay attention, we miss it.
Take, for instance, this hill. We were finished and walking back to our cars before we realized some small things.
- We did five hills—and chatted up and down the entire time. Previous training days were silent affairs, the loudest and most extended sound often the gasping for breath.
- Once we reached the top, we turned around and ran down. Not so on earlier runs. We breathed too hard, then, and had to walk a good quarter of the way down until we could even begin to run.
- And once we hit bottom we turned right around again to run back up, no down time in between. On earlier runs, I would have preferred to camp out at the bottom for awhile. Build a fire, maybe. Roast some marshmallows. But there was no need to this time. We had improved. And we almost missed it.
Did it make a difference on race day? Training always does. We ran the Austin Half Marathon, the hardest course in my half marathon experience so far because of all the hills.
We finished the race knowing we ran well and could not have done anything different. That’s the best feeling after a race. When you’ve given it your all.
And the second best feeling is knowing that your all is an improvement. Carrie PRed. I ran my second fastest half marathon time. It’s the small things that matter. Put enough of them together and you get something big.
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