I'm Tired

There are moments when I think that this really isn’t worth it.  I’ve been running or trying to run for 18 months.  I’ve been trying to work my way back to moderately healthy for nearly seven years.  It’s exhausting.   The amount of energy that I expend simply talking myself back into my sneakers each week astounds me.   

I’m just so damn tired.

This was what was running through my mind as I stood by the track after the workout Tuesday night that wasn’t a run.

I’m just so damn tired.

I couldn’t get my heart rate to slow.  Thirty minutes of modified cross training had rooted me to the edge of the field.  If I sat down, I wasn’t sure I could get up.  If I walked up the stairs, I thought I might collapse.  My legs were shaking.  So I stood there.

I ran back through the workout in my mind.  Lunges, bunny hops, sprinting, crab walking, crunches, squats.  I knew the sprinting was trouble, but really, no single part of it should have done that much damage.   Then I got it – that was the magic.  The individual parts of the workout were manageable and only moderately challenging alone.  Put them together, speed them up, and you have me, standing by the side of the field, feeling like I’ve worked harder than the last race that I ran.  

Still, as I stood there shaking and tired, all I could focus on was the frustration.  All I could feel was the disappointment that it was still so hard, that there was still so much work to do.  Had I not made any progress at all?  Was it always going to feel like this?  

Wednesday morning something interesting happened.  I didn’t hurt much.  I didn’t get dizzy when I walked up the stairs.   Oh, I felt muscles that I hadn’t been acquainted with lately.  I was completely cognizant of the number of stairs I was climbing.  I was, in fact, hyperaware of that body in space thing that we usually take for granted.  But I was considerably better than ok.

As the day went on, various other muscles groups announced themselves…but so did a vague sense of something missing.  I was missing the Tuesday night run.  We had done this challenging new task but I hadn’t run…and I missed it.

I missed the sense of accomplishment when I make it back to the parking lot.  I missed the chatter of the group before we leave and the laughing congratulations when we return.  I realized, with something of a shock, that I missed the comfort of the run.

Then, like the Grinch on Christmas day, I really got it.  Tuesday night was the whole process in miniature.  Each part of the process is small and incremental, but when added together, the impact is tremendous. I am going to have very bad nights and challenging runs.  There are going to be moments when I am convinced that I am making no progress at all.  But eighteen months, four training programs and three races later, I have days when running is like dancing.   I have mornings with the group that make me smile for days.  I remember when walking across a room was a challenge and yet when April comes, I’ll run for nearly five miles and be able to walk back to the car when the race is over.

 This is maybe the lesson that I need to keep learning.  It isn’t the individual parts that make the difference, it is the whole. 

Ability, Motivation, Attitude

Ability is what you are capable of doing.
Motivation determines what you do.
Attitude determines how well you do it.
--Lou Holtz

On the bulletin board in my kitchen is a recent picture of my mother.  It is a spectacular photo.  She is standing next to the nurse in charge of the cardiac rehabilitation program that she entered after a quadruple bypass.   She is, quite literally, the poster child of the program.  

If I ever feel that my motivation is lagging, I’m going to look at the picture.  The truth is that while I am delighted to have inherited my mother’s ready laugh and her tendency to collect stories as she moves through life, I am less excited to have inherited the cardiac risk that her surgery represents for me.  Heart disease runs right down the line in my father’s family as well.   My parents are healthy wonderful examples for me and for my children.  They eat well, exercise regularly and pay attention to all the things they should.  They still have faced considerable cardiac challenges.

February is American Heart Month.  There are websites and photo ops and even bottles of wine that tell us to “Go Red” in support of heart health awareness.   These are all great.  I’m a fan of anything that makes people more aware of the risks associated with heart disease.  But looking at the picture of my mother reminds me that this is ultimately up to me.  I can’t wish away the family tendency towards heart disease anymore than I can wake up tomorrow fifty pounds lighter and twenty years younger.

  

I can, however, lace up my shoes and get moving.

Happy  Belated Valentine’s Day!

Scratch - plus one

It was fifty five degrees and cooling quickly last night.  The sunset was just finishing as I pulled into the parking lot and walked over to the group.   I had my spy belt, my clip light, my Saucony running shoes over my technical socks.  Yes, there are technical socks.  I had my NOBO windbreaker and my favorite new comfy shirt.

I was ready to run.  

Is it strange to say that I’m a novice veteran or perhaps a veteran novice?  This is my fourth beginning running program.  I’ve had better and worse paths through these training programs.  I always begin simultaneously convinced that I can’t do this and clearly aware that I’ve already done it.  I know many of the running routes by heart. I can tell you with confidence that I will curse the hills, trip on the roots and wonder aloud why I ever thought this was a good idea.   I will also, with equal volume and enthusiasm, marvel at the accomplishments of the group, laugh with the new friends that I encounter, sleep better every single time I go running, and cross the finish line with a ridiculously large sense of accomplishment. I love that.

Here is the other thing that I know.  I always start from scratch.  I arrive at the first workout sure in the knowledge that I will be happy when it is over.  I don’t necessarily expect to enjoy the actual running.  The actual running is really hard for me.  I suspect that it is really hard for many of us.  The most accomplished runners that I know – and they keep popping up in new places in my life – will tell me that running is about working with your mind and your body.  Since my mind and my body don’t actually communicate all that well, every new session is a new beginning.  My heart learns the rhythm of my feet.  My voice remembers the limits of my lungs.  My mind understands that it isn’t allowed to stomp all over my new-found courage. 

So, it was fifty-five degrees and twilight when I laced up my shoes last night.   I stepped off with my friend beside me, my daughter in front of me and nothing but the knowledge that I will love this fueling my feet.   About 40 minutes and two miles later, I was back – in every sense of the phrase.