I Believe in the Run

Nearly every great thing I have ever accomplished has been marked by screen-printed cotton. First play? Got the t-shirt. Student Council Officer? Got the t-shirt. OASC? Too many t-shirts. High school/college grad? Embroidered sweatshirts marked those occasions. I have faculty shirts, concert shirts, even a t-shirt from Budapest that says something in Slovakian that I don't understand. (There's a piece of me that hopes it reads: I am a stupid American tourist, but the chances of that are slim.) And so, when I ran my first 5k a few weeks ago, I decided to mark the occasion in the usual way.

Of course, the Boston Athletic Association did send me an awesome shirt (with a unicorn!) that could have served as commemoration enough but didn't. I wanted my OWN shirt. Something to mark me for this race (and all those I hope will follow) as not just another runner but as me. I wanted a shirt that my friends and fans (okay, my parents) could recognize in a blurry crowd and one that could serve as a self-imposed uniform--when the shirt goes on, the SHOW goes on, the world falls away. It just so happened that the Niketown in Boston was running a special on personalized running shirts the weekend of my race. ( To be clear, the shirts and the personalization perk was geared toward the REAL runners who competed in the 113th Boston Marathon, not me, but I decided to capitalize on the offer.) The problem was, I wanted a shirt that said SOMETHING PERSONAL and I had nothing to say.

Sure, I could put my name on it but "Rachael" is hardly an inspiring slogan or a transformative phrase that invites my"game face". It's my name. I needed something that would define me as an athlete--the same way that a costume makes me a character or if I wear high heels to class, I mean business. By the same token, my shirt had to be authentic and original. I couldn't just grab a tee that said "Boston 2009". I didn't run the marathon and I couldn't misrepresent myself to myself OR to anyone else. (Ahh, the ethics of running three-point-two measly miles). I stared and I brainstormed. I went home. I even "slept on it". Still, no slogans came; no t-shirt either.

In a class I taught once, a class I loved, my students designed t-shirts with their mission statements on them and wore their shirts to school for a day (in lieu of uniforms!) to gauge others' reactions to their public declarations of self. That day, my t-shirt read:

"I will live with courage and compassion; I will fill my days with wonder, creativity and love. I will seek truth, teach tolerance, act with integrity and leave the world better than it was before I came."

Like Steven Covey, I believe in mission statements and in goals as guiding principles to life. I believe even more in the public declaration of those principles and the accountability that follows. For me, and for most of my students, this spring experiment was the first time we'd ever "declared ourselves" and watched the reactions of others. While I can't speak for the rest, I'll acknowledge that I was both proud and incredibly self conscious to wear my shirt--in the same way that I am proud and anxious about this blog and this new, public goal. On one hand, my  idealism drives my success, and conversely, if I fail or fall short of my goals, I am wracked with my own self-doubt and others' disappointment (or worse, their pity).

So too, I needed a racing shirt that would mark me, motivate me, and make me accountable to my goals and to my own success or failure.

Thankfully, Nike had this to offer:

 
Even if you couldn’t ever get old or ever get fat
And you never got burned out in the afternoon
And your teachers all thought you were a genius
And no one ever broke up with you
And every scholarship was a full scholarship
And you were guaranteed to start every game
And every game you played you won
And you never doubted yourself
And the money you had was exactly enough
And every day, in every way, you felt just like you wanted,
You’d still run
BELIEVE IN THE RUN.

Ultimately, my belief in MYSELF will carry me to the finish line. But believing in running (something I never, EVER, thought that I could do) and all the good that comes of it in my life is awesome as well.

If you come to see me race, now or in the future, look for the short girl with a curly pony tail, pearl earrings and a graceful stride (depending on the mile). I'll be wearing a bright blue shirt that says " I believe in the run" on the front. You'll know when I fly past you; my name is on the back. So is the fact that I am a Rockstar.

At least I feel like it for doing this :)

Brownies and Burritos are Bad

Please, please don't hate me for saying so. Really, I have no personal vendetta against either food; I love brownies--particularly as the foundation to a mountainous  fudgy sundae drenched in chocolate and caramel, coated in sprinkles and nuts and topped with several maraschino cherries. And burritos are God's gift to guacamole; a perfect excuse to eat copious amounts of the green stuff without cease or hesitation, or a spoon. They are also delicious. Neither however, are good for running. In fact, I'd venture to say that other than alcohol, they are probably the worst pre and post run foods I could think to consume. Here's the bottom line: I ate too much of both today and my run suffered because of it.

 I had planned to hit  the treadmill for a nice, easy 3.5 miler, my usual Tuesday run, but then I decided to pick up the pace a little and push myself to burn off my sugary fuel. My stomach rebelled mightily. What is this crap, Rachael? Feed me bananas! I pushed through the run but now feel drained and tired both as a result of my quick-ish pace ( a steady 8:40 mile) and my full belly. I guess tomorrow I'll have to be more conscious about food.

used to think running would free me from my food worries--from the constant battle between the good and the bad, the healthy versus the cheap and the inexcusable--or else a daily run would be an excuse to sneak in more chocolate--it is neither. Instead, running has taught me to see my body as a machine (a strong, graceful one on good days and a junkyard heap on others) and to know that food is fuel for the body and spirit. So, I try to eat that which makes me healthy and strong (and happy). While brownies fit in to the latter category ( especially during the final week of the semester) they are inefficient fuel for my brain and body and they make my stomach hurt like hell. 

I will never give them up, however. Chocolate and avocados are my not-so-secret loves. I just won't eat one (okay, three)  brownies before a run or a burrito in recovery. I'll stick to peanut butter and bananas instead and concentrate on being healthy, agile and strong.

Brownies are better for desert anyway. Or breakfast.

Here's to a better, low-sugar run tomorrow!

New Kid on the Block

I was six when I auditioned for my first Lakewood Little Theatre play. In order to prepare, I dutifully memorized a Jack Prelutsky poem entitled "Homework, Oh, Homework!" practiced singing Edelweiss loudly and proudly and prayed for the dance audition. (If you've ever seen me dance, you know that there was nothing I could do BUT pray.)

I entered the Rehearsal Hall with my talented cousin Jef and confidently attempted to keep up with the choreographer but ultimately I just tripped over myself (and several other people). So, I quit and sat--and probably cried. The tinny music from the ballet class next door rang in my ears.

It wasn't a big surprise not to see my name on the cast list.

In the years that followed, I was cast in many, many plays--as a Geisha, a Goblin, a Candy Child and a tree--always in a bit part that was nondescript and entirely un-special but for which my parents always bought tickets and brought flowers. 

Today, at my first running club workout, I felt like I was auditioning again: I had butterflies, I was clumsy, I talked too much, too fast. This time though, I didn't trip anybody and I didn't cry. On our first lap, I bolted and willed myself not to be the tiny clumsy dancer or the slowest kid on the playground. As I watched the other runners fly past me with their long legs falling on the rubber track in graceful strides, their smooth, even breathing, like a teakettle's whistle, I fell farther and farther behind. Again. Run at your own pace, I told myself. Don't burn out on the very first day.  Still, I raced against the tightness in my chest, against the tinny ballet music and the shadows of my gym teachers yelling "Faster! C'mon! faster!" as I was nearly always the last kid to finish the mile race.  I don't know how fast I actually ran--split times mean nothing to me at this point--but I ran strong and finished. 

And I made a friend today--several in fact. (It's the only way I know how to survive in a crowd.) I yakked and the listened; they laughed and I laughed and soon I wasn't alone on the track or in my pursuit of perfection. I'm the newest, slowest runner in a chorus but I've got six long months before the big show.

 I'm always ready for the spotlight. 

And I'm happy that I don't have to do this alone.

Pacing, Pals & Patience

I've  always believed in the opening score of The Wonder Years--you know, the one that musically proclaims: " I get by with a little help from my friends". In fact, I've learned over and over again that Fred Savage is right, that not only do I get by with a little help from my friends, they are my world.

Yet, I wonder if Kevin and Winnie ever tried to go running together.

Today, in the blistering midmorning heat, I set out on a short, 3 mile run with three close friends--each an athlete in his or her own right, each a strong runner, at an entirely different pace. Ten footfalls after the start of the run, the fastest among us took off around the bend and we were lucky to catch a glimpse of him later, letting us know to cross a bridge. With one friend behind me and one ahead, I found myself well-paced and well-pleased with my seasoned athlete friend (who is so cool that he already has a half-marathon shirt and so hard-core that he runs in "barefoot trainers" that mold to your feet and look a little like scuba fins, except, cooler!). We ran at a steady pace for a while, chatting and warming up, me falling in synch with his fluid motions. I was happy to match his pace and happier still to have someone to run with rather than someone--real or imaginary--to chase. A supportive friend and running partner, he was just what I needed to get through the day and feel good about our run.

Then, I fell behind.

As I stopped to fiddle with my ipod (not so much the music as the chip in my shoe, counting the steps of my workout) I watched him disappear around a wooded curve and vowed to catch him again. I raced ahead at my "breakneck" pace and still could not catch him; I watched his flipered feet and strong form disappear behind one tree after another--just a short spring out of reach. "Stop moving!" I yelled at him angrily and my ipod answered me in a buttery voice with: "Current pace, 10:30 per mile." Crap. Not only had I fallen behind my partner but I was running way below my training speed.  With no one in sight, I found myself in the middle of the pack.

I hate the middle of the pack.

I know I'm new to running and I furthermore acknowledge that MOST runners are in the middle--somewhere between the elites and the sweepers in every race--but I still hate it. When I commit to something--a job, a class, a relationship, a run, I expect excellence. Of course setbacks happen, but I can usually push through with a load roar and a modicum of grace.

Today, I wanted to kill somebody and I wanted new legs.

I love running because it makes me feel confident, strong and free. I hate it equally because I don't yet know how strong I am or how to push myself to get there. When my friends disappeared, I realized that though we're running together, we are also (and perhaps more importantly) running our own races against ourselves. What I need to do now, it seems, is figure out what my race is and what my pace is. Then I need to push hard and be patient. My feet will catch up.

I don't want to go running with friends again. Except that they remind me of things like this:

Me: Ugh, I'm so tired today.

Joe Cool: You shouldn't be; we haven't run that far.

Me: Yeah, but it's so hot outside. I'm used to running in 30 degrees in the cold--

JC: or 60 degrees in the gym.

Me: Good point. Thanks for not taking my BS.

JC: No problem. C'mon. let's go.

That and we end runs at Starbucks for water, espresso and a Sunday New York Times.

I get by a bit better because of them. 

Easy as Cake

I have never been an athlete. Okay, that’s not true.  But aside from a short and brutal stint as a rower and coxswain in college, I’ve really only associated the gym with agony and sweat with weight-loss. I was the fattest kid on the playground. I would rather read books—until now.

Last December, I made a promise to myself to run a half-marathon in 2009. What began as a late night chat in my parent’s kitchen became my present passion and goal. My friend V and I began that winter’s night not with talk of running but with cups of tea and a shared desire to globetrot—anywhere we could afford as soon as possible. V had just traveled abroad for the first time last May and her wanderlust piqued my own, so we started looking for cheap tickets to cool places: Athens, Barcelona, Paris but then she said: “Hey, why don’t we just do a half marathon?”

For a strong, athletic girl from a die-hard running family, this remark was akin to: “Let’s just bake a cake!” With the right ingredients and a little practice, V was destined to be successful. I however, needed a little more work. Even in December, I was not  and am not a total neophyte to running: two years of crew workouts followed by a wonderful but low-paying teaching job and a desperate need for my clothes to fit lead me to keep up with the sport—at least to the point where I could run six miles if I really really wanted to.

If I can run six miles, why not seven more? 

The sweetness of the challenge compelled me and I agreed to compete in Boston in the fall of 2009. Supported by family, friends and loved ones who believe both in the power of running and in me, I’ve been training hard and steadily since January 1^st.  With the half- marathon still six long months away, my goal at the moment is to “get the miles in,” to build a solid running base, a strong, healthy body, and (even more so) a strong discipline. As a writer and teacher, you’d think I had figured out this discipline thing long ago, but the truth is, commitment to a goal that requiring daily practice and patience is the hardest thing for me to do: I quit swimming lessons; I still can't play the flute; I only write essays when I have to; I am a master procrastinator and the queen of letting myself of the hook. I used to think that this gentleness was good for me (and it is to some extent) but mostly it makes me lazy and stops me from achieving the things I really want.

No more.

From now on, while my feet put in the miles, my fingers will put down the words.

Let’s see what happens, shall we?

R.