When I visited Ssadie in Idaho last summer, I was a runner. She was not. She'd go to the gym with me and hike with me, but the few times I tried to get her to run with me, it just wasn't happening.
But since I've been down with this (motherfuckinggoddamnitshit) heel injury, she's picked up her running shoes. Oh, and roller skates, too, since she's now a derby queen.
This weekend, she ran her first race, a 12K. She love it, of course, and came back with this little story:
About .5 mile from the finish I heard a man clapping and hooting (like a gazillion other spectators). "You're all amazing, keep going!" he cheered, "Almost there, it's a blessed miracle you're running today!"
I turned my face to send him a weary smile, and I saw him; an old man, perched awkwardly on a stool. He was an amputee.
It's hard to run and cry at the same time. fyi.
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Friday, April 16, 2010
Heeling
Lordy it's been a shitter of a week. Especially considering that I'm about to work my 12th day in a row, so that shitter week? Extra long.
Tuesday morning, a friend and I decided to try doing a wee jog/walk together. We decided to meet at 6 a.m., which she was nervous about. She asked me to text her at 5:30.
"Good morning! I'm about to go watch the beautiful sunrise!"
A couple of minutes later, as I was putting the I'm a Mean Mommy Pinchey Collar on Margaux, I got a text reply.
"Dude. You are not allowed to be perky."
Fair.
But we did it, and the sun rose by the river as we trotted and chatted and our dogs sniffed beside us. It felt wonderful, but within two hours my heel, the one with the dreaded plantar fasciitis, was hurting badly enough I knew it was too much, too soon. Eff.
But my gym membership is about up, and I'm too broke to buy a new one. I have only one option.
Tuesday morning, a friend and I decided to try doing a wee jog/walk together. We decided to meet at 6 a.m., which she was nervous about. She asked me to text her at 5:30.
"Good morning! I'm about to go watch the beautiful sunrise!"
A couple of minutes later, as I was putting the I'm a Mean Mommy Pinchey Collar on Margaux, I got a text reply.
"Dude. You are not allowed to be perky."
Fair.
But we did it, and the sun rose by the river as we trotted and chatted and our dogs sniffed beside us. It felt wonderful, but within two hours my heel, the one with the dreaded plantar fasciitis, was hurting badly enough I knew it was too much, too soon. Eff.
But my gym membership is about up, and I'm too broke to buy a new one. I have only one option.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
As long as I don't have to be the pole
Some co-workers and I talked awhile ago about doing the Pole, Pedal Paddle this year. It's an annual event that I avoided even spectating the first four years I lived in this town. Last year, though, I ran support for my pal SGL, who did the whole thing by HERSELF.
In case you don't know how crazy that is, let me outline the event:
First, you go to Mount Bachelor and ride a chairlift up to the top, put your skis or board in place then walk down hill 200 feet. Why do you walk downhill 200 feet? Why, so you can run uphill in ski boots, of course! It's even more fun than running in soft sand.
Then you ski down to where a friend (like me!) is waiting to exchange your board for your cross country skis. After a quick change, you slog through five miles of melty mashed potatoes and gravy spring snow until you meet up again with your pal to trade skis for bike.
Next, you bike 22 miles. Now, in fairness, most of the bike is downhill, since you're coming into town from a mountain, but those uphill stretches are a real bitch.
Still standing? Good, it's time to run five miles through town. The nice part is that we have a friend who lives on the route, and she sits in a lawn chair with a cooler of beer and a fifth of Jack Daniels for anyone who's gotten parched.
The boat portion involves paddling "upstream from a put-in point for 1/2 mile on the Deschutes River" then "back downstream for 3/4 mile, then back upstream for 1/4 mile." Yeah, up, down, up.
Oh, and then you have to run again. This time, it's even supposed to be a "sprint."
So, SGL may be a little crazy. I definitely can't do the whole thing. In addition to my serious lack of physical fitness, I also can't downhill ski. But I can ride a bike (though I don't think I can use my single speed '68 Sears Spider for this race. A damn shame, because my sparkly purple banana seat would probably really help my performance), and maybe by the end of May, I can run five miles? I mean, I still can't run, the heel's still effed, but maybe by then I'll be in ship shape again?
The real question though is costumes. Some teams dress up in leis, or with bridal veils. I saw a pretty sick cops and jailbirds team last year (the cops had thick handlebar moustaches and wore hotpants, natch). What should we out of shape cubicle jockeys do?
Google, from whence I stole this picture, seems to think this woman's name is Karen.
In case you don't know how crazy that is, let me outline the event:
First, you go to Mount Bachelor and ride a chairlift up to the top, put your skis or board in place then walk down hill 200 feet. Why do you walk downhill 200 feet? Why, so you can run uphill in ski boots, of course! It's even more fun than running in soft sand.
Then you ski down to where a friend (like me!) is waiting to exchange your board for your cross country skis. After a quick change, you slog through five miles of melty mashed potatoes and gravy spring snow until you meet up again with your pal to trade skis for bike.
Next, you bike 22 miles. Now, in fairness, most of the bike is downhill, since you're coming into town from a mountain, but those uphill stretches are a real bitch.
Still standing? Good, it's time to run five miles through town. The nice part is that we have a friend who lives on the route, and she sits in a lawn chair with a cooler of beer and a fifth of Jack Daniels for anyone who's gotten parched.
The boat portion involves paddling "upstream from a put-in point for 1/2 mile on the Deschutes River" then "back downstream for 3/4 mile, then back upstream for 1/4 mile." Yeah, up, down, up.
Oh, and then you have to run again. This time, it's even supposed to be a "sprint."
So, SGL may be a little crazy. I definitely can't do the whole thing. In addition to my serious lack of physical fitness, I also can't downhill ski. But I can ride a bike (though I don't think I can use my single speed '68 Sears Spider for this race. A damn shame, because my sparkly purple banana seat would probably really help my performance), and maybe by the end of May, I can run five miles? I mean, I still can't run, the heel's still effed, but maybe by then I'll be in ship shape again?
The real question though is costumes. Some teams dress up in leis, or with bridal veils. I saw a pretty sick cops and jailbirds team last year (the cops had thick handlebar moustaches and wore hotpants, natch). What should we out of shape cubicle jockeys do?
Google, from whence I stole this picture, seems to think this woman's name is Karen.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The first 10
The first time I ran 10 miles, I cried.
I'd started running after I left a 5-year relationship. I was living with a good friend temporarily, and she ran, had in fact started running to treat her depression. So we'd get up in the mornings and go for runs, and spend the whole time talking and processing and working through all of the psychological garbage I'd collected over five years with a guy who I loved desperately despite the fact that he was a major alcoholic with a moderate cocaine and prescription drug problem who was sometimes verbally abusive. Oh, and he never wanted to have sex. Wondering why I left?
After awhile, another runner friend suggested I do a half marathon, 13.1 miles. I decided to go for it. I printed a training schedule off the internet and got to work. By this point, I had gotten into another relationship and fallen in love again. He was tall and skinny and funny, a former bike messenger and road bike racer. Sometimes he'd drink a Pabst before we ran, but then we'd head out together, and he was a slow loper of a runner, so I could keep up with him. We'd take my little dog out and run by the river and talk. He called me Sporty Spice.
But then he dumped me.
So I started running alone. Just me and my little dog. And it was good for her, and I felt good, and lost a little weight and even more inches despite my regular diet of carbs, cake, cheese and beer. I'd do several short runs a week then one increasingly long run on the weekend. I'd tried to get to 10 miles a couple of times, but kept getting held back by screwups. My hamstring would bother me, or I'd uknowingly pick a route with bodacious hills that I simply could not run up. I knew all I had to do in my training was get over that damn ten mile mark. As someone told me, "If you can run 10 miles, you can run 13."
As I was coming to the end of the trail, my breath started catching in my throat. At first, I thought something was wrong with me, that my lungs were seizing. Then I realized it was just the pride catching in my lungs. I didn't know until my eyes started to sting how glad I was that there wasn't a man with me. The rest of the day my body buzzed warmly, and I couldn't stop grinning. And I finished the half marathon. I ran the whole way -- I mean, other than when I was drinking gatorade or peeing. I understand that people pee and shit themselves in marathons in order to get good time, but that ain't me.
I'd started running after I left a 5-year relationship. I was living with a good friend temporarily, and she ran, had in fact started running to treat her depression. So we'd get up in the mornings and go for runs, and spend the whole time talking and processing and working through all of the psychological garbage I'd collected over five years with a guy who I loved desperately despite the fact that he was a major alcoholic with a moderate cocaine and prescription drug problem who was sometimes verbally abusive. Oh, and he never wanted to have sex. Wondering why I left?
After awhile, another runner friend suggested I do a half marathon, 13.1 miles. I decided to go for it. I printed a training schedule off the internet and got to work. By this point, I had gotten into another relationship and fallen in love again. He was tall and skinny and funny, a former bike messenger and road bike racer. Sometimes he'd drink a Pabst before we ran, but then we'd head out together, and he was a slow loper of a runner, so I could keep up with him. We'd take my little dog out and run by the river and talk. He called me Sporty Spice.
But then he dumped me.
So I started running alone. Just me and my little dog. And it was good for her, and I felt good, and lost a little weight and even more inches despite my regular diet of carbs, cake, cheese and beer. I'd do several short runs a week then one increasingly long run on the weekend. I'd tried to get to 10 miles a couple of times, but kept getting held back by screwups. My hamstring would bother me, or I'd uknowingly pick a route with bodacious hills that I simply could not run up. I knew all I had to do in my training was get over that damn ten mile mark. As someone told me, "If you can run 10 miles, you can run 13."
As I was coming to the end of the trail, my breath started catching in my throat. At first, I thought something was wrong with me, that my lungs were seizing. Then I realized it was just the pride catching in my lungs. I didn't know until my eyes started to sting how glad I was that there wasn't a man with me. The rest of the day my body buzzed warmly, and I couldn't stop grinning. And I finished the half marathon. I ran the whole way -- I mean, other than when I was drinking gatorade or peeing. I understand that people pee and shit themselves in marathons in order to get good time, but that ain't me.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Mornings
Nearly every day, my alarm clock goes off at 5:30 a.m., and I promptly turn it off, then roll back into the warm body next to me. It happens if I stay up too late watching Chuck on Hulu (I have the hots for Chuck, big time, but I HATE his new hairdo. It's so Magnum P.I.) drinking wine until I spill on my shirt, pass out on the couch, and then stagger to the bedroom somewhere around three. But it also happens if I tuck myself in at 9:30, read a book (I started The Unbearable Lightness of Being, though I really feel like I should be reading the books I borrowed from my boss. I mean, if I read them fast she'll think I'm smarter, right?) then fall asleep at 10:10.
Talking to SSadie about it, she vowed to call me early mornings to help rouse me from bed.
But on day one, after a date with my boss (opera concert we both wanted to go to), I came home to three drunk boys on the couch, so of course I pounded several 22s of beer with them, then slept through my wake-up call the next morning.
We're trying again tomorrow morning.
Also: A big hurrah to an old friend who ran her first 15k run this weekend. That's more than 9 miles, if you're counting.
Talking to SSadie about it, she vowed to call me early mornings to help rouse me from bed.
But on day one, after a date with my boss (opera concert we both wanted to go to), I came home to three drunk boys on the couch, so of course I pounded several 22s of beer with them, then slept through my wake-up call the next morning.
We're trying again tomorrow morning.
Also: A big hurrah to an old friend who ran her first 15k run this weekend. That's more than 9 miles, if you're counting.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Based on a true story
Tonight at a birthday dinner for my Tiny Running Pal, she confessed she's trying to turn another girlfriend to the dark side.
"So, I went for a walk with Ms. P the other day," TRP said, eying Ms. P across the table. "I've decided she needs to start running."
I took a bite of falafel (This is an important detail. The falafel was good.)
"Why?" I asked.
"Good question," TRP said, while Ms. P shook her head.
It all came down to a matter of pants size.
"Oh, if that's your concern, then do it," I said. "Sorry, I'm on her side. Run."
"OK," Ms. P admitted. "I'll admit, I'm intrigued by the idea."
"How long have you tried running before, did you get up to two to three times a week for a couple of months?" I asked.
She shook her head. No, she'd only lasted a couple of weeks.
"Then you don't know," I said. "Look, if I can run, and get to the point I enjoy it, you can run."
I spared her the details, about how profoundly lazy I was as a kid. How I'd fall asleep in my dinner. How I'd been on a swim team at one point, and though I'd shown some proclivity, I simply hadn't a competitive bone in my body. I'd finish a race, and my dad would be standing there, shaking his head.
"You were in first until the last few yards. You were winning," he said.
I'd shrug. Third was good, too. What was the big deal? Also, was snack time coming? And were we going to make it home in time for "Charles In Charge"?
In the car on the way home from dinner, Ms. P admitted it may be time. She may be willing to hit the trail. But, she was clear on one point: Bitching and moaning is something she enjoys. She simply refuses to give it up. And although I'm lazy, I'm not much of a complainer. Still, I'm fine with the potential bitching. I want to join TRP and Ms. P on the trail.
I've decided the physical therapists have three weeks to get my heel in shape, or I'm searching out an injection. I need to join them. I can't let Ms. P and TRP run without me.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Getting some restraint
I finally found my motivation to run. It was in my bra.
Really. See, I have big boobs. Not porn-star big, but run-of-the-mill D-cup big. And up till now, running has been an ongoing attempt to minimize vertical movement of the boobs while simultaneously trying to maintain forward momentum. If that sounds easy to you, then you're a dude and you can bugger off. As even small-chested women can attest to, running brings a lot of up-and-down action to the torso, and boobs, being subject to the same physical laws as the rest of the planet, respond by bouncing. The bigger they are, the harder they bounce.
Which is why a good sports bra is critical. Now those racer-back stretchy kinds may be fine for your average A cup or B cup. Hell, I could get away with one of those, too, if my physical activity was limited to a spirited game of mah jong. But running? Those bras just aren't up the the challenge.
Enter the Enell. This miracle of engineering doesn't have the typical "give" of a sports bra. It's made for well-endowed women and the thing is like body armor -- my boobs in this bra are immobilized like Abu Ghraib prisoners. No bounce. No jostle. No nothing.
So after I worked my girls into the bra and put on my shoes, out I went for a test run. And what do you know? I ran farther than I ever have before, and didn't stop to walk one time -- a first for me, even on my relatively short running route. I felt invincible. I felt great. I ran.
Who knew my boobs could have been holding me back so much? Turns out, all I needed for a successful run was the right bra.
Really. See, I have big boobs. Not porn-star big, but run-of-the-mill D-cup big. And up till now, running has been an ongoing attempt to minimize vertical movement of the boobs while simultaneously trying to maintain forward momentum. If that sounds easy to you, then you're a dude and you can bugger off. As even small-chested women can attest to, running brings a lot of up-and-down action to the torso, and boobs, being subject to the same physical laws as the rest of the planet, respond by bouncing. The bigger they are, the harder they bounce.
Which is why a good sports bra is critical. Now those racer-back stretchy kinds may be fine for your average A cup or B cup. Hell, I could get away with one of those, too, if my physical activity was limited to a spirited game of mah jong. But running? Those bras just aren't up the the challenge.
Enter the Enell. This miracle of engineering doesn't have the typical "give" of a sports bra. It's made for well-endowed women and the thing is like body armor -- my boobs in this bra are immobilized like Abu Ghraib prisoners. No bounce. No jostle. No nothing.
So after I worked my girls into the bra and put on my shoes, out I went for a test run. And what do you know? I ran farther than I ever have before, and didn't stop to walk one time -- a first for me, even on my relatively short running route. I felt invincible. I felt great. I ran.
Who knew my boobs could have been holding me back so much? Turns out, all I needed for a successful run was the right bra.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Miles to go
A friend, Juju, recently clocked and measured distance on her standard run. It's one she's lost a pant size or two on, but it's also one she's too shy to let me join her on.
She reported, deflated, that it's only 1.1 miles, and it takes her 20 minutes.
But I say it doesn't matter where you start, it's your starting point. In fact, starting slow is a good thing. It just makes it all the more exciting when you start kicking A. The fact that I, known in my family for my extreme laziness (I was the kind of kid to ask to go to bed early. I routinely fell asleep in my dinner. The only sport I ever agreed to be on a team for was swimming, and although I was fairly good at it, I had no competitive streak. 2nd or 3rd place was fine by me.), ran a half marathon? I think that's a way bigger deal than some uber athlete running one.
A friend and super speedy runner likes telling the story of her first run. It was to 7-11 to buy a bag of Doritos.
So I say high-five to Juju for her 20 minute mile.
She reported, deflated, that it's only 1.1 miles, and it takes her 20 minutes.
But I say it doesn't matter where you start, it's your starting point. In fact, starting slow is a good thing. It just makes it all the more exciting when you start kicking A. The fact that I, known in my family for my extreme laziness (I was the kind of kid to ask to go to bed early. I routinely fell asleep in my dinner. The only sport I ever agreed to be on a team for was swimming, and although I was fairly good at it, I had no competitive streak. 2nd or 3rd place was fine by me.), ran a half marathon? I think that's a way bigger deal than some uber athlete running one.
A friend and super speedy runner likes telling the story of her first run. It was to 7-11 to buy a bag of Doritos.
So I say high-five to Juju for her 20 minute mile.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Mile four
The other night over dinner (slates of baguette and garlicky olive tapenade followed by eggplanty ratatouille and herbed couscous alongside, safely, at least two, maybe three more glasses of red wine than I should have drunk on a Tuesday) with a couple of friends, we got to talking about working out.
One friend likes swimming, but she’s as blind as I am (batlike, but without the hearing) and has a tendency to run into folks we know at the local community pool. Unable to make an identification, she’s then forced to get into their faces to know who they are. Me, if I’m in a bathing suit, I’d rather keep my distance. Really. I vote pretend you know who it is, wave, move along.
We also talked about running. And I got nearly misty-eyed when talking about how much I love mile four. By mile four, I'm warmed up, my lungs are no longer on fire, and I feel like my legs are really under me. It was always my favorite mile--well, it was my favorite mile once I was in shape enough to run four miles without throwing up on the side of the trail.
I walked home from the friend’s house (I knew there would be too much wine going in to the event, and planned accordingly) and was so excited thinking about running, I let out a little trot at one point. But when I got out of bed the next morning, my heel, stupid, stupid heel, ached. The friend's house is only five blocks from mine.
I iced this morning. Stretching. Orthopedic boot. I'll get there. I'll get back to mile four again. Eff.
One friend likes swimming, but she’s as blind as I am (batlike, but without the hearing) and has a tendency to run into folks we know at the local community pool. Unable to make an identification, she’s then forced to get into their faces to know who they are. Me, if I’m in a bathing suit, I’d rather keep my distance. Really. I vote pretend you know who it is, wave, move along.
We also talked about running. And I got nearly misty-eyed when talking about how much I love mile four. By mile four, I'm warmed up, my lungs are no longer on fire, and I feel like my legs are really under me. It was always my favorite mile--well, it was my favorite mile once I was in shape enough to run four miles without throwing up on the side of the trail.
I walked home from the friend’s house (I knew there would be too much wine going in to the event, and planned accordingly) and was so excited thinking about running, I let out a little trot at one point. But when I got out of bed the next morning, my heel, stupid, stupid heel, ached. The friend's house is only five blocks from mine.
I iced this morning. Stretching. Orthopedic boot. I'll get there. I'll get back to mile four again. Eff.
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