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. 

Motivation

There are many noble reasons to run: to inspire children, to channel addictive tendencies, to raise money for charity. The running community is filled with amazing people who work to make the world a better place. 

My reasons are a little less dignified. I run because I'm hungry, and I run because I'm vain.

I love to eat. I have no allergies and a diverse palate, so literally everything sounds delicious all the time. Now I could eat hamburgers and tacos without running so much (this is America after all), but then my second motivator comes into play. Since I don't want to weight 300 pounds, I work to strike a balance between calories in and calories out.

This morning I ran eight miles, and promptly followed them up with a hamburger. I have no regrets about my day. 

I use running to supplement my life. Some days it's an hour of reflection, some days a cathartic release, and some days just a good old fashioned calorie buffer. Training can be grueling, so any type of motivation helps. I wish I were motivated solely by splits and PRs, but I'm not. A meal just tastes so much sweeter when it's earned. Bon appetit!

Rain

I love running in the rain. Living in Portland, that's a bit of a necessity. The water makes me feel clean, alert, and powerful. There's no telling where sweat stops and rain starts. Drops of water on my glasses keep my focus short, seeing only what's in front of me. A casual runner may  opt for a treadmill or skip the run to avoid the rain, but I love it. 

The last half marathon I ran was three weeks before I moved from Minnesota to Oregon. It rained the entire day. My fellow racers complained, but I viewed it as an omen that I had made the right decision to move. The rain forced me to focus my thoughts on something bigger than the race. What was I running to? What was I running from? What adventures would I face in this city with so much rain?

I am now less than two months away from my next half marathon. Yesterday I ran eight miles in the rain. I saw only one other runner, and we nodded in solidarity as we passed. Rainy runs are not for the weak of heart. 

As it always does, the rain helped me focus. Eight miles means I have only five more miles to train. I am closer to the finish line than I am to the start. The miles will become exponentially more difficult, but I'm feeling strong, disciplined, and ready for the challenge -- rain or shine.