Nike + Ipod = :( Suggestions?

Yesterday,  after much debate, I went on a grueling run. It was hot; I was tired; my body felt like lead and I was running the Newton/Brookline hills near the end of the Boston Marathon course. All the while, my ipod pedometer (otherwise known as nike + ipod) kept telling me that I was running an 11-11:30 pace. What?! That's a full 2-2.5 minutes slower than my usual pace!  Miserable! Impossible! How am I going to run a marathon, now?

Later, I spent the night commiserating with running friends about my slowness and sudden inability to push my body up to speed. "You're biorhythms are just off today. You should sleep." Maria offered. "Are you dehydrated? Eating well?" asked my dad, a former athlete who seems to  get a kick out of having a bookworm-turned-athlete daughter. Yes and yes. I was exhausted, but not to the point where I should push the usual amount and get such altered results.

What's wrong with me?

I even curled into bed and watched a running documentary, The Spirit of the Marathon, which follows runners (famous and ordinary) in their pursuit of the 2007 Chicago Marathon. It was beautiful and inspiring (and terrifying) to see so many different runners profiled, all chasing the same dream. I worry that, like them, I'll hit a wall in the middle miles or worse, that I'll become injured in training or mid-race and be unable to finish. Still, the documentary was just the thing I needed to push me through my lagging run and into today. There are 5 long months before the marathon. I'll be fine.

As long as I stop listening to my nike + ipod, I'll be fine. I mapped yesterday's run this morning on mapmyrun.com and it came up as 9.6 miles, not 8.14.

This means:  1) I was right on pace, running a 9:37 mile.

                       2) I need a new, RELIABLE pedometer. (Suggestions, please???)

       3) Nike needs to go back to the drawing board and stop inducing failure-related heart palpitations in runners like me.

I should not be blogging right now

...I should be running instead. But I am exhausted. Last night, I did the disciplined thing, came home early from a fun night with friends (one that included delicious food and a crazy Boston car ride in which we listened to a Van Halen  cassette!) and tried to sleep to no avail only to awaken this morning cranky and disoriented and 20 minutes before the start of my group run.

Add to the list of things that make me mad: Sleeping in/ being late. Compound that list with the asinine (and yet pressing) concerns that my contacts won't go in my eyes and my ipod refuses to work and I came to this conclusion:

I don't want to run today; I want to sleep. Or, as a fellow blogger would say: Go Away! Want Sleepy!  

Half-fast, a blogger I wish I knew because I LOVE his running philosophy. created this graph charting the probability of running given a certain amount of sleep:

Given that I slept for about 5 hours last night, the chances of me running should hover in the 30 % range. And yet, I feel compelled ( at least mentally) to push myself out the door, to not put off this run and just go for it. Today's goal is only 8 miles, which in my head amounts to a 6 mile warmup (this is how long it takes me to get the sleepys/ aches/bad attitude/ kinks out) and a two mile run. Not so bad. In fact, not bad at all. These middle distances, 5-8 miles are getting easier, especially as the 10-20s loom on the calendar. But still,  the other seventy percent of me thinks that running right now is a terrible idea and wants to blog about this dilemma for a while (in hopes of solving it, I suppose) and then crawl back into bed for the next few hours--or days. 

What to do? Hit the road? Try it. And if all else fails, sleep now; run tomorrow. Thank goodness this marathon is not until November. I'm going to need a LOT of sleepy and a lot more miles before then.

Rach vz. Zumba

I am not a good dancer. In fact, I am a terrible dancer. As much as I would love to be lithe and graceful, I am a back-row-of-the-chorus-embarrassment-at-weddings-so-clumsy-that-even-my-boyfriends-don't-want-to-dance-with-me kind of girl. It's not that I lack rhythm; I just lack the je ne sais quoi that allows my body to fall in synch with it.

Yet, I keep trying. God only knows why.

Tonight, after a long hiatus of classes, my gym offered Zumba, a Latin-dance-aerobics fusion meant to whittle an unsuspecting body into tip-top shape. I had a daily run to do, but I also needed a break in routine and so I decided to go for it. After a quick three miles on the treadmill, I headed to the workout room to give Zumba a try.

It wasn't that bad. I mean, I'm clumsy as hell but I have enough years of Show Choir and failed dance auditions/salsa and swing dates (see above for significant others who gave up on me) to know how to handle my two left feet. I pushed them. I focused intently, watched the instructor's feet and my own in the mirror and I did okay. I'm better with my arms, I think; my upper body seems always to be in the right place while my feet lag behind. Even the instructor said I was getting 80 % of the steps. That's not enough for Broadway but it IS enough for a first class--or at least, it should be.

But I am a perfectionist.

If I miss a step, I get mad. If I lag behind, I get mad. If I'm tired, I get mad. You get the idea. So, apart from learning the ropes of a new fitness craze, I spent the evening confronting walls--the same ones that haunt me in my training, and admittedly, in my life.

1) How can I push on when I'm frustrated/exhausted and every inch of me wants to quit?

2) How can I be satisfied with my progress rather than burdened (constantly) by the pursuit of perfection?

Theses are the  simple, unsatisfying answers:

1) Just keep moving.

2) One step at a time.

There has to be more. If these plaguing questions were so easy to answer, I would never have carried them this far into my life. 

With regard to the first, I'm slowly realizing that quitting just isn't an option. Especially not when I've made a commitment to a goal, a cause or a person. I'm not wired to walk away. As usual, there was a critical moment tonight, somewhere between a shimmy and a meringue (the dance, not the pie) where I was ready to walk out the door. We had a water break; I wanted to go for it. But I couldn't. So, I went back and salsa-ed with the best of 'em. I sucked, but I went back. And afterwards, when I was ready to collapse in to a sweaty, sleepy heap on the floor, I ran three miles (to complete my six for the day). I wanted to know what it felt like to run--even for a little while--LONG LONG after my body caved from exhaustion. I wanted to hold out, to push hard, push through for a little bit longer because, I think, things are always better on the other side. When it comes to the end of the line, I keep telling myself two things:

"Life is all about dedication and commitment."

"Lazyness is the act of giving up before you're tired."

I was tired alright. and I'm pretty sure that the marathon will require much more, that the exhaustion/pain combo will be much worse, but I'm also pretty sure that after exhaustion will come strength. I just have to hold on until then.

Which brings me to quandary number two, otherwise known as "how not to get pissed at myself". Perfectionism is equally one of my biggest faults and greatest strengths. The desire to be and do more, to be not just a better version of myself but the best drives me to do crazy things: move to foreign countries, enter grad school, run a marathon, learn to dance. Everything I do has the potential to go very very badly or to morph me into a stronger human being. 

Each new adventure in my life is an act of hubris against myself. 

The problem is that at the start, I am equally aware that I might fail (or am failing already as was the case with dancing and running) as I am tempted by the allure of success, the idea of being the kind of person who: writes books, lives in Paris, dates diplomats*, runs marathons. And then, I am immediately infuriated by my inability to have and do all of these things NOW. (or, more precisely, YESTERDAY!) I have no patience for my two left feet or SLOW split times. I want to be talented and graceful just because I attempt it. No such luck.

I am not kind to myself. When I find that I'm failing, I have two recourses: laughter or tears and much as it pains me to admit it, I usually succumb to the latter. I am NOT a "just enjoy the journey" kind of person. I like plane rides immensely, but apart from those, I like destinations; I thrive on results. And, I find it hard to let myself grow into things. I want to just have them in hand. So, the second question remains unanswered.

Even Zumba, it seems  isn't really about fitness or learning to dance (Okay, it is a little about my abs and my desire to be a wallflower-turned-ballerina) rather, it's an agonizing quest for discipline, patience and tolerance (with myself).

I guess I have to keep showing up. (I know, I know, that's half the battle). The other battle is just with me.

Take Me Home Country Roads

This morning, I woke early to go for a run in the "Woods" of Indiana near a boarding school where I used to teach. Powered by memories of yesterday's commencement ceremony and my delight at escaping the city for the weekend to be with old friends, I set out into nature sans ipod. (Okay, I really ran sans ipod because mine is, at present, lost. But let's just say I wanted to commune with nature...)

My path for the day was old and familiar, a three mile ring of road around the campus, running past the main gate, the headmaster's house, a horse farm, some fallow fields, through a thick grove of trees beside a lake and home again. At first, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get in the grove, that the mind body connection needed for a good run simply wasn't going to happen because I am out of my usual element and without my usual gear. Something else happened instead; I loved it--most of it.

When I first moved out to the Woods from the bustling streets of Washington DC, I found the silence deafening; I hated the lack of traffic and sound; disliked the wildlife and the wide stretches of land. It took me a week to notice the stars. And now, when I return, I find myself hungering for the quiet and the space, the trees and the stars. As I am apt to do, I must have missed the point of live out here while I was living it.

On the run today, I had to fight for a while to find my rhythm; I also hate the sound of my own footfalls on the ground--they're never fast enough. I had to push myself up one hill and over another until I came to the end of the circuit, a flat wide curve where I hit my stride again.

And then I saw a water moccasin.

At the moment I ran past I wasn't sure what kind of snake it was (my frind Beth confirmed my suspicions when I returned to her house, sweaty and a little bit frazzled.) I simply saw the big black slithering thing and thought: I bet you could kill me. I screamed for a second ( I know, like a girl) and then just kept running. I've lived in the woods before; snakes don't scare me; if I run in the opposite direction of the snake, I'll be out of it's path. End of story. I even went around the circuit again just to get the miles in and when I returned, my slithering nemesis was gone.

No harm, no foul.

I should clarify my girlyness with the confession that I am terrified of poisonous snakes. Not snakes or reptiles in general. I am, at large a great lover of scaly things but (with good reason) I've always hated/ had an overblown irrational fear of the fanged ones. In high school, at a herpetology lecture, I came nose-to-glass with a rattlesnake and passed out cold.

This time, like a champion, I just kept on running, happy to be home in the woods and to put a few miles between me and fangs.

First Ten

For a while now, I've heard that completing one's first ten-mile run is a rite of passage in runner-hood. Legend has it that somehow after the 17600th yard on the pavement you morph from an amateur or a hopeful into  a real runner, like Pinocchio, who through wishing, becomes a real boy.

I don't usually by into mythology, but this I'll support. Yesterday, I ran ten miles and it felt awesome.

In the morning, there was a part of me that feared for my knees and my lungs, feared that my body would give out long before my spirit wanted it to. But, the spirit pushed me to the finish and my body did just fine. I kept telling myself that the first six miles were a "warm-up", just long enough to get the kinks and the " I'm tired today" out of my body and run on for four more miles. It worked. Michele and I finished in just over 1:39 and ran a nice, steady pace for most of the route save the terrible Comm Ave hills (my calves and I have a newfound respect for all Boston Marathoners!) which we took a little slower, and the downhill dip just before Coolidge Corner where I scraped all the skin off of my right knee. As a sat, bleeding on the sidewalk, Michele asked:

" Do you want to keep going?" The tone in her voice was equally concerned and determined because she knew my answer would be: "Yes".

While running my first ten, I finally had time to get in a groove and to be really aware of how my body was working and feeling. I kept asking myself : Are you comfortable? breathing evenly? how's this pace? and the answers came back mostly positive: I'm fine. I'm strong. I might want to give up on this next hill/ I definitely want to give up on this hill, but I won't.

I'm not sure how the training will go from here, and frankly, I'm a little overwhelmed by the idea of pushing my self for 20 more miles after I  get all warmed up, but I guess that will come with time.  A ten mile run is just the beginning of the race for 26.2. Hopefully the end of this training cycle 26.2 miles will no longer be a ridiculous dream a dream or a battle but a confident reality, one in which I tell myself to just to keep on going because--even if I'm clumsy/ bloodied/ thirsty/ exhausted--I am running strong and feeling fine.

Gluteal Agony

I have an ass ache. There, I said it. It started post-run on late Tuesday night and then reappeared after last night's workout at the lagoon. In the late 80s and early 90s  (and every summer) women would kill for buns of steel. Well, let me tell you, they're a pain in the ass. 

So now, I need a remedy. This is the first runner's ache I've never had before, the first of may things I don't know how to take care of. Ice? elevate? That seems awkward. Stretch? Okay, how?

Please appreciate my predicament; if you ARE a runner, please help me out. My ass needs you.

Strength in Numbers

Last night at track practice, instead of a grueling interval workout, we had a night of " fun and games". in which the runners present divided into two teams  and competed to see which team could run the most miles in 40 minutes. In my running club, it seems,  there's a natural social gap based on ability-- you chat with and get to know people who run your pace and those whose footfalls fly past you are blurry shirts instead of faces, competitors instead of teammates. This gap is not due to lack of social will but rather natural skill and for me --a proud, solid member of the 8-9 minute mile club, its a thrill to run  alongside and cheer for the 6 minute mile crew. I even learned some of their names. 

The relay forced us to think beyond our own time splits to the larger effort of the team,  and to put one foot in front of the other for the good of all, not just self. At first, it was hard to think of the others; I was too busy pushing myself for myself and proving myself to the track to focus on the team. But after a while, when other, faster runners came wearily to the finish and asked me to run in their place, I felt honored.  "I got it!" I told them each time, and every time I could, I ran two laps just to give them an extra second to breathe.

This two-lap strategy may not have been the most effective as I am far from the fastest runner on the team, but it kept me motivated and made me feel as though I was contributing something to the score. 

This, I can do. I told myself. I am always ready to run for a friend and to support a team. This is what I am BEST at. 

As these thoughts pushed me to the finish over and over again, I helped my relay team to complete 78 miles--one lap at a time. 

I've been wondering for a while now what it means to be strong. Is it the capacity to exert effort and withstand pain, the mental fortitude to push onwards or the emotional resolve to never give in--even when your heart is crushed or your body's burning?

I still don't have an answer or a singular definition for strength, but part of it must be, the will to push on, to let go of the time or the miles or the runners racing by, to run for the team, for the good of the team, as fast as you can.

I/ We  ran strong and did well.

I can't wait for tomorrow.