This post is all about me, even though I know you are probably all waiting to see pictures from Christmas, and the holiday traditions, and all that stuff. But this morning I had a particularly inspiring experience, and I wanted to blog about this instead.
It's time I came clean and revealed myself for who I really am...for who I have become.
I'm a person who willingly goes outside for 45+ minutes on a frosty, gusty 29-degree Sunday morning with only weak sunlight breaking through the trees. Yes, you read that right--the chronically cold girl is now WILLING to spending time outside, feeling the full force of a 19-degree wind chill.
I had some hint that something about me had changed last month when I arrived in Arizona after a long, cross-country flight and was immediately swarmed by dozens of lovely family members that I hadn't seen in months, or even years. I put down my suitcase, hugged my grandma, and looked out the window into the dark, wintry night, thinking, "There's got to be a trail or a gym nearby." Luckily, my fitness-obsessed baby brother also had this inclination, and together we drove around the frozen, unfamiliar town until we could find an all-night gym where an unsuspecting employee was willing to let us in for an hour.
I had another realization recently when I found myself reading every website, forum, and article I could find on running, injuries, specialty shoes, and local races. I had spent no less than 3 hours pouring over the information and sucking up every little detail. What was I doing?
Trust me, no one was more surprised by this turn of events than I was. I remembered that running "the mile" in gym as a kid was all-out torture: kids collapsing and gasping for air, groaning and fainting. I was among them. For years, I admired the men and women runners that I saw cruising along effortlessly, seemingly unconcerned with the enormous EFFORT that was required in sustaining that motion called running for anything more than 30 seconds at a time.
At different times over my adult life, I had fantasized about how cool it would be if I were one of those people who woke up early on a Saturday morning, laced up the shoes, and headed out the door for a run. Half of my co-workers and friends on Facebook were runners, and seemed to glean something wonderful and fulfilling from it--maybe there was something to this whole running thing. Plus, talk about cheap and simple exercise. Everyone knows instinctively how to run, right?
So, one Saturday in late summer when my kickboxing class was cancelled, I thought about giving it a try. I laced up my trusty kicks and headed out the door, just like in my fantasy. I was ready!
I started to run--one foot in front of the other, arms chugging along. I was moving! I was flying! Wow, it was so great! I can totally do this!
30 seconds later, it started to totally, TOTALLY SUCK. My lungs were burning, my chest was heaving, every muscle in my legs were screaming. What? What was so great about THIS? THIS is what people wanted to do as a HOBBY? What was WRONG with those people?!? I forced myself to keep going, ignoring the light-headedness and nausea that I associated with starting a new physical activity. (Afterall, when I started kickboxing classes in June, I almost passed out the first few times, so I figured this was normal.)
Maybe a third of a mile in, my body gave out and I ground to a halt, heart pounding painfully. I sucked air into my abused, weak lungs, my mouth tasting of copper. I picked up the pace a few more times, but I felt absolutely, undeniably
awful. Clearly, this was NOT the activity for me. Some people can run, and some people cannot. I would stick with yoga and kickboxing and call it good.
Owing to additional class cancellations or scheduling issues, I went out a few more times over the next few months. Each time, I wanted to stop running immediately. Each step seemed to solidify in my mind that this was the stupidest form of recreational activity ever undertaken. To prove my own point, I forced myself to go for a run on an insanely humid day that reached 110 with the heat index. I didn't run fast, or far, but I was in motion for a good portion of that effort, with no idea what point I was trying to prove.
But then one day near the end of October, the weather changed. The leaves started falling, the temperatures cooled, and the sunlight ripened to gold. It became a pleasure to be outside again. I tentatively thought about going for a run just once more since I'd missed a kickboxing class that week.
I started out on the trail by the house and admired the way the sunlight sang through the crimson leaves. I smelled the soft, autumnal fragrance on the wind. I gloried in the feeling of oxygen entering my lungs and the smoothness of my body's forward motion--legs and arms moving gracefully, purposefully.
Then it hit me--
I was running, and it didn't feel like dying! I couldn't believe it. I think I actually said out loud: "OMG, this DOESN'T SUCK!" Was this really happening? Where was the pain, the drama, and the pressing desire to immediately stop and assume a fetal position? Those feelings were conspicuously absent, so I kept going.
The weeks that followed found me at the high school track, where I could calculate my distance. I was soon running a full mile without stopping. It felt crazy good that I could do that. It was still hard, but I had achieved something. It meant something to run--it meant accomplishment. It was so satisfying to cross that lane marker again and again.
Runners were everywhere, and so was their advice. I disregarded the oft-repeated advice that new runners START SLOW AND INCREASE DISTANCE VERY SLOWLY. Psh! Who wants to run SLOW? Isn't that called jogging?
Well, the inevitable happened. I got shin splints. The ache in my legs became a constant scream every single day, even on days when I was not running. I was so sore and miserable I thought I would have to give it up. So I did, for a week. I even took it "easy" in kickboxing, which is not easy to do. There is a lot of jumping and running involved. Read: a lot of limping and wincing and suffering.
This time when I started back up, I went slowly. It didn't feel much like the running I was used to, but the next day I could walk without emphasizing each step with an "ow." I also didn't try to go as far. I finally understood that the body adapts to changes gradually, and my bones, muscles, joints, ligaments and tendons adjust to stresses more slowly than my impatient mind does. I also finally bit the bullet and bought REAL running shoes. From an actual
running store, from people who analyzed my gait and made sure I didn't buy something I didn't need. Unheard of--I never buy into the hype! But my initial chagrin at what I felt was an "exorbitant" cost was left behind in the dust after just one run on my new properly cushioned and flexible insoles.
My distances very slowly increased from that one mile to two miles, even though it killed me to hold back and only add a little each week, like I was
supposed to. Funny thing happened. I could walk without pain. Then it increased from two miles to three miles. Then three miles to four miles. Then I realized I was at the point where my longest run of the week could increase by a mile or more, and I had to look for creative routes that would prevent mental fatigue.
It seemed like I started doing this a long time ago, and yet I've really just gotten started--12 weeks ago I was not running consistently 3-4 times a week and certainly not enjoying it. 12 weeks ago, I had never experienced that euphoria that kicks in usually after mile 3 that makes me feel totally incredible and at peace with myself and my surroundings, like I want to keep running forever. 12 weeks ago, I hated running. But now, it feels good.
I'm still so surprised to acknowledge it, but...I finally get it. I finally understand what I've been missing out on. I finally understand what all those crazy people are doing. It is possible for me to do hard things--things that make me groan, suffer, struggle, and sweat. I did one....I'm still doing it.
I am a runner. There, I've said it.
