Oh man. I love Jewish Holidays, but what a tweak they put in my workout schedule. Although I always feel disproportinately happy to reconvene with my exercise schedule. Like the time away just makes me itchy to start again, to forget how hard it is and just remember that it's making me stronger and more able to do things. Which are good things to keep in the forefront of my mind when my body is on fire and I've forgotten to pee before my run.
Here's to normalcy, or as close as we can get.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Anatomy of a Run
Here's how my run usually goes:
I start out walking, testing, feeling each part of my legs as I go and making a mental list. Knees are ok, calves are usually tight, ankles and and achilles ache monstrously. Normal.
I start to jog, and the ache turns to a burn, and it hurts and everything kind of starts to hurt in every major part of my body--my lungs, shoulders and neck, the inside of my nose from trying to control my breathing. I feel the pain move through me and I try to talk myself out of it, talk myself through it, talk myself into liking it. I do like the feeling of my pounding heart, although I wish it wouldn't start so soon after I did.
I make it up the hill that's in the first .5 of my run. Once I get up there, it smooths out a little. Even ground, and I pass a lot of people walking, taking, pushing babies, babies themselves toddling around. I pass other runners and I'm usually absentmindedly chagrined at how much better they seem at this whole thing. I have a lot of daydreams, and lot of imaginings that run through my head. Also a lot of words. There's still a lot of pain, but it's a cohesive kind of pain, the kind that lets me know my body is working together to make me move fast and slow, albeit reluctantly. I'm 25 but I feel much older.
I loop around a traffic circle one time, twice if I'm feeling ambitious, and it is about the halfway point of my run. The traffic circle is definitely the climax--the rest of it is level with slight uphill and mostly downhill in parts, and I don't like that as much, it hurts my knees and makes it harder to run at a consistent pace, which I'm terrible at anyway. I pine for dance studios. I was much better at moving my body gracefully than mechanically.
I sometimes try to imagine what it would feel like to be a graceful runner, one of those gazelles who seems to float over the pavement, consistently underweight and flying. I was a dancer with a thick torso, always. My belly sticks out and creates lumps and bumps where there should be smoothness and ironically I think about this just as much while I run as when I danced. I was a good dancer. I am not a good runner, but I'm determined to get there.
I pass nail salons and pet stores and I always try to sneak a peak at the puppies. I pass a clothing store and promise myself that I will let myself buy something from them as soon as I think I'll feel comfortable in their clothes and lose a few pounds. I pass a lot of smokers and it annoys me--it messes with my breathing.
I reach the last stretch and the app on my phone is usually telling me I've been running for 25 minutes. Depending on where I am before home, I sprint some of the way to get close to a time or beat my time or just to get my heart rate back up one last time. At this point when I lick my lips I taste salt. Sweat is usually pouring down my face and though my face is beet red and I'm a sweaty mess and my hair looks awful. But that's ok. I get home, resist the urge to sit down on the couch, and always forget to stretch my calves so they are blindingly sore tomorrow.
I start out walking, testing, feeling each part of my legs as I go and making a mental list. Knees are ok, calves are usually tight, ankles and and achilles ache monstrously. Normal.
I start to jog, and the ache turns to a burn, and it hurts and everything kind of starts to hurt in every major part of my body--my lungs, shoulders and neck, the inside of my nose from trying to control my breathing. I feel the pain move through me and I try to talk myself out of it, talk myself through it, talk myself into liking it. I do like the feeling of my pounding heart, although I wish it wouldn't start so soon after I did.
I make it up the hill that's in the first .5 of my run. Once I get up there, it smooths out a little. Even ground, and I pass a lot of people walking, taking, pushing babies, babies themselves toddling around. I pass other runners and I'm usually absentmindedly chagrined at how much better they seem at this whole thing. I have a lot of daydreams, and lot of imaginings that run through my head. Also a lot of words. There's still a lot of pain, but it's a cohesive kind of pain, the kind that lets me know my body is working together to make me move fast and slow, albeit reluctantly. I'm 25 but I feel much older.
I loop around a traffic circle one time, twice if I'm feeling ambitious, and it is about the halfway point of my run. The traffic circle is definitely the climax--the rest of it is level with slight uphill and mostly downhill in parts, and I don't like that as much, it hurts my knees and makes it harder to run at a consistent pace, which I'm terrible at anyway. I pine for dance studios. I was much better at moving my body gracefully than mechanically.
I sometimes try to imagine what it would feel like to be a graceful runner, one of those gazelles who seems to float over the pavement, consistently underweight and flying. I was a dancer with a thick torso, always. My belly sticks out and creates lumps and bumps where there should be smoothness and ironically I think about this just as much while I run as when I danced. I was a good dancer. I am not a good runner, but I'm determined to get there.
I pass nail salons and pet stores and I always try to sneak a peak at the puppies. I pass a clothing store and promise myself that I will let myself buy something from them as soon as I think I'll feel comfortable in their clothes and lose a few pounds. I pass a lot of smokers and it annoys me--it messes with my breathing.
I reach the last stretch and the app on my phone is usually telling me I've been running for 25 minutes. Depending on where I am before home, I sprint some of the way to get close to a time or beat my time or just to get my heart rate back up one last time. At this point when I lick my lips I taste salt. Sweat is usually pouring down my face and though my face is beet red and I'm a sweaty mess and my hair looks awful. But that's ok. I get home, resist the urge to sit down on the couch, and always forget to stretch my calves so they are blindingly sore tomorrow.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
The Escalator
This week has been a bad running week. Bad in the sense that the runs hurt--in my lungs, in my legs, I just can't seem to get away from the pain of it. But also in the sense that I didn't go as often as I wanted to, or as often as I should have if I want to improve.
Improvement--what a ridiculously unattainable thing. Just like an escalator, the prize you seek is continually out of reach. But it must be a nice feeling to look back at all the ground you've covered. It's just important to remember why you're chasing that elusive gem in the distance in the first place.
There are so many things I consider when I'm out there, pounding the pavement and pretending to be hardcore. My weird sense of competitiveness (I say weird not because the fact that I have it is strange, but because it's bizarrely inconsistent), how much I wish the run were over, is the amount that I sweat normal?, my calves are killing me, gah the run just started why isn't it over, breathe breathe breathhhhhe, oh yay downhill, why isn't this run effing OVER yet?, among other more lofty thoughts that I'm sure make it into the jumble.
Right now I'm not at the proud part. I'm not at the reaping my rewards part, not the 'look how far I've come!' part. I'm at the busting my ass hoping it's worth it part. Very 'just keep swimming'.
Here's to tomorrow morning's run.
Improvement--what a ridiculously unattainable thing. Just like an escalator, the prize you seek is continually out of reach. But it must be a nice feeling to look back at all the ground you've covered. It's just important to remember why you're chasing that elusive gem in the distance in the first place.
There are so many things I consider when I'm out there, pounding the pavement and pretending to be hardcore. My weird sense of competitiveness (I say weird not because the fact that I have it is strange, but because it's bizarrely inconsistent), how much I wish the run were over, is the amount that I sweat normal?, my calves are killing me, gah the run just started why isn't it over, breathe breathe breathhhhhe, oh yay downhill, why isn't this run effing OVER yet?, among other more lofty thoughts that I'm sure make it into the jumble.
Right now I'm not at the proud part. I'm not at the reaping my rewards part, not the 'look how far I've come!' part. I'm at the busting my ass hoping it's worth it part. Very 'just keep swimming'.
Here's to tomorrow morning's run.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Hello World
For some reason I do my best writing while I'm running. Well, my best thinking about writing when I'm running. Or driving. Or in the shower. Or anywhere but at a computer or notebook.
But mostly running.
I don't know if this is a discipline thing--that I haven't forced myself to sit down enough so that the words just flow when I want them, and only come at inconvenient times? And maybe something about the rhythm (it took me three tries to spell that word. I will learn how it's spelled one of these days!) of my feet hitting the pavement, my breath (or wheezing, depending on the point in the run).
I'm not a great runner. I'm not even a good runner. I stop frequently, walk a lot of it, and really have to force myself into it most night that I manage to actually get out there. After I finished a run one time, I described how I was feeling to a friend as, "I've never before felt so great and so terrible at the same time." This, ladies and gentlemen, is what I'm forcing myself into for the sake of my health and mental sanity. I'm trying to convince myself that there's something cathartic about hitting the pavement, something poetic about going running to 'deal with issues' and always ending up home, back in the same place.
Mostly I just feel tendinitis.
But this is my journey. In miles.
But mostly running.
I don't know if this is a discipline thing--that I haven't forced myself to sit down enough so that the words just flow when I want them, and only come at inconvenient times? And maybe something about the rhythm (it took me three tries to spell that word. I will learn how it's spelled one of these days!) of my feet hitting the pavement, my breath (or wheezing, depending on the point in the run).
I'm not a great runner. I'm not even a good runner. I stop frequently, walk a lot of it, and really have to force myself into it most night that I manage to actually get out there. After I finished a run one time, I described how I was feeling to a friend as, "I've never before felt so great and so terrible at the same time." This, ladies and gentlemen, is what I'm forcing myself into for the sake of my health and mental sanity. I'm trying to convince myself that there's something cathartic about hitting the pavement, something poetic about going running to 'deal with issues' and always ending up home, back in the same place.
Mostly I just feel tendinitis.
But this is my journey. In miles.
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