JFDI

Some days running is pure joy. Today was not one of those days.

I'm waaaaaaaay behind schedule. Way behind. I'm scheduled to run a half marathon in two months, and prior to today I hadn't trained more than three miles. Motivation has been a huge problem this spring. I've still laced up and gone running several days each week, but I simply haven't wanted to run very far. 

Tip of the hat to Jolie Kerr for introducing me to my new life motto: JFDI. Just fucking do it. 

I ran five miles this morning. I didn't want to. I wanted to stay in bed and be warm warm and cozy. But I got up, I put on my shoes, and I just fucking did it. 

JFDI does not just apply to running. Many parts of life are unpleasant but necessary. No one likes flossing their teeth or paying bills or cleaning the bathroom, but they need to be done. Of course these things are uncomfortable and gross. That doesn't make them any less mandatory.

Signing up for a race is more than a one day commitment to cheering crowds and a medal. It's a commitment to the entire process, and I voluntarily signed on to do it.  I know it will be worth it in the end. Some days along the way will be difficult, but dwelling on the hard times won't get me any closer to the finish line. I just need to shake it off and do the work. 

Quit stalling, quit complaining, and JFDI.

Do You Even Lift, Bro?

I'm not afraid of much, but the weights section of the gym terrifies me. Not the equipment itself (although that can be daunting), but the the other weightlifters. They're big. They're strong. They know what they're doing. At my local gym, most weightlifters fall into one of two categories: hulking, grunting muscle bots or tan, beautiful selfie-takers who want everyone to know just how good they look. 

Now add to the mix one pale, awkward woman in glasses and you'll see my discomfort. 

Every running program advocates strength training, but for years I've willfully ignored that advice and stuck to cardio and little else. Well, I'm finally facing my fear. Call it a new year's resolution, call it a change of heart, or call it finally acting like a nearly-30-year-old and not a baby. Twice a week, I vow to get over my insecurities and lift weights. 

I've been at it nearly a month, and it's going well. To my surprise (and relief!), my presence hasn't caused nearly the stir I feared. On the contrary, no one seems to mind at all. The other lifters have been too focused on their workout, their music, or their own reflection to pay any attention to me, and I've been able to slowly navigate my way in peace. 

I'm easing my way in, starting with a few reps at a low weight, and gradually building from there.  My tiny weights look silly compared to the massive weights on my neighbor's machine, but I'm not lifting to get ripped. I'm lifting to be stronger at running hills, to be less prone to injury, and to be able to open the goddamned pickle jar without Jared's help. 

I honestly don't love lifting, but I do love feeling strong. I imagine I'll always be a little intimidated by people who are stronger than I am, and I'll need to continue to give myself pep talks and remember that I have as much right to use the weight machines as anyone else.

There's no question that I don't fit in with the other weightlifters, but that doesn't mean I don't belong. 

We Need the Eggs

"A guy walks into a psychiatrist's office and says, hey doc, my brother's crazy! He thinks he's a chicken. Then the doc says, why don't you turn him in? Then the guy says, I would but I need the eggs. I guess that's how I feel about relationships. They're totally crazy, irrational, and absurd, but we keep going through it because we need the eggs."

This joke from Annie Hall refers to romantic relationships, but the sentiment also applies to a runner's relationship to the sport. Long distance running is crazy, irrational, absurd. Explaining it to a non-runner is almost impossible. 

Why do we put ourselves through the pain? Why do we battle the elements? Why do we give up our Friday nights to prepare for early Saturday mornings? Why do we spend money on organized races when we can run outdoors for free?

Because we're compelled to. Because it's worth it. Because we can't not. Because we're a part of a community. 

Every runner has bad days (or bad miles) where we question why we're even out here. Sometimes everything hurts. Sometimes we don't see progress for weeks. Sometimes running just stops being fun. 

But these times are the exception to an otherwise fulfilling rule. Running is more than just exercise. It's a lifestyle and an identity. Of course there are difficult times when we want to quit, but we just brush it off and try again tomorrow. 

Because it's who we are. Because we love it. Because we need the eggs.

Solitary Until It Isn't

A good friend recently told me he is training for his first marathon. I was ecstatic. He told me this at a party, so I responded how any rational runner would -- by completely ignoring everyone else and geeking out about marathon minutiae. We talked about shoes. We talked about diet. We talked about spreadsheets. We talked about unpleasant bodily reactions. We knew we were being rude. We didn't care.

So much of running is solitary. There are nights at home, opting to rest before a long run rather than go out with friends. There are cold, early mornings while your partner sleeps in but you are lacing up your shoes. There are quiet miles with nothing to motivate you but your mind. Marathon training is all-consuming. It's all you can talk about, but very few people want to listen. Despite their good intentions, not many loved ones actually care about your negative splits or hill workouts. (They'll listen because they love you, so be sure to return the favor when they want to talk about fantasy football or band practice).

It's a solitary event...until it isn't.  

With one conversation, my friend and I were in it together. He instantly had an ally for all the pain and the excitement, and I had a fresh excitement for the sport. The running community is large and strong. We all have our own story and our own reason for running, but the experiences are parallel. We care about the process, and we care about each other. 

I'm so excited for my friend. He'll be exhausted. He'll be sore. He'll know deeper pain and greater euphoria than most people experience. His life is going to change, and he's working toward a goal he can be proud of the rest of his life. 

By running a marathon, you are part of something much bigger than yourself. 

Good luck to you, buddy. 

Now What?

The race is over, and by most measures it was a huge success. I crossed the finish line with no injuries, I ran faster than my most recent half marathon, I completed an insanely hilly course without losing my cool, and I had an absolute blast. 

But now what? For months I've had a set plan and a strict schedule. My Friday nights, Saturday mornings, and Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are all suddenly free. 

The immediate post-race plan is easy: rest, rest, and more rest. Granted, this wasn't much of a choice. Every muscle hurts, and stairs are far too intimidating to leave the house. My body did everything I asked of it yesterday, so I can't complain that it completely shut down today. 

Soreness will fade within a day or two, and the rule of thumb is to allow one day of rest for each mile raced. After the two week hiatus, my instinct is to register for another race and immediately begin training again. There are plenty of advantages to this approach. I have discipline,  I have momentum, and I have a running-shaped hole in my schedule. 

I may decide I want more time off to focus on other activities like yoga, or I may decide I want to keep right on running. There's no wrong answer. What matters is that I set a goal, I stuck to a plan, and I finished what I started. 

So what's next? Who knows. I'll go wherever the road leads, as long as I'm moving forward. 

Race Day

After months of preparation, the half marathon is tomorrow. I've completed my training. I'm rested and hydrated. There's no cramming for a race, so this is as ready as I'm going to be.

I rekindled my relationship with running 10 months ago. Despite a slow start and numerous setbacks, I made it here. The hardest parts are over -- waking up at 5:00 a.m. every Saturday, running 12 miles alone in the rain. There was no audience for these cold, dark runs, and no immediate reward. 

But race day is a celebration. Runners will smile and encourage fellow participants. The streets will be lined with cheering people. Volunteers will give me food and drink, and place a medal around my neck.

I'm thrilled to wake up early tomorrow and celebrate with the running community. Together we'll enjoy the rewards of having a goal, sticking to a plan, and crossing the finish line. 

Let's do this.

Thighs Are Not the Enemy

I don't remember a time when I didn't hate my thighs. I can't recall exactly when I learned how a woman's body "should" look, but approximately 30 seconds later, I began dwelling on my thighs. Even at my thinnest, I wished they were smaller, stronger, with fewer bumps or jiggles.

But maybe I need to be easier on them. 

These thighs ran 10 miles today. They ran 10 miles last week, too, and they'll do it again next Saturday. I'm deep into training, and my thighs are doing their job. They pushed and propelled me, and kept going long after my mind wanted to quit.

I've been running casually since age 14, and running seriously since age 22. Throughout my running career, I've had my share of pain. My knees, shins, back, arches, and even the dreaded blackened toenails have all hurt and hindered my training. But never my thighs. Never once. 

So I'm calling a truce. 

My thighs are imperfect, but they've done everything I've asked of them. They've completed a marathon. They've traveled the world. They help me get to work, and allow me to walk, run, and dance. 

Focusing solely on what my body looks like is a waste of time and energy. Aesthetics only get you so far. Instead, I intend to refocus my energy on working on what my body is capable of. 

I have discipline, strength, and stamina, and I am capable of greatness.