Since I started running, I always want to share it with other people. I want to talk about it, I want to talk to other runners, and I want to drag other people into it. I want new runners to think it's as amazing as I do. Usually they don't, which I guess confirms what most people believe: runners are crazy, especially distance runners. I like to think that running gets me more spiritually in tune with the universe, which may further confirm the insanity.
Regardless, the most memorable races and fun times running have been those that involved people who are close to me. My sister started running last summer and she and I and our dad did some races together. When we made plans to head up to Indiana to visit family, she and I agreed that running a race up there would be great, so I found the Firecracker 5k in Brazil, Indiana. There was something about entering a race out of town that made it seem more special. We got directions, (and got lost a few times), and had a great time racing that morning. It wasn't just the race--it was getting up early, getting ready, finding a new place and being part of something there--together.
Ty has also run some races with me. Our first together was the Rollin on the River 5k in North Little Rock. I looked over at him running with me and was so happy to be bringing him along to do something that had become so important to me. I also love how much people cheer for kids as they are about to cross the finish line, and it was really great to hear those cheers for Tyler. This morning while I was running, I thought about how important it is for me to keep bringing him to races and getting him out there running with me. I want to build a foundation in his life for the importance of fitness, but more importantly, I want to make memories with him.
This morning's 13 miles were pretty good--until that last half mile scorching bit. I was feeling pretty good until I got to that part, and then every bit of what I had left was burned up by the heat. There were no beautiful tree/wind experiences after I stopped, but more of a panicked feeling: What if I can't do this? What if the heat is just too much and I can't do these longer runs? I've made a plan for my next long run up there to maybe avoid that feeling, but it was a scary one.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Finding my happy pace
Yesterday I went to the river trail to do 12 miles. I knew from my last run up there that I really needed to get started earlier than 7 because the heat gets unbearable at about 8. Unfortunately, a late night singing karaoke with friends prevented me from getting up any earlier than 6 and I started running at 7.
Instead of heading north toward the Big Dam Bridge, I headed south from the dog park toward downtown. The first 5 miles or so were pretty fantastic. A breeze was blowing off the water, most of the trail was in the shade, and I was feeling pretty great. I've finally learned to drink before I get thirsty, and I realized yesterday that while I may be stopping more often than I used to for water refills and such, I'm running faster. I would be happy to finish the marathon with 10 minute miles, but right now I seem to fall into about a 9:15 pace, give or take 10 seconds. I mused as I ran that maybe 9:15 is my happy pace whether I like it or not, and also did some thinking about how they say that distance running is a mind game. For example, at around mile 6, I thought, I'm tired. I could walk for just a minute. And then some other part of my brain said, hell no. You don't walk for the hell of it. Then I thought, maybe it's not just that running is a mind game, maybe it's that running nudges the part of my brain that tends toward some kind of multiple personality disorder.
I got down to about the I-30 bridge at about 5 miles and turned around. I was hoping to be able to do an out and back and end back at my car at 12 miles, but didn't want to run past the bridge. I considered crossing the Junction Bridge or the Broadway bridge and then coming back, but the lack of shade stopped me. I'd just have to pass my car for a mile and then come back. Fine.
It got hotter. I did more thinking about how, yes, this is hard. Of course this is hard. It's just like life--we go through the hard things. I thought about how, in my life, I used to never deal with hard things until I had no other choice, until all the demands and consequences were shoved up against me and I had to move or suffocate. With running, I choose hard. Even if I still might put off things that cause me anxiety, I learn through running that I can choose hard and have faith in my strength--even if sometimes I don't feel like it's there. I also thought, I can quit. Why am I doing this again? When I could be cuddled up in bed, listening to the fan, humming "The Lazy Song" and checking Facebook? The idea that I can quit is frightening, but it's there and it has to be there for this to mean anything. Running is an act of will. It's a choice, but it can't be negotiable--it must be a part of my existence, a part that I take responsibility for.
The last two miles, though, were so so...sucky. There is about a quarter mile stretch nearing the dam that is sheltered from the river but not from the sun, meaning no breeze and no shade. It's not that long but it's such a killer. I ran farther than a mile past the car just to get some time in the shade. I finally stepped off the trail for just 30 seconds or so to drink and turned around at a very small downhill because I didn't want to have to run back up. And finally, halfway back through the hot stretch, I hit 12 miles and stopped.
The best part of yesterday's run really has to be the half mile or so walk back to my car. That breeze was back and I realized that it wouldn't feel nearly so glorious if I weren't so close to heat exhaustion. I stopped, facing a sycamore tree, with its wide leaves bigger than my hand and naked striped branches. I looked through it at the striking blue of the sky and the water of the river, and the leaves waved and sang in the wind and I closed my eyes and let it all bless me and I sent that happiness out. I was so thankful.
Instead of heading north toward the Big Dam Bridge, I headed south from the dog park toward downtown. The first 5 miles or so were pretty fantastic. A breeze was blowing off the water, most of the trail was in the shade, and I was feeling pretty great. I've finally learned to drink before I get thirsty, and I realized yesterday that while I may be stopping more often than I used to for water refills and such, I'm running faster. I would be happy to finish the marathon with 10 minute miles, but right now I seem to fall into about a 9:15 pace, give or take 10 seconds. I mused as I ran that maybe 9:15 is my happy pace whether I like it or not, and also did some thinking about how they say that distance running is a mind game. For example, at around mile 6, I thought, I'm tired. I could walk for just a minute. And then some other part of my brain said, hell no. You don't walk for the hell of it. Then I thought, maybe it's not just that running is a mind game, maybe it's that running nudges the part of my brain that tends toward some kind of multiple personality disorder.
I got down to about the I-30 bridge at about 5 miles and turned around. I was hoping to be able to do an out and back and end back at my car at 12 miles, but didn't want to run past the bridge. I considered crossing the Junction Bridge or the Broadway bridge and then coming back, but the lack of shade stopped me. I'd just have to pass my car for a mile and then come back. Fine.
It got hotter. I did more thinking about how, yes, this is hard. Of course this is hard. It's just like life--we go through the hard things. I thought about how, in my life, I used to never deal with hard things until I had no other choice, until all the demands and consequences were shoved up against me and I had to move or suffocate. With running, I choose hard. Even if I still might put off things that cause me anxiety, I learn through running that I can choose hard and have faith in my strength--even if sometimes I don't feel like it's there. I also thought, I can quit. Why am I doing this again? When I could be cuddled up in bed, listening to the fan, humming "The Lazy Song" and checking Facebook? The idea that I can quit is frightening, but it's there and it has to be there for this to mean anything. Running is an act of will. It's a choice, but it can't be negotiable--it must be a part of my existence, a part that I take responsibility for.
The last two miles, though, were so so...sucky. There is about a quarter mile stretch nearing the dam that is sheltered from the river but not from the sun, meaning no breeze and no shade. It's not that long but it's such a killer. I ran farther than a mile past the car just to get some time in the shade. I finally stepped off the trail for just 30 seconds or so to drink and turned around at a very small downhill because I didn't want to have to run back up. And finally, halfway back through the hot stretch, I hit 12 miles and stopped.
The best part of yesterday's run really has to be the half mile or so walk back to my car. That breeze was back and I realized that it wouldn't feel nearly so glorious if I weren't so close to heat exhaustion. I stopped, facing a sycamore tree, with its wide leaves bigger than my hand and naked striped branches. I looked through it at the striking blue of the sky and the water of the river, and the leaves waved and sang in the wind and I closed my eyes and let it all bless me and I sent that happiness out. I was so thankful.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Honey badger don't care.....(but I do)
This week I successfully managed to get myself out of bed and on the road for all my weekday runs, so there have been no more half-dead Arkansas heat wave posts. Everything has been pretty low-key. Until this morning.
It all started with the bee that was harassing me before I even got out of the neighborhood. I promise, for the length of three front yards, this bee was circling me, dive-bombing me, and just generally enjoying the show. People were outside. A guy was backing his truck out right across from me, and I was screaming, swiping at the air, stomping, cussing, jumping...But that was only the beginning.
When I got to the sidewalk leading over the spillway bridge, I was on Snake Vigilance Alert. The brush is overgrown on each side of the sidewalk. I looked straight ahead at the bridge and sidewalk, positive that there were snakes on either side of the path. Just as I got to the end of the bridge, I saw it. Along the edge of the sidewalk, there was a light brownish patterned snake. Running past it was absolutely out of the question. I screamed and turned around, just hoping I could make it back over the bridge and down the sidewalk without seeing another one. Peril lay on either side of me. I promised myself I would not cross that bridge again until a good hard freeze sent all snakes to bed for the winter.
Fortunately for me, the Brockington Road sidewalks are finished, so I headed out of Austin Bay and turned into Indian Bay from that direction. I heard sirens and figured someone had called the police about a screaming woman in the neighborhood. Wasps continued to dive bomb me intermittently, resulting in a partial side jump and scream. I nearly did the squeal and jump at a knobby looking stick in the path because I thought it was a small lizard that I was about to step on. Two blocks from the house I heard a buzzing IN MY HAIR and screamed some more, GET OFF ME GET OFF ME...I'm hoping the woman I'd just passed walking her dogs had her music turned up too high to hear.
So. I did have a good solid 7 mile run, a step back long run in preparation for next Saturday's 12 miles. I did not come home feeling particularly badass, and certainly this was not a honey badger morning. But that's ok. I can laugh at myself, as I'm sure anyone who reads this will.
It all started with the bee that was harassing me before I even got out of the neighborhood. I promise, for the length of three front yards, this bee was circling me, dive-bombing me, and just generally enjoying the show. People were outside. A guy was backing his truck out right across from me, and I was screaming, swiping at the air, stomping, cussing, jumping...But that was only the beginning.
When I got to the sidewalk leading over the spillway bridge, I was on Snake Vigilance Alert. The brush is overgrown on each side of the sidewalk. I looked straight ahead at the bridge and sidewalk, positive that there were snakes on either side of the path. Just as I got to the end of the bridge, I saw it. Along the edge of the sidewalk, there was a light brownish patterned snake. Running past it was absolutely out of the question. I screamed and turned around, just hoping I could make it back over the bridge and down the sidewalk without seeing another one. Peril lay on either side of me. I promised myself I would not cross that bridge again until a good hard freeze sent all snakes to bed for the winter.
Fortunately for me, the Brockington Road sidewalks are finished, so I headed out of Austin Bay and turned into Indian Bay from that direction. I heard sirens and figured someone had called the police about a screaming woman in the neighborhood. Wasps continued to dive bomb me intermittently, resulting in a partial side jump and scream. I nearly did the squeal and jump at a knobby looking stick in the path because I thought it was a small lizard that I was about to step on. Two blocks from the house I heard a buzzing IN MY HAIR and screamed some more, GET OFF ME GET OFF ME...I'm hoping the woman I'd just passed walking her dogs had her music turned up too high to hear.
So. I did have a good solid 7 mile run, a step back long run in preparation for next Saturday's 12 miles. I did not come home feeling particularly badass, and certainly this was not a honey badger morning. But that's ok. I can laugh at myself, as I'm sure anyone who reads this will.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Why it never gets easier--
This morning I headed out to the river trail for ten miles, hoping that my 7 am start time would help me beat the heat of this ridiculous but not all that uncommon early June heat wave. And I'm sure it did, but it was still not pleasant. I think I felt exactly 2 cool morning breezes--last week I remember thinking about the bunnies and the birds and the countless soft early morning breezes in my face making me thankful to be out there. How sweet! This morning, not so much.
There were some truly lovely parts. I startled a small box turtle crossing the trail and admired a scissor-tale fly catcher. Looking downstream at the Arkansas River from the top of the Big Dam Bridge while the morning sun is still low in the sky is beautiful. The quality of light over the river as it winds into downtown Little Rock is sort of unreal--kind of painted, glassy and faint. In the other direction, I could barely make out Pinnacle Mountain in the haze. The stretch of trail between the dam and the 430 bridge is lined with mimosa flowers and wild lillies with orange trumpets. And as always, I enjoyed the sense of community that I always get out there. But mostly it was hot, and today was a challenge.
I never felt like I got into that long-run groove, where you just go and barely think. I suspect that the heat saps that ability to let reality recede. I was hopeful that the new bridge to Two-Rivers Park would be open today, but though the bridge itself looks complete, the base of it is still a mess and blocked off. I was bummed, and turned around in the gravel to push back downstream. I ran on the wrong side of the trail for the miniscule amount of additional shade available there. I pulled the bottom part of my running tank up and tucked it in, deciding that there would be no more long runs in a tank. That extra bit of fabric is indeed too hot. I briefly considered a push to lose the bit of flab left on my belly if I'm going to be exposing it, but then realized that that's what helps keep my running belt from riding up, so to heck with it.
Crossing back over the Big Dam Bridge, after pushing up the hill to get to the top, I thought a bit about how we're always waiting for new things to get easier. When I started running, I wondered when it would get easier, when I would ever be able to go out and run 3 miles without struggling. Am I there now? I guess I could be, but what would it mean to me? It's the struggle that makes running worthwhile. It's that magical place between easy and impossible, the place of growth, that makes anything that we do meaningful. If we really let what's important to us fall into the easy category, it loses its power. I've been waiting for 12 years for my job to get easier when what I should be doing is harnessing the struggle to push myself to be a better teacher. As a mom, as a partner, as a sister--and as a runner--it's the struggle that brings new possibility and the rush of accomplishment at the end. And of course, the incentive to begin again, to push farther, to grasp optimism and opportunity and hope and strength, even when it seems out of reach.
There were some truly lovely parts. I startled a small box turtle crossing the trail and admired a scissor-tale fly catcher. Looking downstream at the Arkansas River from the top of the Big Dam Bridge while the morning sun is still low in the sky is beautiful. The quality of light over the river as it winds into downtown Little Rock is sort of unreal--kind of painted, glassy and faint. In the other direction, I could barely make out Pinnacle Mountain in the haze. The stretch of trail between the dam and the 430 bridge is lined with mimosa flowers and wild lillies with orange trumpets. And as always, I enjoyed the sense of community that I always get out there. But mostly it was hot, and today was a challenge.
I never felt like I got into that long-run groove, where you just go and barely think. I suspect that the heat saps that ability to let reality recede. I was hopeful that the new bridge to Two-Rivers Park would be open today, but though the bridge itself looks complete, the base of it is still a mess and blocked off. I was bummed, and turned around in the gravel to push back downstream. I ran on the wrong side of the trail for the miniscule amount of additional shade available there. I pulled the bottom part of my running tank up and tucked it in, deciding that there would be no more long runs in a tank. That extra bit of fabric is indeed too hot. I briefly considered a push to lose the bit of flab left on my belly if I'm going to be exposing it, but then realized that that's what helps keep my running belt from riding up, so to heck with it.
Crossing back over the Big Dam Bridge, after pushing up the hill to get to the top, I thought a bit about how we're always waiting for new things to get easier. When I started running, I wondered when it would get easier, when I would ever be able to go out and run 3 miles without struggling. Am I there now? I guess I could be, but what would it mean to me? It's the struggle that makes running worthwhile. It's that magical place between easy and impossible, the place of growth, that makes anything that we do meaningful. If we really let what's important to us fall into the easy category, it loses its power. I've been waiting for 12 years for my job to get easier when what I should be doing is harnessing the struggle to push myself to be a better teacher. As a mom, as a partner, as a sister--and as a runner--it's the struggle that brings new possibility and the rush of accomplishment at the end. And of course, the incentive to begin again, to push farther, to grasp optimism and opportunity and hope and strength, even when it seems out of reach.
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