I was all set to write an end-of-2019 post chock full o' reflection and lessons that either I learned or am impervious to learning and express immense relief that this hellish year is finally over and bid it goodbye, but then I decided that was stupid and cliché. I decided that what I really want to write about is something I've written about many times before which I guess means I'm cliché anyway, but to paraphrase one of my favorite quotes, I contain fucking multitudes, motherfucker; if I contradict myself then that's what I do. With that in mind and without further adieu to 2019, let's talk about the thing that has recently, and once again, taken over my life: running.
Remember what I said about three lines ago about contradicting myself? Well, despite adamantly insisting over the last twelve years since the first time I did it that I would never ever under any circumstances do it again, I'm running a half marathon again. I'd say I don't know how it happened, but I do. I work with a woman who also runs, and we often talk about running while we wait in the kitchen for the bathroom or a microwave. This woman, Kelly, runs halves all the time. When we first started talking and she told me that, I gave her my spiel about how the one half marathon I ran was one of the worst experiences of my life: I felt like somebody beat me with a bat, I lay around with frozen veggies on my legs, I needed orthotics and a boot. I told her that after that race I decided there was no reason I ever had to run more than three-and-a-half miles at the same time again in my life. None.
I told her all these things. Adamantly, I told her. And I meant what I told her, and yet . . . and yet . . . since the week of Thanksgiving I've been following the Runner's World half marathon training plan scrupulously, which so far has increased my long run from three to seven miles, training for a half marathon I still haven't signed up for due to the commitment issues that encroach on every part of my life.
It was the weekend after Thanksgiving that I made my noncommittal decision. I'd run the Turkey Trot on a whim, registering after 9:00 the night before, and despite having my wisdom tooth pulled on Tuesday after school, barely running at all the entire month (my total monthly miles for November were 12.39 including the 3.1 I ran on Thanksgiving), and having sex until almost 1 am, I did a fairly decent job, averaging a 9:43 mile and placing 27/153 women in my age group and 191/1148 women overall. Until about five years ago, even with careful preparation, my 5k times hovered in the 32-to-34 minute range, and now, even unprepared, I wasn't far off from the 29:42 PR I got after training like an Olympian for the 5k I ran on my 40th birthday. Clearly my running and overall fitness level had improved, and as a result, against my better judgment and previous declarations to the contrary, I decided a half marathon had to be run. Also, I was plumping up. Scheduled running would put a stop to that, I thought. (Spoiler: this was incorrect.)
Okay, so all the stuff I just wrote? Backstory. Means nothing. What's really important here are the realizations I've made while training for this stupid thing, the most recent actually hitting me while I was typing about my commitment issues two paragraphs up. Before I started this training schedule, when I ran, I ran between two and three miles but two-mile runs were much more common than three. Once I started, my first long run was four. Since long runs are supposed to be easy runs, I set the treadmill at 5 mph, a lot slower than the +/- 6 mph pace that's my norm, and it was so slow, I practically felt like I was walking. A few minutes in, I was like, oh my God, I can run like this forever. Fast forward to 36 minutes into my run, and that ridiculously easy 5 mph I scoffed at? It became 4.9.
It hit me once I slowed down that even things that seem effortless at first can become seemingly nearly impossible if we do them long enough. Then either the next week or maybe the week after that when my Tuesday two-mile easy run--the same distance that a few weeks prior was my norm and while maybe the word difficult wouldn't be right, the word easy wouldn't be, either--was truly that, so easy that I couldn't stay at the recommended 5 mph pace, and I was left with boundless energy when I was done, I realized how quickly people can adapt to things whether those things are bad or good. I'm not saying running is bad because clearly I don't think it is, but this realization works for both. I also realized, after doing some five-mile runs, then some six, and then having to run only two and four--yes, I said only four--how perspective can change. What once was so daunting was now a welcomed reprieve (also, the two-mile run? It felt like it was over a second after its start). Every time I was running and one of these realizations hit, I applied them to every aspect of my life, but because I'm me, I especially applied each one to the most prevalent thing which is such an overarching motif, instead of going all broken record on you, I'll just stop now
however I'll start again here, but this time talking about the last run I ran when I almost quit. Last Sunday I ran seven miles, and when I say I felt like I was going to die, I felt like I was going to drop dead. I'd had too much tequila and not enough water the night before, and I thought there was no way I was going to finish, but I did. I didn't finish the way I wanted to--I slowed down a little and took a few walk breaks which I hadn't done on any other runs--but goddammit I finished that seven-fucking-mile run. But that's not the run I'm talking about. This Thursday that just passed I did another six-mile run, with four miles at race pace instead of easy the whole time, and I guess all the running has taken its toll because after three miles, I was ready to give up, and I don't mean just on that particular run, I mean on the whole half marathon idea. As I got to about three and a quarter, I rationalized quitting by telling myself that I'm always doing this, this being doing things I don't really want to do just because I said I would do them and that there's nothing wrong with someone changing their mind (I can now use that singular their thanks to Merriam-Webster and APA, and I am so obviously comfortable with that). I'm too rigid, I told myself, and it needs to stop now. Why should I do something I really don't want to do? And I decided right then and there I was done. I was going to stop.
But I couldn't, and I don't mean that I couldn't because I couldn't bring myself to give up, I mean I couldn't because my Nike+ isn't calibrated correctly for inside runs, and at that moment, though I had only run about 3.3 miles, the measurement read 4.61, and if I stopped, my run history would be false. When I'm inside, what I always do is get to my desired distance and then put my phone down so the clock runs but the miles don't, so I had no choice but to run at least the already-measured 4.61. A little more than a mile, I told myself, and I'd be done.
A little more than a mile later? I wasn't done.
During that little more than a mile, I did something I may have never done at any other time in my life. I thought rationally. Like, truly rationally, not faux rationally as is my thing. I realized that giving up on something I'd been working toward and had made so much progress on in the middle of a particularly difficult run was a rash decision and that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn't be making such a drastic decision then and there. I told myself I had to just get through that one stupid run and then if I still wanted to quit once I really gave it some thought--some levelheaded, reasonable thought not influenced by momentary pain--I could quit, and that would be absolutely fine. After I told myself that and resigned myself to the fact that I had to finish that run, I had an epiphany: this impulsivity that I talked myself down from affects the fuck out of my life in many areas but it especially affects the most prevalent thing which is such an overarching motif, instead of going all broken record on you, I'll just stop now
however I'll start again here but this time just long enough to tell you what I also realized, and that's that I, despite being very smart, am not very smart at all.
Remember what I said about three lines ago about contradicting myself? Well, despite adamantly insisting over the last twelve years since the first time I did it that I would never ever under any circumstances do it again, I'm running a half marathon again. I'd say I don't know how it happened, but I do. I work with a woman who also runs, and we often talk about running while we wait in the kitchen for the bathroom or a microwave. This woman, Kelly, runs halves all the time. When we first started talking and she told me that, I gave her my spiel about how the one half marathon I ran was one of the worst experiences of my life: I felt like somebody beat me with a bat, I lay around with frozen veggies on my legs, I needed orthotics and a boot. I told her that after that race I decided there was no reason I ever had to run more than three-and-a-half miles at the same time again in my life. None.
I told her all these things. Adamantly, I told her. And I meant what I told her, and yet . . . and yet . . . since the week of Thanksgiving I've been following the Runner's World half marathon training plan scrupulously, which so far has increased my long run from three to seven miles, training for a half marathon I still haven't signed up for due to the commitment issues that encroach on every part of my life.
It was the weekend after Thanksgiving that I made my noncommittal decision. I'd run the Turkey Trot on a whim, registering after 9:00 the night before, and despite having my wisdom tooth pulled on Tuesday after school, barely running at all the entire month (my total monthly miles for November were 12.39 including the 3.1 I ran on Thanksgiving), and having sex until almost 1 am, I did a fairly decent job, averaging a 9:43 mile and placing 27/153 women in my age group and 191/1148 women overall. Until about five years ago, even with careful preparation, my 5k times hovered in the 32-to-34 minute range, and now, even unprepared, I wasn't far off from the 29:42 PR I got after training like an Olympian for the 5k I ran on my 40th birthday. Clearly my running and overall fitness level had improved, and as a result, against my better judgment and previous declarations to the contrary, I decided a half marathon had to be run. Also, I was plumping up. Scheduled running would put a stop to that, I thought. (Spoiler: this was incorrect.)
Okay, so all the stuff I just wrote? Backstory. Means nothing. What's really important here are the realizations I've made while training for this stupid thing, the most recent actually hitting me while I was typing about my commitment issues two paragraphs up. Before I started this training schedule, when I ran, I ran between two and three miles but two-mile runs were much more common than three. Once I started, my first long run was four. Since long runs are supposed to be easy runs, I set the treadmill at 5 mph, a lot slower than the +/- 6 mph pace that's my norm, and it was so slow, I practically felt like I was walking. A few minutes in, I was like, oh my God, I can run like this forever. Fast forward to 36 minutes into my run, and that ridiculously easy 5 mph I scoffed at? It became 4.9.
It hit me once I slowed down that even things that seem effortless at first can become seemingly nearly impossible if we do them long enough. Then either the next week or maybe the week after that when my Tuesday two-mile easy run--the same distance that a few weeks prior was my norm and while maybe the word difficult wouldn't be right, the word easy wouldn't be, either--was truly that, so easy that I couldn't stay at the recommended 5 mph pace, and I was left with boundless energy when I was done, I realized how quickly people can adapt to things whether those things are bad or good. I'm not saying running is bad because clearly I don't think it is, but this realization works for both. I also realized, after doing some five-mile runs, then some six, and then having to run only two and four--yes, I said only four--how perspective can change. What once was so daunting was now a welcomed reprieve (also, the two-mile run? It felt like it was over a second after its start). Every time I was running and one of these realizations hit, I applied them to every aspect of my life, but because I'm me, I especially applied each one to the most prevalent thing which is such an overarching motif, instead of going all broken record on you, I'll just stop now
however I'll start again here, but this time talking about the last run I ran when I almost quit. Last Sunday I ran seven miles, and when I say I felt like I was going to die, I felt like I was going to drop dead. I'd had too much tequila and not enough water the night before, and I thought there was no way I was going to finish, but I did. I didn't finish the way I wanted to--I slowed down a little and took a few walk breaks which I hadn't done on any other runs--but goddammit I finished that seven-fucking-mile run. But that's not the run I'm talking about. This Thursday that just passed I did another six-mile run, with four miles at race pace instead of easy the whole time, and I guess all the running has taken its toll because after three miles, I was ready to give up, and I don't mean just on that particular run, I mean on the whole half marathon idea. As I got to about three and a quarter, I rationalized quitting by telling myself that I'm always doing this, this being doing things I don't really want to do just because I said I would do them and that there's nothing wrong with someone changing their mind (I can now use that singular their thanks to Merriam-Webster and APA, and I am so obviously comfortable with that). I'm too rigid, I told myself, and it needs to stop now. Why should I do something I really don't want to do? And I decided right then and there I was done. I was going to stop.
But I couldn't, and I don't mean that I couldn't because I couldn't bring myself to give up, I mean I couldn't because my Nike+ isn't calibrated correctly for inside runs, and at that moment, though I had only run about 3.3 miles, the measurement read 4.61, and if I stopped, my run history would be false. When I'm inside, what I always do is get to my desired distance and then put my phone down so the clock runs but the miles don't, so I had no choice but to run at least the already-measured 4.61. A little more than a mile, I told myself, and I'd be done.
A little more than a mile later? I wasn't done.
During that little more than a mile, I did something I may have never done at any other time in my life. I thought rationally. Like, truly rationally, not faux rationally as is my thing. I realized that giving up on something I'd been working toward and had made so much progress on in the middle of a particularly difficult run was a rash decision and that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn't be making such a drastic decision then and there. I told myself I had to just get through that one stupid run and then if I still wanted to quit once I really gave it some thought--some levelheaded, reasonable thought not influenced by momentary pain--I could quit, and that would be absolutely fine. After I told myself that and resigned myself to the fact that I had to finish that run, I had an epiphany: this impulsivity that I talked myself down from affects the fuck out of my life in many areas but it especially affects the most prevalent thing which is such an overarching motif, instead of going all broken record on you, I'll just stop now
however I'll start again here but this time just long enough to tell you what I also realized, and that's that I, despite being very smart, am not very smart at all.
