As the warmer weather folds itself around our training programs and the layers come off, our paths inevitably crowd. There we find walkers, in packs and alone, old and young, pushing strollers or pulling retrievers, riders announced by bells, whistles, or "on your left" blazing by in a neon blur, new runners struggling with uphills that have long faded for you and flocks of geese crossing at any given moment. I've chosen to run toward and with this crowd rather than from it because almost 7 years ago someone reminded me that life (and running) is not all about time (or getting through the crowd) but about our experiences along the way.
I wasn't a runner then. At best, I was a law student fiercely riding the "muscle memory" theory of athleticism. I was a confident enough twenty five to ignore the fact I hadn't run or thought of running in over a year and sign up for a hot 5k in Wilmington, Delaware in May, 2005. Because, after all, it was only three miles and back in 1998 I was a cross country machine. No worries.
Fast forward to the day of the race. Hungover, with hungover friends, driving to a waterfront to run for a cause I can't now recall - debating whether to run - pulling it together - and ultimately setting out for what remains one of the most painful races I've ever participated in. But, from pain comes strength and, if we're lucky, lasting lessons. That day, I was lucky enough to run with a friend who showed me in the simplest way that running, like many other things in life, provides opportunities to connect and be kind at every turn. Despite his late night, early morning and possible hangover, he said "good morning" or "hi" or waved or nodded or smiled at every person we passed along the way. Every walker, rider, runner, child, woman, man and dog along the Wilmington waterfront that morning learned that this was a man who enjoyed the journey as much as the destination.
Each time I lace up my shoes, no matter the path or how many people I pass along the way, I carry this lesson in my pocket and say "hello" as I move among the crowd. It surprises some, others beat me to it and ultimately I've found that those connections on a longer run can make or break me.
So as the crowds form (and they will) and people inevitably get in the way of a straight line on a long, hot run (and they will), I think it's important to remember community and kindness and take that opportunity to make eye contact, smile and say "good morning."
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Push the walls. Away.
From the floor of a small ballet studio overlooking Sansom Street, two stories up, she floats effortlessly across mirror-side and says this so quietly and with such conviction, I am struck by both its punch and its pick-up, "Push your walls away."
And so I do:
In a barre pilates class, extended through my potential "X" toward the four corners of that space;
Rising from a deep chair pose, reaching beyond the beams in the old room in the back, with dim light, blocked by a narrow alley and overlapping borders;
From stride one of 15 miles so early on a Saturday that I am alone with the struggle - of grass against frost, geese against wind, emptiness against suffocation and me against the unknown miles; and
From my last mile, finally in time with my breath:
Inhale, you can do this.
Exhale, push the walls away.
Inhale, lengthen my stride with loose hips.
Exhale, move my weight into the momentum.
Inhale, believe in the finish line.
Exhale, channel crossing it.
It is within these rhythmic breaths that I am warm on the coldest winter runs, that I see purpose in movement and find insight to the space between me and my practice. As a Runner, I've learned that I identify the unknown as the walls that hold me down into the known, crushing growth and slowing potential. My constant breath pushes this thought from my head and this concept from my radar. It is a workout within any given workout to push my thoughts out beyond the limits I perceive and the pain that often comes with poor conditions.
I push away "cannot," and "what if," fears and the "no fucking way," doubts and "I'm too old," emptiness and anger, anxiety and pain, and disappointment and fatigue. With every step forward into a run, I hold up the space between my walls, breathe deep, and tighten my grip on gratitude ever so slightly. It is this way and only this way that I find personal bests still at the end of long races, waiting with open arms, and whispering all the while, "boom."
And so I do:
In a barre pilates class, extended through my potential "X" toward the four corners of that space;
Rising from a deep chair pose, reaching beyond the beams in the old room in the back, with dim light, blocked by a narrow alley and overlapping borders;
From stride one of 15 miles so early on a Saturday that I am alone with the struggle - of grass against frost, geese against wind, emptiness against suffocation and me against the unknown miles; and
From my last mile, finally in time with my breath:
Inhale, you can do this.
Exhale, push the walls away.
Inhale, lengthen my stride with loose hips.
Exhale, move my weight into the momentum.
Inhale, believe in the finish line.
Exhale, channel crossing it.
It is within these rhythmic breaths that I am warm on the coldest winter runs, that I see purpose in movement and find insight to the space between me and my practice. As a Runner, I've learned that I identify the unknown as the walls that hold me down into the known, crushing growth and slowing potential. My constant breath pushes this thought from my head and this concept from my radar. It is a workout within any given workout to push my thoughts out beyond the limits I perceive and the pain that often comes with poor conditions.
I push away "cannot," and "what if," fears and the "no fucking way," doubts and "I'm too old," emptiness and anger, anxiety and pain, and disappointment and fatigue. With every step forward into a run, I hold up the space between my walls, breathe deep, and tighten my grip on gratitude ever so slightly. It is this way and only this way that I find personal bests still at the end of long races, waiting with open arms, and whispering all the while, "boom."
Monday, March 5, 2012
"Strong is the New Skinny."
With the wind gusting through you and stopping only at the black sky, the early morning 15 miler you chose for that first Friday in March can seem decidedly more harsh than anticipated and ragged like a hem line slowly falling. Edges unraveled by the time, weather and life, you put your feet on the cold floor and believe you can.
It is the kind of run you respect;
The run that you flip all of the lights on for;
The moment for which you choose your mittens wisely;
The kind of run that warrants "Cupcake Thursday;"
The run that humbles your ligaments and invigorates your inner butterfly; and
That which separates Runners from everyone else.
The longest run of 2012 and since the Philadelphia Marathon, my first March run stormed in as a lion would, fearless and proud, ready to attack. It left no room for doubt or anxiety. It barely left time for breakfast. This was as an electric of a run as I've had this year; ballsy and, at times, painful, this course was hilly, fast in between and a complete bitch throughout. Quite simply, it made me find my strength.
I had to dig down for the first time since Philly-Marathon-Mile-22. And so I did. And over the hills I flew. Stronger, harder, faster than before, the miles melted down and, despite the wind, the sweat poured off my face as if July was present, soaking my Under Armour. I believed I was strong enough and therefore I was. I believed that the miles would fade steadily and they did. I saw my quads struggling uphill and felt my hamstrings lengthening in the decline. My body was strong underneath me and I realized it. Gone was my perception of a skinny, lanky girl and in its place was the epitome of compact strength. All in one place, ready for action and unafraid of falling.
This is the run that reminded me to be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.
(~ Mother Teresa)
It is the kind of run you respect;
The run that you flip all of the lights on for;
The moment for which you choose your mittens wisely;
The kind of run that warrants "Cupcake Thursday;"
The run that humbles your ligaments and invigorates your inner butterfly; and
That which separates Runners from everyone else.
The longest run of 2012 and since the Philadelphia Marathon, my first March run stormed in as a lion would, fearless and proud, ready to attack. It left no room for doubt or anxiety. It barely left time for breakfast. This was as an electric of a run as I've had this year; ballsy and, at times, painful, this course was hilly, fast in between and a complete bitch throughout. Quite simply, it made me find my strength.
I had to dig down for the first time since Philly-Marathon-Mile-22. And so I did. And over the hills I flew. Stronger, harder, faster than before, the miles melted down and, despite the wind, the sweat poured off my face as if July was present, soaking my Under Armour. I believed I was strong enough and therefore I was. I believed that the miles would fade steadily and they did. I saw my quads struggling uphill and felt my hamstrings lengthening in the decline. My body was strong underneath me and I realized it. Gone was my perception of a skinny, lanky girl and in its place was the epitome of compact strength. All in one place, ready for action and unafraid of falling.
This is the run that reminded me to be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.
(~ Mother Teresa)
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Broad Street Run 2012
It is only after the last (13 mile) leg of my 30-miles-in-3-days-in-order-to-cram-35-miles-into-the-longest-work-week-of-my-young-life that I am, at my core, ready to embrace the first race of my running season (May through November). As last week popped with four runs and three strength workouts it rounded out with hot yoga, a heating pad and the familiar tingle of the 2012 Broad Street Run Registration. This was my first real race two years ago; the first real physical challenge I'd faced since Melanoma; and likely is the race that set my confidence and drive on fire.
When you take a leap you will, inevitably, fall. But you never forget what it felt like to soar into something unknown and empowering. This is what the Broad Street Run is for me.
My first leap;
Rainbows under open fire hydrants;
10 assembly line Peanut Butter and Banana (PB&B) sandwiches;
A personal best (81minutes);
The way the ships quiet the crowd approaching the Navy Yard;
Water Balloons;
Students Run Philly Style Blue T-Shirts peppering the crowd;
Our Lady of Hope's stillness;
Fresh cut grass;
Safe landings after jumped fences;
The Gray Corral;
The beacon that City Hall becomes;
Father Esmilla's message of love and steadiness;
GU packets, like confetti, floating just above our feet;
The sound of the plastic water cups crunching into our strides;
Fairmount Park tailgates;
Red cheeked photographs;
Milestones through the initial mayhem of the first miles;
Digging in the last of the miles;
Chills that always come from cowbells (because they remind you of high school and because that seems so far away now);
Watching the Lehigh Drop;
The adrenalin pushing you through Temple, leaving you in South Philly and returning again as the Navy Yard welcomes you home;
The split breath of that last sprint; and
The teary-eyed look back at the finish line where you left it all.
It is not just a race, but a movement. Not just a run, but a straight, flat, fast shot down to the quick of a City; The Broad Street Run is my beginning and the high after my low. Tired after another long week in the off-season, this race is ever still my reminder that it is not how we soar that defines us, but how well we rise after falling.
When you take a leap you will, inevitably, fall. But you never forget what it felt like to soar into something unknown and empowering. This is what the Broad Street Run is for me.
My first leap;
Rainbows under open fire hydrants;
10 assembly line Peanut Butter and Banana (PB&B) sandwiches;
A personal best (81minutes);
The way the ships quiet the crowd approaching the Navy Yard;
Water Balloons;
Students Run Philly Style Blue T-Shirts peppering the crowd;
Our Lady of Hope's stillness;
Fresh cut grass;
Safe landings after jumped fences;
The Gray Corral;
The beacon that City Hall becomes;
Father Esmilla's message of love and steadiness;
GU packets, like confetti, floating just above our feet;
The sound of the plastic water cups crunching into our strides;
Fairmount Park tailgates;
Red cheeked photographs;
Milestones through the initial mayhem of the first miles;
Digging in the last of the miles;
Chills that always come from cowbells (because they remind you of high school and because that seems so far away now);
Watching the Lehigh Drop;
The adrenalin pushing you through Temple, leaving you in South Philly and returning again as the Navy Yard welcomes you home;
The split breath of that last sprint; and
The teary-eyed look back at the finish line where you left it all.
It is not just a race, but a movement. Not just a run, but a straight, flat, fast shot down to the quick of a City; The Broad Street Run is my beginning and the high after my low. Tired after another long week in the off-season, this race is ever still my reminder that it is not how we soar that defines us, but how well we rise after falling.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
You choose.
I've been (almost obsessively) listening to the Adele Live at Royal Albert Hall Album since December 25, 2011. It was a random last-minute Christmas gift, purchased on the way from the office to the gym, in an actual store that specializes in selling actual CDs and DVDs. My dad loved the gift and I've memorized every single word I later saved to my iPod.
There is now a point on every (treadmill) workout when her cover of "To Make you Feel my Love" hits my ear buds and the desperation in those lyrics combines with the hour of the day (usually before 6AM) and it becomes a love song not about love at all; rather, the scrapes and the craziness, bruises and blows (to the body, soul and ego) and the gut wrenching realization that something has you where it wants you and you would do anything at any time to make it so, stands up and reminds you that this is in fact the case:
I'd go hungry
I'd go black and blue
I'd go crawling
Down the avenue
Know there's nothing
That I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love
And when those long notes push me into 7 minute miles to complete my workout just shy of 6:30AM, looking down a long day and another workout at 6:00PM, I know with more certainty than anything else, that I made the right choice - for the day, the week, the month and the year, for always - and it will continue to make the difference, in running, life, love and my ever after to Boston in 2013.
It is in this moment that the small choices need to make the difference. It's at 5:00AM when just turning on the right combination of lights matters. It's at 4:30AM when the blender blending your green monster the first time you add the last of the ingredients matters. It's on a January morning just before snow that finding your favorite glitten on your first try in the dark matters. It's the feeling of new socks and the way your hat dries quickly on the heater at the gym that make these mornings effortless. And so, here is to every small choice that got me to where I am today and made me realize I am a Runner.
Friday, February 3, 2012
"Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don't complicate your mind." - Bob Marley
Jamaica: 2012
One would think 85 degrees and tropically sunny connotes beautiful, uninterrupted beach running. Unfortunately, this One would be wrong. First, the beach, while perfectly arched against the blue water, is less in distance than 1.5 football fields strung together. Second, there is no running (or walking) beyond this perfect little half moon. And finally, it would make the job of the beach cocktail waiter that much harder if he had to try to catch me in order to deliver my 2PM Dirty Banana.
So with the beach ruled out, three days of rest and no where to turn to but an open air workout room the size of my kitchen at home, I set out to run five miles on a treadmill that is easily a decade older than I am with its giant "faster" and "slower" arrows, complete inability to retain a workout summary and refusal to "pause."
Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the machine not only turned on but also purported to keep track of pace and distance - the only necessities as far as I was concerned. And this is where I remained, uninterrupted, for the next 44 minutes, facing out at a wall of palm trees, no music, with only the sound of waves and the little coqui frogs to lull me into a calm, steady pace.
This first run and those that followed in that private little corner away from the rest of the resort (and what felt like the world, my anxiety, troubles in general and any thought other than "left, right") was a wonderfully focused experience and meditative beyond its own four corners. The path, once again, felt uncomplicated as I left that quiet niche and opened my eyes to the road with all of its signs.
One would think 85 degrees and tropically sunny connotes beautiful, uninterrupted beach running. Unfortunately, this One would be wrong. First, the beach, while perfectly arched against the blue water, is less in distance than 1.5 football fields strung together. Second, there is no running (or walking) beyond this perfect little half moon. And finally, it would make the job of the beach cocktail waiter that much harder if he had to try to catch me in order to deliver my 2PM Dirty Banana.
So with the beach ruled out, three days of rest and no where to turn to but an open air workout room the size of my kitchen at home, I set out to run five miles on a treadmill that is easily a decade older than I am with its giant "faster" and "slower" arrows, complete inability to retain a workout summary and refusal to "pause."
Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the machine not only turned on but also purported to keep track of pace and distance - the only necessities as far as I was concerned. And this is where I remained, uninterrupted, for the next 44 minutes, facing out at a wall of palm trees, no music, with only the sound of waves and the little coqui frogs to lull me into a calm, steady pace.
This first run and those that followed in that private little corner away from the rest of the resort (and what felt like the world, my anxiety, troubles in general and any thought other than "left, right") was a wonderfully focused experience and meditative beyond its own four corners. The path, once again, felt uncomplicated as I left that quiet niche and opened my eyes to the road with all of its signs.
Speed is Work.
The next time you think you're bored on a treadmill, try sprinting on it for 3 minutes at race pace and then hopping off the flying belt and dropping to the ground for push-ups so rapid you can almost hear the urban-camo-wearing-rittenhouse-boot-camp-instructor-making-$35/class screaming in your ear. Stop pushing up approximately 30 seconds after you begin. Crumble to the ground. Repeat the entire fiasco at least 7 more times. Ideally, make this the second workout of your day so that when you peel yourself off the ground after that last, personal-record-setting set of push-ups, you are certain that only a hot shower and dinner stand in the way of what will certainly be motionless sleep.
Do not mess with an iPod before, during or after this workout. There is no time to coordinate a playlist or locate Lady Gaga amongst all of the other "L's" in "Artists." This workout is fluid and exists largely without a full pause. That is to say that even when you are staggering past the other members of your gym in the direction of the only working water fountain or when you are unraveled in a child's pose at the base of your treadmill with your left cheek placed pleasantly on the gym carpet (where you do realize this is a horrifying place to rest your exposed skin but are nonetheless powerless to move), your muscles are twitching and you should be stretching them just before you get back on the treadmill and begin another three minute sprint.
Watching the time tick down and stop after your final set is as triumphant as crossing a finish line - ever in sight, ever tangible - ragged and gasping for the air your last push on the make believe course stole, you come to a stop and inhale. Exhale. Fold in two. Pick up your head, neck and shoulders from your knees. Slowly. And back off the treadmill until your feet, on solid ground, are able to glide you away from the first of many speed workouts and into thirty more push-ups as sweat drips off your nose in perfect little drops onto the same place on the carpet where your cheek rested and you think of Gene Hackman reminding you that "[these] practices are not designed for your enjoyment."
Do not mess with an iPod before, during or after this workout. There is no time to coordinate a playlist or locate Lady Gaga amongst all of the other "L's" in "Artists." This workout is fluid and exists largely without a full pause. That is to say that even when you are staggering past the other members of your gym in the direction of the only working water fountain or when you are unraveled in a child's pose at the base of your treadmill with your left cheek placed pleasantly on the gym carpet (where you do realize this is a horrifying place to rest your exposed skin but are nonetheless powerless to move), your muscles are twitching and you should be stretching them just before you get back on the treadmill and begin another three minute sprint.
Watching the time tick down and stop after your final set is as triumphant as crossing a finish line - ever in sight, ever tangible - ragged and gasping for the air your last push on the make believe course stole, you come to a stop and inhale. Exhale. Fold in two. Pick up your head, neck and shoulders from your knees. Slowly. And back off the treadmill until your feet, on solid ground, are able to glide you away from the first of many speed workouts and into thirty more push-ups as sweat drips off your nose in perfect little drops onto the same place on the carpet where your cheek rested and you think of Gene Hackman reminding you that "[these] practices are not designed for your enjoyment."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)