Ode to the Wannabe

Part I

Like so many fallen petals,
As the promise of spring blooms
give way to summer's drought,
So too are the sheets of training calendars
Littering your floor -
Desiccating dreams
That have lost their juicy plumpness.

Your shoes,
Despite their age
Sit pert and fresh,
Two young things
Uncreased,
Still smelling of rubber.
Their soles unchristened
By rain or sweat,
Because you can't get baptized,
If you never go to church.

In the bottom drawer
Full sets of engineered fabrics
And double-bonded seams
Hibernate.
Folded-up anxiety
Poised to wrestle -
To squeeze you with the indignity
Of harboring a costly wardrobe
That no longer fits.

But you ran today.
So maybe everything will change.

Part II

I ran today
So everything is going to change!
I'll probably start running in the morning
Before I go to work
I'll just get up one hour earlier
Which is really not that much
And it will be so worth it
I ran today
So I'm thinking about going vegan too
I looked up all these recipes
And you really don't miss meat
Or Dairy
Or Eggs
After a while
You really don't
Like, I have a leftover milkshake in the freezer
And I don't even want it
Maybe I'll give up sugar too
I ran today
So that means tomorrow I cross-train
Probably twice - in one day
I ran today
And I might have lost a tiny bit of weight
Or maybe it's just my posture
Which is definitely better 
And I already feel so much more energetic
And my mind is clearer
And I think I'm more creative
And work will be less stressful
And I'll probably be a better friend
And finish all the projects I've started
And this really feels like a turning point

And I know I've said that before
But it's different this time
And I know I've said that before
But this time feels different

Part III

The
milkshake
is
gone.

The Happy Little Morons Running Series

I love signing up for races. They give me motivation to train for something with a hard deadline; but, more importantly, they give me shirts, free snacks, and cool medals. I passionately love shirts, snacks, and medals. Unfortunately, since I am still on maternity leave, races are a little beyond my budget right now. Missing the anticipation and fun of running with a crowd, I decided to organize my own races.

I present to you the wildly popular Happy Little Morons Running Series that attracts nearly ten runners every race. For participants I enlisted the most reliable of comrades in adventure, my cousins, the Happy Little Morons. (We inherited the name Happy Little Morons from our parents who were lovingly given the moniker by my grandmother. The title fits the tone and disposition of the races and participants.)

Every other month we gather at a different location and run a 3-6 mile race. There are no timing chips, the route distances are roughly measured with google maps, and no one shuts down the streets for us, yet we manage to have a lot of fun. So far we have completed the I Love Me Run (a mild rebuke of Valentine's Day), The Aw Hill No! Run (two miles uphill and two miles down, and The Ebey's Landing Run on Whidbey Island. Coming in August is the Sun Bear Run which has an optional sun bear plunge into Puget Sound at the finish (think polar bear plunge, only slightly warmer).

Even though we represent a wide variety of gaits, paces, and running habits, no one finishes alone thanks to the HLM Finishing Protocol. It goes like this: When you reach the finish line, you turn around and run or walk back to the last runner and run with them to the end. This way everyone finishes together and the last runner (usually me) feels less lonely. We're all winners!

This running series brings me prolonged joy from planning the routes, to naming the races, to crafting the finisher swag bags (each race has customized swag bags, and they are awesome), to the actual running.

Outside of these races, running is consistently dispiriting right now. Being so out of shape makes me wonder if my goals are at best fantasies and at worst delusions. Even though I'm in a low place as a runner, the last thing I want is direct encouragement that reads as empty courtesy or pity and fuels my sense of pathetic-ness.

What feels so much better is being in the presence of people who are having fun, who are supportive in their enthusiasm for my silly plans, whose excitement about running buoys my soul. It's like running through a haze of warmth and belonging spiced with jokes. Even if most of my solo runs are a slog, when I look back on this year, I can know that there were six times when running brought me joy. It feels so good to be a Happy Little Moron.

I can't be the runner I want to be without support, and the Happy Little Morons are the best support a person could ask for. As my sister says, "Sometimes you just need someone to push you in the butt so you can be the giant's booger," which I take to mean we all need a little help to reach our goals. (She actually only said this once, in reference to my dad's request for a butt boost to position himself just below the Fremont Troll's nostril while we took a group race photo.)

Shhh, Brain, Shhh

The next post I planned to write was titled, "I'm Fat and Depressed and Running Sucks." In it I would chronicle my dearth of running and general distaste for exercise. Then I'd address my ongoing identity crisis -- Am I a runner? How can I call myself a runner if I don't run? Once you've accepted running into your heart are you a runner for the rest of your life or can you fall away from running to such a degree that you are no longer a runner? I would get into, like, deep denominational sports philosophy.

There would be no pithy little life lesson at the end -- no "Here's how I'm taking all this negativity, grinding it up, squeezing out the juices, adding some patented look-at-the-sunnyside serum, and using it to fuel my dreams and goals and self-esteem." Pfffft. Instead I planned to end the post abruptly, waist-deep in the bog of my existential crisis, like a good French film.

Up until June I ran twice in a four-month span of time. And then I found an easy half-marathon training plan, wrote down what I was supposed to do each day on a free gift calendar from some save the animals charity, and started running a bit. That was it. Here's the stupid, annoying thing: There was no magical catalyst, no inspirational documentary, no pep-talk. It barely even felt like a decision. I just did it. (Nike. I know.)

Maybe the magic was in not thinking. I have a tendency to roll thoughts around in my brain, turning them every which way to examine and fret about every surface. This type of thinking can be reflective and lead to thoughtful change. But it can also cross a threshold of usefulness and border on obsessive. For me, running is binary. I'm either running or not running. Obsessively contemplating not running does not lead to running, so why let my brain keep tumbling these dead end thoughts? (Why? Because my brain does whatever it wants. Stupid brain.)

In summary, I stopped running, and then I started again.

It's not going that well. The bones in my feet remind me of making toothpick bridges in math class to see how much weight they could hold before they collapsed, my knees conjure images of a mortar and pestle vigorously grinding tissue into paste, and my low back and hips have the flexibility of Trump-era political views.

But it's getting incrementally better. Of course incremental improvement is not very satisfying, so I'm going to try to not think about it.

Hey Daddy

Little Squish and I enjoy nice, long walks with the stroller. Most of our baby gear was either gifted or thrifted, but not the stroller. The fancy, bright yellow running stroller with fixed front wheel, hand brake, safety reflectors, and hood that lowers in increments depending on the angle of the sun was my personal splurge. I know there are perfectly good strollers on Craigslist, but I wanted something new. This stroller is special. This stroller is for us, Squish.

On a recent stroll, we happened to walk past the high school during lunchtime, which means young, bright minds were spewing into the streets, eager to get away from the building for 30 minutes. A car full of cool dudes approached, their cool dude music blasting from the rolled-down windows. As they passed, one of them shouted, "Hey daddy!"

He was talking to me.

I'm the daddy.

My first thought was, Clearly, I am not Hot Mom. Hot Moms make disheveled exhaustion look chic. The dark circles under their eyes are sultry. Their messy buns are coiffures. They make motherhood look so damn good.

I look like a dude.

My second thought followed quickly: I don't want to be Hot Mom. I want to be Strong Mom. Not only is Strong Mom a way more realistic goal, it's so much more practical. It helps me carry heavy babies, heave groceries, diaper bag, and occupied car seat into the house in one trip, push a stroller up a massive hill. It improves my running, snowshoeing, and hiking. None of this happens by just looking good.

Hot Mom has its benefits, I don't doubt, and Hot Moms can be strong. But when I aim for Hot Mom I end up with perpetual dissatisfaction and a hefty price tag for all those cool clothes. I constantly compare myself to other women, ranking myself in a hierarchy where I will never be content with my position.

Strong Mom can be achieved while wearing the oldest sweatpants in my closet.

I'm not saying I'm ugly. I don't think that at all. I'm a very nice looking human being. I'm saying my brand of nice-looking can be mistaken for a man from time to time. And I just can't muster the energy to care. I'm too busy getting stronger, faster, and happier.

Besides, if those cool dudes thought I was a man, then they saw a man being active and spending quality time with his baby. I'm happy to represent model fatherhood.

237 Pounds of Rrrrrrrraaaaaawwwwwwrrrrrrrr!

I am happy to announce, my guts did not explode out of my belly! On January 1st I ran for the first time since July, which was also the first time I'd run since birthing Little Squish. It was a 5k on a freezing day along the banks of Lake Washington with three cousins and my sister.

My plan was to mostly walk, but much to my surprise, I managed to mostly run. I did so alone, because everyone is faster than me, and I'm okay with that.

There have been 5ks where I feel panicked, winded, alone, and lame. They seem as long as marathons. I notice every footfall, frantically search for every kilometer marker, and wonder at how such a short race can defy the laws of time and space. During those races I'm at leisure to contemplate my fat, each jiggle cause for mental self-flagellation. Each prancing LuluLemonhead fuels envy, as I tug at the Target discount rack leggings stretched indecently over my thighs. I feel self-conscious instead of proud when I finally cross the finish line.

This was not one of those races. Not much about me is different. I'm overweight, far from my running prime, a 5 kilometer race is still 5 kilometers long, and I'm still dressed by Target.

Besides working toward running again, I've been practicing factualizing myself. Instead of wrapping my weight in shame topped with moral failure, I tell myself my weight is a fact. I weigh 237 pounds. That's a fact. It's not easy to scrape off the emotion, guilt, and societal meaning so thickly applied to weight, but the more I practice, the easier it becomes. As a cold, hard fact, my weight feels clean and light. It takes up less emotional energy. My heart and brain feel tidier. And if tomorrow I weigh 239 pounds, that too is a fact, not evidence of failure, cause for obsessive brooding, or a sin that requires penance.

So, light and factual, I set myself tiny running goals during the race. I'm going to run to there! Okay, now I'll walk. I'm going to run to there! Ooh, I was going to walk, but I think I'll keep going and run to there instead! I did think about my weight. I thought, wow! Look at what 237 pounds can do! And damn, I'm wearing these Target leggings like a boss. And then I just internally roared like a ferocious lion.

Ragnar Northwest Passage 2016

This past July I captained a Ragnar Relay team. (The team did all the hard work, I just signed us up and gave us a stupid name.) Twelve of my favorite running family members (and a couple friends who might as well be family) ran approximately 200 miles from the Canadian border to Langley, Whidbey Island through some of the Northwest's most impressive scenery (and a few boring fields).

I was six months pregnant at the time. Along with a challenging 9-mile hike I did with my dearest Adventure Friend, these were my crowning physical achievements of the summer and my pregnancy (apart from actually birthing Little Squish).

Our team was called "Help the Children." This was the design of our team shirt, along with a quote that said, "Let the children RUN to me." It was supposed to be a joke, but from a lot of the reactions I received, very nice Christians took it seriously, and were moved by the sweetness, and non-Christians thought we were weird Christians who made the Ragnar race a Jesus thing.

Here's how the race works:

 

After our first leg, my van stopped at Shari's for breakfast. It was pure diner food bliss. 

 

Pancakes, scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon, AND sausage!!!

Running long distances in the Northwest gives me a deeper appreciation for the variety and beauty of my home.

Thanks, Megan, Andrew, Jared, Mike, Melita, Dad, Uncle Brian, Lois, Lori, Anne Marie, Amy, and Uncle Jeff! We didn't come in last! Go team Help the Children!

Guts

Approximately 8 weeks ago, Little Squish was born via unplanned c-section. She's the best baby! She already has strong, kicky legs, which make me fantasize about her future as a runner.

Since my last big event in July, the only running I've done was a micro-jaunt across the Goodwill parking lot to return a shopping cart. And that was before I underwent major abdominal surgery.

I've always known that cesareans are a big deal. I was aware that to get to the baby, surgeons cut through skin, fat, fascia, muscle, and the uterus. What was a surprise was learning that anesthesia has a significantly lower effect on the left side of my body that the right. Weird! So while I very much appreciated my epidural and the numbing drugs of surgery, I could still feel contractions before the c-section and the repair part of surgery on the left side of my abdomen. Not good.

Another c-section surprise came from my kind and supportive anesthesiologist. As I experienced that left-side pain during surgery, she calmly explained that it probably hurt because my uterus was outside of my body. (!!!) Later I confirmed with my doula that that was a real thing that she really said. I was definitely loopy and don't recall telling the surgeons they might as well pierce my belly button while they were at it, so perhaps that whole uterus thing was a drug dream. But no, a little research confirmed that sometimes surgeons repair the uterus with the organ outside the body for easier access. (Happily my belly button remains unpierced.)

My recovery has been fast uncomplicated, although I have never experienced such terror at the thought of sneezing. I'm going to the gym, taking walks, and feeling stronger. I'm itching to run, and yet, there are still nagging fears about starting.


Fear #1: My incision is not healed enough and the intensity of running will make my midsection pop open and my guts will spill out all over the place. Obviously, this is an irrational fear, and yet it's an image I can't shake when I think about running again.

Fear #2: I'm physically too messed up and weak and I'll get injured and not be able to run. This fear comes from my tendency to overdo it when I'm excited about something. I'm impatient to get back to the runner I used to be and I sometimes forget that I'm weak. My joints are funky from the hormonal changes of pregnancy, my core is confused from surgery, and my muscles are under-toned after all those weeks of recovery. Training has to look different, which takes some mental and emotional adjustment.

Fear#3: I won't have time to train, so I won't make much improvement, so I will give up and never reach any goals or have fun or do anything I want to do for the next 18-30 years. I've only been a parent for 8 weeks. Hopefully I'll get better at finding a healthy balance.

Even though I carry these fears, there is this drive to pick up the pace. Now that Little Squish is out, Little Dude has some room to kick around again. When I walk, I feel full of energy and pep. Fizzy joy tingles in my legs and I want to go faster. I haven't run yet, but it will happen very soon.

I'm going to listen to my gut, keep building my strength, take it slow, and stop if something doesn't feel right. And hopefully my gut will stay firmly lodged in my torso as I take those first strides.

4 Phases of Running

The following phases occur over the course of a 3-mile run. 

• Phase 1: Miles 1-2
• Phase 2: Miles 2-2.25
• Phase 3: Miles 2.25-3
• Phase 4: End of mile 3

Tough MF

The little drawings I do are deceptive. I like that they accurately reflect my negligible neck; however, I am far from triangular in shape and no one will ever mistake my legs for twigs. I like to characterize my body type as "refrigerator." Made of mochi. Filled with slabs of beef.

This is not self-deprecation. I am proud to come from a long line of refrigerators. They have remarkable physical stamina, are able to lift and haul, endure and persevere. They're sturdy and durable in the very finest sense of the words.

My mochi coating keeps me warm and gives me a delightfully intimidating heft. The marbled Kobe beef just below the surface is dense and powerful, able to propel me long distances. When I break up middle school fights, even the biggest kids are no match for my physical presence.  My stature makes me brave. I'm one tough Mochi Fridge!

Unfortunately, "refrigerator" is not a highly-valued body type. And no one can tell when a refrigerator is pregnant. I just look like a larger appliance. As I grow from standard kitchen fridge to industrial cooling device, it's easy to wish I looked like something else -- an hourglass, a marble glued to a chopstick, Salma Hayak. It's tough motivating a dispirited refrigerator, especially coming off a long break without exercise.

Happily, I have family and friends who have agreed to run a 200-mile relay this summer, and we all need motivation for myriad reasons. To prepare for this race, I did a double run on Saturday. My crowning achievement was running a full mile without stopping. While it was tempting to dwell on what a pathetic feat this was, I instead chose to marvel at the progress I made in one week's time. Seven days prior, I huffed around the track in a panic, stopping to walk every eighth of a mile. This week, I huffed with confidence, reaching the mile point before taking my first walk break. That's pretty impressive progress! (Special thanks to my sister for patiently running at my pace and distracting me from the unpleasantness of the situation.)

For the second run of the day, six of us met at the track in the evening. While we ran we planned for the relay, designed our team shirt (it's going to be amazing), caught up on life, and laughed a lot. My favorite part of the evening was our session of planks which led to the development of a new form of exercise, yo-ha-ha -- yoga interspersed with jokes to make your core work even harder. I'm telling you, my running team is brilliant.

Go team! Thanks for helping this refrigerator keep running.

Running with Little Squish

I am three months pregnant. This means running with Little Squish boppin' around, changing what running looks like for the next year (or forever). (I had a dream that we asked my sister to name the critter, and she told us to name it "Little Squish.")

Yesterday I ran the Whidbey Island half marathon with eleven family members and friends. It also happened to be the birthday of my grandfather, who would have been 93. Spending the day with family, seeing my Uncle Jeff running in Grandpa's Hawaiian shirt, and commemorating Grandpa with his favorite Dairy Queen treat (the Peanut Buster Parfait), was a joyful way to remember him.

I was nervous about this race because I've only been running about once a week, with some walking here and there. Adding to the stack of worry, my last long run was a 15k about two months ago, and my cousin Stephanie whose presence makes hard runs fly by wasn't going to be there. I also woke up with a cramp deep in my shoulder that made it impossible to take a deep breath without pain.

But for all my concerns, the run went really well.

Least Favorite Moment(s):
I used all but one of the port-o-potties on the route, and still had to make an emergency squat in a secluded wooded area next to the road. On the plus side, I felt much more motivated to keep running in order to reach the next rest stop quickly. Unfortunately, running also increased the bladder pressure and urgency to release the floodwaters, whereas walking reduced this feeling. Run or walk? Very uncomfortable for a slightly shorter period of time or just uncomfortable for a longer period of time?

This is the second race I've completed while pregnant, but it was the first run where Little Squish made its presence known. My theory is that Little Squish is a huge fan of running, and that when it gets excited, it starts to kick its silly little legs, and swing its silly little arms, inadvertently kicking and punching my bladder as soon as I've run 100 yards away from the last port-o-pot.

Favorite Moment:
I passed three people who were walking, and one of them said, "She looks effortless too." Now, I'm an English Language Arts teacher, so let's take a moment to do a deep analysis of this sentence:

By "she," we can assume they were talking about me. I didn't turn around and check if there was someone else behind me, but no one else was near us when I passed them, so it's reasonable to conclude that I am the effortless-looking one.

"Looks effortless," must have been in reference to my running gait and style, since I was actually running at that moment. This means my self-perception as a clunky, stompy wobble monster is clearly incorrect.

Finally, although small, the adverb "too" is perhaps the most significant word in the statement. It indicates that right before I passed them, the walkers were discussing other people who also look effortless when they run. When one imagines people who look effortless while running, one naturally envisions Kenyan marathoners. Therefore, it is perfectly reasonable to infer that according to these highly astute walkers, I look like a Kenyan marathoner when I run.

I'm sore today, and getting off the couch would definitely not be described as "effortless,"but the aching muscles are a nice reminder that I can still run. And I will still run.


 

PF Chang Wants to Ruin My Life

After running the 2014 Honolulu Marathon in very old running shoes (the same ones I trained and ran in the previous year), I developed a pain in my heel that made walking across the laminate floor a daily trudge through the sixth ring of hell: only instead of heretics trapped in flaming tombs, it was my left foot. My dad (who is not a physician) diagnosed me with plantar fasciitis. My physician, with somewhat less certainty said, it sounds like plantar fasciitis, so let's treat it like that and see what happens.

Naturally I did none of the exercises she suggested, and continued with my self-prescribed treatment of really really hoping it would just go away. As one might expect, this did not lead to any noticeable change in the sensation of walking on a bed of red hot needles dipped in sriracha every morning. It did lead to the purchase of several pairs of Crocs. I have indoor Crocs, outdoor Crocs, Crocs for teaching all day, and flip flop Crocs. Don't worry, the Crocs I wear in public look like Toms or Vans. Despite the pain, I tried to maintain some sense of dignity.

The pain was worrisome. How could I train for a big running goal if the day after running I hobbled, barely able to support my own weight with that feeble foot? Would training further shred that poor, stressed strip of fascia? Why was my body betraying me when I had such noble goals for us? Why do I have to be so damn human? The thought of further damaging my foot loomed every time I thought about training. No longer just a nifty appendage at the end of a limb, my foot was a fully-formed saboteur.

We named him PF Chang. PF for plantar fasciitis, and just like the restaurant, I am somewhat Asian, so the Chang seemed appropriate. (Yes, my foot is a dude, because, hello? in systems of patriarchy, who sabotages women? Dudes.)

Naming my foot not only made me laugh, it also helped me build a relationship with this blob of inflamed tissue emerging from my ankle. I started noticing patterns to the pain. It was worst after running. Wearing exclusively Crocs for the rest of the day immediately after running significantly decreased the next's morning's pain. Walking at least a quarter mile in those Crocs after running reduced the pain even more. The more downward dogs I did, the less I winced when I walked the next day. And miraculously, the more I ran, cross-trained, and stretched, the more PF Chang improved. I've had more wince-free mornings in the past month than I've had in the past year and a half.

 PF Chang isn't gone forever. In fact, after a couple weeks of exercise coming second to the 15 million commitments I have this semester, my old buddy has been vying for more attention. And like a neglected middle schooler, those appeals for attention are disruptive, painful, and inappropriate. While my first instinct may be to yell "Dude, shut up!" I will appeal to my better self and use my cache of tools to productively and humanely attend to PF's needs, while still holding him accountable, because being my foot is a major responsibility.

The Thrill of Potential Nudity

An important milestone happened this week. I exercised enough to run out of workout clothes. I had to do an unscheduled load of laundry, or run naked. This has not happened to me in a very, very long time. At the height of training for my first marathon in 2008, I regularly did an extra mid-week load of laundry to keep away the stink.

I have not had consistent laundry issues since then. (I also have not run a faster marathon since then.) You may be thinking, girl, just go get yourself enough workout clothes to last a week, which would be an entirely logical solution. Unfortunately, it is also a rather expensive one that I have a hard time justifying if most of those new workout clothes are going to languish in my drawers once the heat and passion of a new running goal, or new training regimen, or new gym membership have inevitably worn off.

My running bras alone are breath-taking works of architectural ingenuity. Investing in architecture requires thoughtful financial planning to ensure a good return on your investment (minimal chafing is permissible in exchange for a bounce-free experience) and avoid bankruptcy (show me effective, breast-taming architecture that costs under $75).

Then there comes the task of finding running tights that A) fit properly, B) are comfortable, C) will not immediately burn through at the inseams due to the heat and friction of my mighty thighs, D) maintain opacity when I bend over, and E) cost less than what I would spend on a week of groceries. (I regularly compromise on C and D for the sake of E, and to do all my gym stretching with my butt facing the wall.)

But after several months now of imperfect, but consistent training and healthy-esque eating, I venture to claim that I am actually making the long-term, sustainable changes in the patterns of my life, which are the foundation of my big running goal. And since I want these patterns to include changes in how I think, then I think I should go buy some new workout clothes.

Embedded beneath my self-confidence, firmly lodged right under that touch narcissism is a voice that tells me I should wait until I'm a certain kind of runner, or have a different body, or have somehow earned new workout clothes. This voice implies that the version of myself that exists right now is not good enough and doesn't deserve it. When I think like this, I mire myself in a sticky, toxic narrative that posits present me is not the real me. It says happiness and satisfaction only exist in the future when I'm finally not who I am right now. That's gross!

And so, to honor present me, and celebrate the authenticity of the joy in my life, I'm going workout clothes shopping this week. And then I'm going to use those workout clothes. Because I'm a runner. And I don't want to run naked. Ever. 

I'm in Training

I adore french fries. Thick and tender steak fries, curly twists of seasoned starch, zigzag-sliced tubers, county fair blocks of deep-fried spuds, hand-cut artisan, or McDonald's frankenfries, I consume them all with soulful, life-affirming gusto. I love them even more than I love hyperbole, and without hyperbole, I'd probably die.

But I'm in the market for some long-term change, and conventional wisdom (or the "wisdom" pedaled to women in order to persuade us to conform to a narrow vision of beauty, acceptability, and happiness - I digress) suggests that french fries and big athletic goals are mutually exclusive. Objections to the objectification of women aside, conventional wisdom has a point. Eating as many french fries as my heart truly desires is not the most efficient way to become a better runner.

So here's what I've been doing lately: I've been telling myself I'm in training. It's a tiny little phrase that's been essential in getting me to the gym and getting leafy greens into my body with shocking regularity. I have a few theories about why it's so effective.

1) It's immediate. I'm not going to be in training starting this weekend, or on the first day of next month, or once this semester is over. I'm in training right now. And so I need to do the things that runners in training do. Like eat kale. Right now.

2) It's a reminder. When confronted with the slender, golden body of a crisp, yet tender french fry, it's easy to forget about my big goals. Telling myself, I'm in training reminds me to move toward those goals. And when I'm reminded about my grand plans, I get really excited and remember all the other things I can be doing or eating that are still pleasurable, but are not french fries.

3) It slows me down. Identifying as a person in training gives me pause in a frenzied fog of lust for salt and grease, and makes me think, do I absolutely have to have fries right now? Often the answer is sweet gold of Idaho, yes, french fries are the only solution. But most of the time, remembering I'm in training is a bucket of ice water to those lusty yearnings.

Being in training doesn't mean I don't eat french fries any more. Deprivation, a sense of loss, and  dimming the spark of life in my eyes are not part of my long-term goals. I'm not training to be an elite athlete, I'm training for successful big runs. The fries can stay, they just need a little balance. So I'm going to keep bringing my gym bag to work, keep eating kale, and keep reminding myself:

I'm in training!

Power in Numbers

No matter how many different motivation strategies I discover and try, they all lose luster after a while, and I'm back to the grinding slog of getting myself to do what I need to do. But one strategy that doesn't seem to lose its effectiveness is peer pressure.

Meeting with other people to exercise takes the unpleasantness out of what might otherwise be another boring training session. There are definitely days when I relish a solo workout with nothing but my body and brain to keep my company. But when I only rely on myself to keep me accountable in my training, I get a little soft. I am a very accommodating personal trainer. You worked hard yesterday, go ahead, take a day off. And eat a doughnut. 

Family Track Club saves the day! For the past three weeks, my cousins, siblings, dad, friends, and I have been meeting on Saturdays to run around the middle school track together. We represent a range of ages (1-68) and fitness levels, from marathon runners to 5K walkers. The beauty of the track is we can all move at our own paces, and yet we can all be together, socializing and supporting. Our weekly gatherings are also a reminder that I am part of an amazing family. I belong to an adventurous crew that is up for anything. They're so inspiring!

I'm usually not too enthusiastic about getting out the door on a Saturday morning, but once I'm on the track with a gaggle of people I adore, those laps fly by. Even though we're working hard, the fun numbs the pain (for the most part). Social training is not going to lose its luster any time soon.

Little Dude and Little Dud

I excel at stopping. When I run, I have no qualms with slowing down, taking a break, even fully stopping for a mid-run stretch session. I love it when that blinky red palm tells me to halt at a crosswalk. But this love of stopping has led to bad running habits.

When I feel that urge to stop, I envision a little dud version of myself plopping itself down in my lower back, setting up camp, and settling in like a rock in a hammock. Little Dud drags me down. On my ten-miler yesterday, I was determined to knock Little Dud out of the hammock.

Instead of Little Dud, I need Little Dude. Little Dude is crowded up against the front of my chest, bouncing like a spring, Tae Bo punching the air like a little maniac. Little Dude's got spunk! I can feel that energy in my chest, driving me forward. When I picture Little Dude's relentless momentum, I'm less inclined to give in to the desire to stop. Little Dude's got the stopping qualms I need to develop.

Little Dude kept me running in miles 7-9 when Little Dud usually convinces me to walk. Unfortunately, at mile ten my hip, knee, and ankle started to hurt, and while Little Dude is pretty magical, her analgesic powers are limited. I walked most of that final mile. But I completed ten miles yesterday, when what I really wanted to do was sit next to the fire, eat Christmas candy, and read my book.

Thanks, Little Dude!

Straight Up Tale of Woe, Yo

Let's start with the disingenuous sunny side of the whole debacle:
- I completed my 7th full marathon!
- I didn't give up, even through the heat of Honolulu, blister, chafing and plantar fasciitis!
- What an accomplishment!
- Wow wow wow!
- Happy happy happy!
- Positive positive positive!

That's enough.

Crossing the finish line this year, I felt the least proud I have ever felt at the end of a race. There was no reason to imagine it was going to end well, considering I'd only trained up to ten miles. And yet, at the starting line, under the dark, humid skies of Honolulu, surrounded by tens of thousands of athletes, I couldn't help fantasizing about finish line triumph.

There were a few good moments. Miles 1-10 were pretty fantastic, actually. But a few miles later the walking started, and before long it transitioned into limping, with some mild whimpering to accompany the sound of my dragging feet. And it wouldn't be a marathon without my customary emotional breakdown around mile 25, when I start thinking about all of the people who love me in this world, and then I start to cry a little, and then it gets hard to breathe because crying takes too much oxygen. Thankfully, my go-to mantra, "Buck up, Princess," is the world's most effective method of shutting down hyper-emotionalism and getting back to business.

This marathon was a slap of necessary, but kind of mean honesty. Girl, you suck at this right now. And you're going to keep sucking at this if you don't actually run. You have no business imagining you're going to do well just because you're super good at positive visualization. 

Thanks, marathon. And so the real triumph is not the marathon I did last weekend, but the fact that I packed my gym bag, left it in my car, and headed straight to the gym after school on Tuesday, instead of taking the 4-20 weeks of "rest" that I usually take around the holidays.

I'm signed up for a half marathon on New Year's Eve. I'm in training.

Honolulu Marathon, 2015

Reverberating Miracle Pudding

When I run, I bear a striking resemblance to a reverberating pudding. I possess a thick, wobbling heft that religiously obeys the bounciest laws of physics with each weighty stride. Most of the time, I feel bad about this. I have visions of a younger self, slimmer, with less percussive footfalls. I have fantasies of a future self, so lean and bendy that when people see me, visions of gazelles involuntarily prance through their heads. Past and future look so good! The present is just depressing.

Part of making sustainable changes means doing some hard re-thinking work. I need to re-think what I can realistically achieve in my future. I need to re-think how I view myself in the present. Stopping myself mid-wallow and re-directing my thoughts toward a positive, productive place is impossible most of the time. But every once in a while, I can do it.

It's unrealistic to become a lithe piece of jerky any time soon; but, I feel like I am well on my way to achieving the status of flan -- still in the pudding genre, but more solid, requiring a firmer shake to elicit a wobble.

From pudding to flan! And why not dream big? Maybe within a year ... mochi status! (Still a bit of squish, but damn tasty.)

I may be a pudding in the present, but I'm a pudding that is running a marathon in four days. That's amazing! How many puddings can do that? I'm like some sort of miracle pudding! Woo!

Self Pity Stew

This has been my week:

Not a shred of stupid optimism, annoying positive attitude, or grating self-motivated pep to be found. And not a hint of training. There was some guilt at first, but by midweek, I had moved beyond feeling bad about not doing anything that even remotely resembled training. I sank nice and heavy into a sticky stew of cold-hearted self pity generously garnished with apathy. And then I floated around in it, relished it, let it seep between my toes, gargled its cloying juices, rubbed it into my face.

I wallowed.

It felt like something in me had completely shut off. Instead of a burning drive to reach a big goal, all I had was a burning drive to eat fries and watch Jessica Jones whose nihilistic world view spoke to me.

My weak little plan was to start fresh on The Weekend. The Weekend is a magical place where everything is possible, where the week's sins are forgiven, and rebirth can be achieved. I didn't do anything this week. It's okay! I'll just jumpstart myself on The Weekend, and launch a whole new life! Reality has yet to bear this out. Reality is so lame.

Thankfully, my dad texted me on Friday night: "Run tmrw?" It was the external force I needed. Without that external force, I would have planned on doing a training run, slept in late on Saturday morning,  eaten a leisurely breakfast, read my book for a while, done some mindless internet browsing, watched some Jessica Jones, read some more, eaten lunch, realized it was late enough in the afternoon that I would be running in the dark, and excused myself from running on the grounds of personal safety. Maybe next weekend.

With Dad, it's up and out by 8am. (He wanted 7:30, I negotiated half an hour, which resulted in us still being out running while it rained its hardest the last half hour of our run. Sorry, Dad.)

Much to my delight, and despite not training for a week, I have not lost every strand of muscle fiber in my legs and gained 150 pounds. My bad mind was wrong. It was a great 10-miler. We ran it in the same time that I ran 8 miles last weekend. It made me feel like a runner again.

I have no idea how to not wallow this week. I have no idea how to carry the good juju from this run beyond The Weekend. But right now, I feel worthy of the moniker "Runner," so I'm going to mentally tattoo that identity to my soul, maybe write it in Sharpie on my hand, and do my best to be the thing I am.

Embrace the Hard

The thing I'm noticing about long distance running (and perhaps aging ties into this as well) is that the point at which I feel warmed up seems to be getting farther and farther from the point at which I start running. This is especially unfortunate when I feel warmed up at around the three mile mark of a 3.5 mile run. Most of my runs at the gym feel unfortunate.

There is, of course, the option to continue running after that three mile mark, but running much more than three miles on a treadmill makes me hyperaware that I am on a machine in order to simulate running, that I'm paying for the privilege to fake run, that my life is overly dependent on computers and machinery to help me function, that even my most basic human connections are mediated by technology, that I don't remember the last time I had a real conversation on the telephone instead of texting or emailing the people I love the most in this world, that our capacity to connect, empathize, and love is rapidly diminishing in this digital era, and that we run the risk of losing what makes us human for the sake of entertainment, convenience, and commerce.

Running is enough work on its own, I can't have an existential crisis every time I step onto the treadmill. Five miles is my absolute limit. Beyond that, I need the outdoors and proximity to the universe to give my mind room for vast expansion.

While running on the treadmill on Monday, well before slipping into the comfortable warmed-up zone, I thought about how much I wished this were easier. My left shin and ankle felt tight, like running with a plaster cast from foot to knee, my heel hurt, and both legs felt tired and wimpy. Not doing this was a lot more appealing than doing this. After a few minutes of wallowing, however, a rather radical thought dawned on me: I don't actually wish this were easier.

I mean, yes, of course it would be quite nice to be able to run ten miles at a seven minute pace and barely break a sweat. But really, no matter where I am in my fitness and training, I'm not actually looking to do something easy. I've set a huge goal for myself because I want to do something hard. I sign up for marathons because they are much more of a challenge than 5Ks at this point in my running life. Shifting from lusting after easy, to relishing the hard gives hard a purpose beyond just tormenting me. Hard is getting me somewhere. Embrace the hard! Hard is what I want!

This new (and unfortunately worded) mantra propelled me through the rest of the run and I finished my 4.2 miles feeling optimistic. (Or, maybe I was just finally warmed up.) 

Sour Grape Legs

There's a story I want to tell about myself as a runner. And I want the story to be true, so I have to run the narrative I want to tell. The drive to tell a certain story motivated me this week.

The week began with the banshee wailing in my ear. How do I do this when I often get home from work at 8pm, eat dinner at 8:30, and go to bed at 9:30? Is it okay to not do anything? Every time I don't do something, does that negate the something I did the day before? How do I to this when at the end of the day, my body feels like a wadded up paper ball that some sweaty-palmed middle schooler has been throwing at a wall all day?

On Wednesday I came home while it was still light and hurried back out the door to get my body moving before my brain had a chance to realize what was happening. It felt really good for the first ten steps. And then my legs went acid on me. My muscles felt like someone had strung every sinew with sour grapes - like if you bit into my legs the tartness would go straight to that spot just under the back of your jawbone. (Well, no. At first you'd have to bite through a layer of fat, and as we know, fat is flavor, so for the first bite or two I'm not sour, I'm absolutely delicious. And then sour.)

It was a pretty terrible run. The walking part went well, though, and over half of it was walking, so overall, it was kind of great?

I ran again today after school, which makes three runs in the past week. That's the beginning of a good story.