Well folks, tomorrow is my first running race of the 2009 season. It will be March 29, and because I am also lucky enough to live in fickle Chicago, it will also be snowing, windy, and barely 30 degrees. (Sigh.)
Still, I am excited. My love for running has grown this year as I’ve taken the time to find things I love to do. I’m on a racing team with a local running store, and my goal for the season is to finish the half-marathon on August 2.
Because running is on my mind so much lately, last week I decided to start a new blog dedicated to my running. I wanted it to be separate from this one so I could feel free to post in it in short bursts, whenever I am inspired to do so. It’s been working for me so far. In case you’re interested in reading about my running pursuits, I’ve posted a link to my running blog on the right side of the screen. (As an aside, I must say I’m kind of proud of myself for figuring out how to do that. Is that sad?)
In the future, I am going to try to keep these two blogs separate, but in honor of the start of what I hope will be an exciting and gratifying racing season, I’m writing a “crossover episode” today. You’ll notice that the title of my running blog is, “The Energizer Katie.” Today I thought I’d tell the story of why I chose that title. Shamelessly, I’m hoping this might prod you into reading my running blog, or even better, into coming out and supporting me in a race someday. Enjoy!
When I first started running, my daily distance was only two miles. Actually, my first route was a one-mile loop that I completed twice, just in case I felt I couldn’t go on after one mile. Eventually I changed my route to a two-mile loop, and this seemed to make the two miles go by faster. This was all during my first year in Chicago, when I lived in Lakeview.
When I moved to Evanston, I mapped out another two-mile loop and ran it religiously, every single morning. I never tried to go farther or even had ambitions to do so. But then I started to talk to my mom more about running, and I remembered that she and my sister had run 5K races in the past. 5K is just over three miles. On a whim, one day I got to the end of my two-mile loop, and just kept going. I ran a smaller loop that felt like it might be an additional mile, then eagerly went home and mapped it out with the g-map pedometer. It was almost exactly 5K, and I had done it without much of a struggle at all! I called my mom immediately and excitedly told her I had just run 5K. (It was the first of a lot of phone calls my mom and I have had over the years about our running.)
You would think that so easily adding a mile to my distance would make me want to add more. But you would be wrong. I was quite satisfied with that distance. Because 5K is typically the shortest race distance (unless you accidentally enter a kids dash the way my mom and sister did once!), I felt being able run 5K officially made me a runner. And that was good enough for me.
I ran in my first 5K race the following spring, and was tickled pink to finish it in under 30 minutes. I dutifully kept up with my schedule of running 5K five times a week, and I ran a race about once a month. And my race times continued to inch downward. 29:39 in April. 29:08 in May. 28:56 in early June. 28:02 at the end of June. Then, on the 4th of July, I ran a 5K in Frankenmuth, MI with my mother, and scored an amazing time of 27:37. That’s under a 9-minute mile pace.
I had a feeling that I had reached some sort of limit, though, because I felt unwell for a few minutes at the end of the race. I had pushed it hard enough that I didn’t really enjoy it. I just wanted it to end. And I didn’t want running to be like that. And sure enough, during my next race, I made sure not to push myself beyond my limits, and for the first time I did not score a personal record time. I finished in 29:04. Still good, but my golden age was over.
So, I thought to myself. Now what? I didn’t think pushing my speed was a good idea any more, so I needed a new goal. The logical choice was to try to increase my distance. So, I went out one Saturday intending to attempt to run 8K. This was the next-longest common race distance, and I just wanted to see what it would feel like. I decided to complete 8K by running my regular 5K loop, then starting it over again and turning toward home sooner than usual on the second lap.
I ran the first lap. I started the second. And then when I got to the place I intended to turn, I realized that I was still feeling pretty good. I had a choice. I could turn home now and be satisfied with 8K, or I could keep on my regular route and see what happened. After all, I reasoned. I can stop any time I need to and walk. So I didn’t turn. I kept going.
When I reached the 8K point on the route, I asked myself what I wanted to do. Walk the rest of the lap, or keep running? Just keep running, I thought. Just keep running.
So I did. I kept running and running and running, and eventually I found myself at the end of the loop again. I had just run 10K. Naturally, I called my mom to brag. She asked me how I pushed myself to go farther. “I don’t know, really,” I said. “I just kept going.”
All this happened last summer. I finished out my racing season with one 8K race and one 10K race. All in all, it was a really good season for me. My last big event was to volunteer at the Chicago marathon, handing out Gatorade. It was a lot of fun, and seeing people of all ages, shapes, and sizes running the ultimate distance made me realize that I could do so someday, too, if I wanted to.
So, this year I set my sights on the half-marathon, and I’ve been working on increasing my distance. One Tuesday, we had amazing weather, and I took to the lakefront path and ran 7 miles, which is 0.8 miles longer than a 10K, the farthest I had ever run before. Four days later, on Saturday, I attempted to run 8 miles, just to see if I could. Attempted and succeeded. That was a week ago.
I haven’t tried to go farther this week, mostly because I have been focused on getting ready for the race tomorrow, which is only 5 miles. But believe me, I’ve been bragging about my 8-miler. One of my friends asked me how I got up to 8. Just like when my mom asked me how I got to 10K, I didn’t know what to tell her. “I just set out to run it, and I did. Any time I considered stopping, I just decided not to.”
“But whenever I run, I just want it to end,” she answered. “I can never seem to force myself to keep going. How do you do it?”
I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know. If you just keep running, you eventually get to the distance you set out for, and it is over faster than you think. I don’t have any big secret. I just keep going.”
There you have it. That sentence is the crux of my whole running philosophy. How did I go from 2 miles to 5K? I just kept going. How did I get from 5K to 10K? I just kept going. How did I run 7 miles, and then 8? I just. Kept. Going.
It’s what I do. I keep going. And going. And going.
And that’s why I’m The Energizer Katie. Check me out sometime.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
California dreams, Chicago realities
Last week, I was lucky enough to spend five days in sunny southern California, visiting one of my best friends from undergrad. It was a great trip. I had never been to the west coast, and I was able to see the Santa Monica Pier, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and the beautiful mountains of Malibu. Even better, I was able to walk around without a coat, go running in a tank top along the beach, and even (gasp!) wear sunglasses! I had been looking forward to getting away for months, and the trip didn’t disappoint. Time to relax, time in the sun, and time spent with old friends were three things I had really needed.
But the trip also affected me in a way that I didn’t expect. During my last full day there, an additional friend from college drove up from San Diego and the three of us – me, the friend I was staying with (Vanessa), and the friend who drove in (Stephen) – went out to lunch, on a long walk, and out to dinner, accompanied by Stephen’s girlfriend.
I had not seen Stephen in almost two years, and I had not seen Vanessa in almost three. But that day, it was like it had only been a few days. Although we spent a lot of time telling each other about our jobs, families, pets, and roommates, we also spent a lot of time reminiscing. We brought up jokes and stories that were six or seven years old. We laughed, we teased, and we feigned offense, just like we did when we all lived in the same 6-unit apartment building nearly four years ago. It was easy, effortless, and comfortable, and I enjoyed myself immensely. I did feel a little bit guilty that Stephen’s girlfriend could not join in the reminiscing, but Vanessa and I tried make up for that by telling as many embarrassing stories about Stephen as we could remember. (Believe me, we know a lot of them!)
It really was blissful. In fact, it wasn’t until several hours into the visit that I had any sad or painful emotions at all. But then, both Stephen and Vanessa made comments that caught me completely off guard. Without prelude, Vanessa said something along the lines of, “Katie, I think you should just move here.” I flinched, not sure how to respond. I said, “If only it were that simple.” I hoped that would be the end of it, but then Stephen jumped in. “Come on, Katie. What does Chicago really do better than SoCal?” They looked at me expectantly, and the next thing that came out of my mouth surprised me. “It’s not that I don’t miss you. But honestly, I don’t know if I could be happy here permanently.” They asked why, and I stuttered through a rather incoherent response about crazy people wearing boots in 60-degree weather (or something equally lame). Then I changed the subject.
For the next couple of hours, up until the point that Stephen left, a range of emotions coursed through me. First and foremost, there was gratitude and love for my two old friends. As uncomfortable as that moment was, it showed me that they wanted me nearby. Even though years had passed between visits, there was no awkwardness between us, and they sensed how great it would be to be together again. It wasn’t until then that it even occurred to me that things could have been awkward. Sometimes, people change in ways you don’t expect, and friendships that once were rock solid suddenly have no foundation. But there was none of that. And it didn’t occur to me to be thankful for that until after they asked me to move.
But the happiness was bittersweet because deep down, I knew I’d never be moving to California. It wasn’t for the reasons I expected, though. There are the obvious reasons, of course. My life is established here. I have a job that I love and an ever-widening circle of friends. I have volunteer responsibilities that would be hard to walk away from, and my monthly budget definitely does not have a surplus that would handle a long-distance move. Not to mention the fact that now is the worst time in my lifetime to give up a job to look for another.
But it was not any of those things that provided the definitive answer. I did think about all of them, and I knew they’d all present difficulties. However, I also knew that there were ways around all of them. If I had good enough reasons, I could break all those barriers and move to Santa Monica or San Diego. And all the thoughts of comfort, love, and gratitude I was feeling toward Stephen and Vanessa were good enough reasons. I had the same sense they did – that somehow, life would just be better if they were closer to me.
Despite that, though, I struggled with another truth: the truth that had come out of my mouth before I even realized it. I would not be happy living here permanently. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Santa Monica. I hate winter, and there, I could almost escape it completely. I love the sun, and there I could have it year-round. And I love experiencing new things, so I was not afraid of adjusting to a new environment. But even in the few days I spent there, I knew it was not where I belonged.
Chicago is where I belong. I become more and more certain of that every day. The more I learn about myself in these formative years as a twentysomething, the more I am amazed at how well this city suits me.
I don’t like driving. I never really did. It’s stressed me out since the first day of driver’s training. Here, I don’t have to drive unless I’m leaving the city. I can walk to at least half the places I need to go regularly, and take public transportation to the rest. There, I would have to drive almost anywhere I went.
I do well living by myself. There are benefits to having roommates, but mostly, I find that living alone relieves some of the social pressure from my angst-ridden mind. It’s not that I hide out in here. In fact, sometimes I think that I am gone so often that it’s unfair to my cat. But when I lived with roommates, I always worried what they would think about what time I went to bed, how long I took in the shower, what I watched on TV, and what I ate for dinner. I shouldn’t care what they think, but the truth is that I do. It’s a part of my social anxiety that I’ve accepted and had to learn to control. And living alone really helps with that. Here, I can afford to do so, even if it means settling for 350 square feet in a poorly maintained building. There, I wouldn’t be able to afford it. After the discussions I had with Vanessa about housing costs, I’m certain there would be no chance.
I love exploring and discovering new things. This city is made for that. There are restaurants above apartments, apartments above retail stores, and tiny shops that can only be entered from an alley. The sea of skyscrapers here hides a thousand secrets waiting to be discovered, and I always know that I can fill an empty day with a walk of discovery. In Santa Monica, the buildings are lower and the city seems more zoned than Chicago. Residences here, commercial spaces there. Life there just wouldn’t seem like the never-ending game it seems like here.
These are only three of a lot of reasons I don’t think I would be happy in Santa Monica. While I know that they are colored by some biases, I know there is truth at the heart of them. A piece of me wants to move to the west coast, if for no other reason, to be around Vanessa more. And I think she knows that – if only by the tears that welled up in my eyes as I tried to explain this to her as we stood in the checkout line waiting to buy the chocolate cake and ice cream we planned to eat to say farewell to my time in Cali. As I’ve thought about this more over the last week, I also realize I’ve felt this way every time I go back to Michigan to visit my parents. A piece of me desperately wants to be closer to them, and I can’t describe how much I miss my mom and dad on a day-to-day basis. But I don’t belong in Bay City. And I think they know that, too.
So I guess my purpose in writing this was to tell Vanessa and Stephen, and my parents, that I do love them, and there are days when I do want to move closer to them. But please be content in knowing that I am certain that I am where I am supposed to be, and I am happy. I’d love for you to move here, too. But only if you’re sure it’s where you belong.
No matter where you are, I’ll still be here, still be me, and still be there when you need me.
But the trip also affected me in a way that I didn’t expect. During my last full day there, an additional friend from college drove up from San Diego and the three of us – me, the friend I was staying with (Vanessa), and the friend who drove in (Stephen) – went out to lunch, on a long walk, and out to dinner, accompanied by Stephen’s girlfriend.
I had not seen Stephen in almost two years, and I had not seen Vanessa in almost three. But that day, it was like it had only been a few days. Although we spent a lot of time telling each other about our jobs, families, pets, and roommates, we also spent a lot of time reminiscing. We brought up jokes and stories that were six or seven years old. We laughed, we teased, and we feigned offense, just like we did when we all lived in the same 6-unit apartment building nearly four years ago. It was easy, effortless, and comfortable, and I enjoyed myself immensely. I did feel a little bit guilty that Stephen’s girlfriend could not join in the reminiscing, but Vanessa and I tried make up for that by telling as many embarrassing stories about Stephen as we could remember. (Believe me, we know a lot of them!)
It really was blissful. In fact, it wasn’t until several hours into the visit that I had any sad or painful emotions at all. But then, both Stephen and Vanessa made comments that caught me completely off guard. Without prelude, Vanessa said something along the lines of, “Katie, I think you should just move here.” I flinched, not sure how to respond. I said, “If only it were that simple.” I hoped that would be the end of it, but then Stephen jumped in. “Come on, Katie. What does Chicago really do better than SoCal?” They looked at me expectantly, and the next thing that came out of my mouth surprised me. “It’s not that I don’t miss you. But honestly, I don’t know if I could be happy here permanently.” They asked why, and I stuttered through a rather incoherent response about crazy people wearing boots in 60-degree weather (or something equally lame). Then I changed the subject.
For the next couple of hours, up until the point that Stephen left, a range of emotions coursed through me. First and foremost, there was gratitude and love for my two old friends. As uncomfortable as that moment was, it showed me that they wanted me nearby. Even though years had passed between visits, there was no awkwardness between us, and they sensed how great it would be to be together again. It wasn’t until then that it even occurred to me that things could have been awkward. Sometimes, people change in ways you don’t expect, and friendships that once were rock solid suddenly have no foundation. But there was none of that. And it didn’t occur to me to be thankful for that until after they asked me to move.
But the happiness was bittersweet because deep down, I knew I’d never be moving to California. It wasn’t for the reasons I expected, though. There are the obvious reasons, of course. My life is established here. I have a job that I love and an ever-widening circle of friends. I have volunteer responsibilities that would be hard to walk away from, and my monthly budget definitely does not have a surplus that would handle a long-distance move. Not to mention the fact that now is the worst time in my lifetime to give up a job to look for another.
But it was not any of those things that provided the definitive answer. I did think about all of them, and I knew they’d all present difficulties. However, I also knew that there were ways around all of them. If I had good enough reasons, I could break all those barriers and move to Santa Monica or San Diego. And all the thoughts of comfort, love, and gratitude I was feeling toward Stephen and Vanessa were good enough reasons. I had the same sense they did – that somehow, life would just be better if they were closer to me.
Despite that, though, I struggled with another truth: the truth that had come out of my mouth before I even realized it. I would not be happy living here permanently. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Santa Monica. I hate winter, and there, I could almost escape it completely. I love the sun, and there I could have it year-round. And I love experiencing new things, so I was not afraid of adjusting to a new environment. But even in the few days I spent there, I knew it was not where I belonged.
Chicago is where I belong. I become more and more certain of that every day. The more I learn about myself in these formative years as a twentysomething, the more I am amazed at how well this city suits me.
I don’t like driving. I never really did. It’s stressed me out since the first day of driver’s training. Here, I don’t have to drive unless I’m leaving the city. I can walk to at least half the places I need to go regularly, and take public transportation to the rest. There, I would have to drive almost anywhere I went.
I do well living by myself. There are benefits to having roommates, but mostly, I find that living alone relieves some of the social pressure from my angst-ridden mind. It’s not that I hide out in here. In fact, sometimes I think that I am gone so often that it’s unfair to my cat. But when I lived with roommates, I always worried what they would think about what time I went to bed, how long I took in the shower, what I watched on TV, and what I ate for dinner. I shouldn’t care what they think, but the truth is that I do. It’s a part of my social anxiety that I’ve accepted and had to learn to control. And living alone really helps with that. Here, I can afford to do so, even if it means settling for 350 square feet in a poorly maintained building. There, I wouldn’t be able to afford it. After the discussions I had with Vanessa about housing costs, I’m certain there would be no chance.
I love exploring and discovering new things. This city is made for that. There are restaurants above apartments, apartments above retail stores, and tiny shops that can only be entered from an alley. The sea of skyscrapers here hides a thousand secrets waiting to be discovered, and I always know that I can fill an empty day with a walk of discovery. In Santa Monica, the buildings are lower and the city seems more zoned than Chicago. Residences here, commercial spaces there. Life there just wouldn’t seem like the never-ending game it seems like here.
These are only three of a lot of reasons I don’t think I would be happy in Santa Monica. While I know that they are colored by some biases, I know there is truth at the heart of them. A piece of me wants to move to the west coast, if for no other reason, to be around Vanessa more. And I think she knows that – if only by the tears that welled up in my eyes as I tried to explain this to her as we stood in the checkout line waiting to buy the chocolate cake and ice cream we planned to eat to say farewell to my time in Cali. As I’ve thought about this more over the last week, I also realize I’ve felt this way every time I go back to Michigan to visit my parents. A piece of me desperately wants to be closer to them, and I can’t describe how much I miss my mom and dad on a day-to-day basis. But I don’t belong in Bay City. And I think they know that, too.
So I guess my purpose in writing this was to tell Vanessa and Stephen, and my parents, that I do love them, and there are days when I do want to move closer to them. But please be content in knowing that I am certain that I am where I am supposed to be, and I am happy. I’d love for you to move here, too. But only if you’re sure it’s where you belong.
No matter where you are, I’ll still be here, still be me, and still be there when you need me.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Remixing to the Max
**A brief prelude: I will be in sunny California later this week (woo!), so I am posting early this week. I’m pressed for time and so this may be uncharacteristically brief, but I’m determined to stick to my one post a week resolution. Enjoy!**
I consider myself a woman of many talents. Cooking is not one of them.
The circumstances in which I found this out were rather extenuating. The first time in my life I had to regularly cook for myself was while I was studying abroad in Sweden, and therefore my first serious shopping trips were to stores where I could not read the labels on the food. This led to trouble from the beginning; on my first try, I accidentally bought some horsemeat.
Things did improve from there a bit – I learned to stick to what I know and mastered most of the Swedish food vocabulary. I remember distinctly the first time I tried to make a real meal. It consisted of chopped potatoes that I cooked in the microwave, covered in browned hamburger meat, and topped off with some cheese, chopped tomatoes, and salt and pepper. It was rather bland, but edible, and I dubbed the dish “Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook.” It made many appearances during my time abroad, but it never got any fancier. For over five months, I survived on this dish, pasta, ham sandwiches, and frozen meatballs.
My return to the states was a relief in the food department, and over the past few years, I have honed my cooking skills a bit. I started out following recipes to the letter. My first roommate in Chicago used to make fun of my extensive use of measuring cups. I left nothing to chance. I eventually loosened up a bit, writing notes in my cookbooks about how I thought the recipe could be tweaked or improved. I graduated from a four-ingredient cookbook to a full-fledged “What’s For Dinner?” book, and even dabbled in grilling and slow-cooking. (In fact, I ADORED my crock pot.)
Everything usually turned out ok, but nothing was gourmet by any means. There was nothing I did particularly well, nothing I would repeatedly make for company. Many people have at least one signature dish that they always fall back on; my mother has her chicken and stuffing casserole, and my former roommate has her chili or lasagna. But I had no signature and didn’t expect to ever have one. I’d be better off taking company out to dinner.
So, I just stuck to my recipes. For a very, very long time, I was completely dependent on them. I didn’t know any by memory, and never really tried putting things together unless some book told me to do so. But now that I live on my own, there are occasions when I find myself with a bunch of random ingredients in my cupboard that need using. I’ve been trying lately to just put them together in ways that sound good and see what happens.
For instance, a few weeks ago I had half a box of rice, a pound of hamburger, and some ranch seasoning mix. When I went to the grocery store, I bought a can of diced tomatoes and peppers. I browned the hamburger with the ranch mix, let it simmer with the tomatoes, and served it over the rice with some snow peas on the side. It didn’t have the most appetizing look, but it tasted fine, and even had a little more kick than most of the things I make. I was quite satisfied and maybe a little proud as I ate it.
As I reheated a portion of the dish a few days later, something occurred to me. I stared down at the plate and thought to myself, oh good Lord, you know what this is? I began to laugh. It’s Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook: The Remix. It is! Swap out the microwaved potatoes for some brown rice, and the salt and pepper for some ranch seasoning mix, and it’s the exact same dish, just classed up a bit.
Truthfully, I would never serve Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook to company, not even in it’s remix form. But who knows. Maybe someday I will have a signature dish after all.
I consider myself a woman of many talents. Cooking is not one of them.
The circumstances in which I found this out were rather extenuating. The first time in my life I had to regularly cook for myself was while I was studying abroad in Sweden, and therefore my first serious shopping trips were to stores where I could not read the labels on the food. This led to trouble from the beginning; on my first try, I accidentally bought some horsemeat.
Things did improve from there a bit – I learned to stick to what I know and mastered most of the Swedish food vocabulary. I remember distinctly the first time I tried to make a real meal. It consisted of chopped potatoes that I cooked in the microwave, covered in browned hamburger meat, and topped off with some cheese, chopped tomatoes, and salt and pepper. It was rather bland, but edible, and I dubbed the dish “Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook.” It made many appearances during my time abroad, but it never got any fancier. For over five months, I survived on this dish, pasta, ham sandwiches, and frozen meatballs.
My return to the states was a relief in the food department, and over the past few years, I have honed my cooking skills a bit. I started out following recipes to the letter. My first roommate in Chicago used to make fun of my extensive use of measuring cups. I left nothing to chance. I eventually loosened up a bit, writing notes in my cookbooks about how I thought the recipe could be tweaked or improved. I graduated from a four-ingredient cookbook to a full-fledged “What’s For Dinner?” book, and even dabbled in grilling and slow-cooking. (In fact, I ADORED my crock pot.)
Everything usually turned out ok, but nothing was gourmet by any means. There was nothing I did particularly well, nothing I would repeatedly make for company. Many people have at least one signature dish that they always fall back on; my mother has her chicken and stuffing casserole, and my former roommate has her chili or lasagna. But I had no signature and didn’t expect to ever have one. I’d be better off taking company out to dinner.
So, I just stuck to my recipes. For a very, very long time, I was completely dependent on them. I didn’t know any by memory, and never really tried putting things together unless some book told me to do so. But now that I live on my own, there are occasions when I find myself with a bunch of random ingredients in my cupboard that need using. I’ve been trying lately to just put them together in ways that sound good and see what happens.
For instance, a few weeks ago I had half a box of rice, a pound of hamburger, and some ranch seasoning mix. When I went to the grocery store, I bought a can of diced tomatoes and peppers. I browned the hamburger with the ranch mix, let it simmer with the tomatoes, and served it over the rice with some snow peas on the side. It didn’t have the most appetizing look, but it tasted fine, and even had a little more kick than most of the things I make. I was quite satisfied and maybe a little proud as I ate it.
As I reheated a portion of the dish a few days later, something occurred to me. I stared down at the plate and thought to myself, oh good Lord, you know what this is? I began to laugh. It’s Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook: The Remix. It is! Swap out the microwaved potatoes for some brown rice, and the salt and pepper for some ranch seasoning mix, and it’s the exact same dish, just classed up a bit.
Truthfully, I would never serve Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook to company, not even in it’s remix form. But who knows. Maybe someday I will have a signature dish after all.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Self-Conscious (in a good way)
In January, I joined the racing team sponsored by one of Chicago’s chains of running stores. There are lots of great benefits associated with it: running gear, organized fun runs, discounts on race registrations, a couple of magazine subscriptions, and chances to test out new merchandise. But there was one perk in particular that sold me on joining the team: weekly speed workouts with a professional trainer.
I knew these workouts would be very beneficial for me. Despite the fact that I ran 8 races last summer, doubled my race length, and took a full minute off my mile time, one sad truth remains: I really know nothing about running. I know nothing about the benefits of cross training, speed bursts, or long versus short runs. My goal this season is to finish the rock and roll half-marathon on August 2 – an ambitious goal to say the least – and I’ve already pushed the limits of what I can do on my own. I knew I needed help, and these speed workouts seemed like a good start. So, I told myself that I’d wait out the coldest months, then start going to the weekly Wednesday night sessions starting in March.
As March grew closer, I became more and more nervous, and I was forced to confront the fact that despite my enthusiasm, deep down I was terrified. A big piece of me really wanted to go to the speed workouts, but all I could think about was the very real possibility that I would be the slowest runner present, or worse, that what I would be asked to do would be beyond my abilities altogether. So I knew that I willing myself to go would be no small thing.
When I left work yesterday, I began chanting to myself, I will go to speed training. I will go to speed training. I changed into my running clothes and soon as I got home, and left early, knowing that if I waited around I might use the possibility of being late as an excuse to not go. After a short period of waiting at the store, finally we took off on our warm up run to the training site (a parking lot about a mile away), and I felt a bit better. I was there, and on my way, and no matter how bad it was, it would be over in an hour.
Sad to say, that cheeriness didn’t last long. As I followed the other team members to the parking lot, I found that I could barely keep up with their warm-up pace. I instantly felt conspicuous and self-conscious. Oh God, I thought. I am out of my league. This is going to be embarrassing. They all must be wondering what I think I am doing here. I finished the warm up a couple hundred feet behind everyone else, wondering whether I should just leave now. But I didn’t. I stuck it out, and I am SO glad that I did.
Once at the training site, we met up with the coach, who explained the first task. Start at this lamppost. For a third of the distance to the next lamppost, crabwalk facing one direction. For the second third, crabwalk facing the other direction. For the last third, run backward. Then sprint the whole distance back (maybe 75 m?) at a pace faster than your 5K pace. Repeat four times.
And, we were off. I fully admit that even in this funny running style, I was the slowest one there, by far. But you know what? I was having so much fun doing that drill that I barely noticed. There were a few super serious people there who did the drills with intense scowls on their faces, but most other people were laughing at themselves, just like me. My nerves faded.
When everyone was finished, the coach explained the second, more lengthy, and much more ambitious part of the workout. Run, at a challenging pace, down to the second stop sign (200 m). Let your heart rate recover to about 120 beats per minute. Then run back and do another recovery. Run one more 200 m stretch, then jog onto the cement path and turn right. Run aggressively up the hill to the Grant statue, then jog back down at an easy pace. Run up and jog down two more times. Then jog back to the parking lot and run another 200 m back to the starting point.
That sounded ambitious enough for me, but you’ll never guess what he said after that…. “That’s one set. Do that three times.” Oy.
I had a feeling I would only be able to finish two sets in the time it took everyone else to finish three, but I gave it a shot anyway. My 200 m sprints were indeed the slowest, by a noticeable margin, but my recoveries were shorter, so I was able to finish the first set of 200 m sprints only a minute or two behind. The hill was another story, however. I’ve really never run on hills, and after running up two times, I was hurting, and I fell further behind. Just like that, I became very self-conscious again. I had yet to talk to anyone – people seemed to all know each other and not be interesting in socializing much – and as I started my way up the hill the third time, I wondered if anyone would notice if I only did two sets. But then, as the rest of the group passed me, on their way down as I still was working my way up, one woman about my age smiled at me and said, “Nice job.”
I don’t know why, but this reinvigorated me. I reached the top of the hill, jogged back down, and sprinted the last 200 m, telling myself that I would finish three sets even if everyone else left before I was finished. When I crossed the makeshift finish line, someone else asked me how I was doing. I said, “Oh, I’m great. I’m just slow, so don’t mind me.” She smiled and said, “I always like to say that we’re faster than the people that don’t come.” Touche.
I was most struck, though, that she used the word “we.” Perhaps they didn’t see me as beneath them. Maybe I was the only one who saw myself that way.
I’m proud to say that I did finish all three of my sets, chatting with the group of ladies that I was closest to keeping up with at each of the recoveries. I learned their names and got a few tips, and I was really touched when, as they passed me on the last hill, they told me they’d wait for me at the top so I wouldn’t have to run back to the store alone. They were completely friendly, encouraging, and nonjudgmental. They treated me as an equal, and I was and still am very grateful to them.
We jogged back to the store, and then I walked to the train smiling from ear to ear. It looks like this racing team is going to be everything I hoped it could be. I was a bit stiff all day today, and especially after running an 8K after work, I must admit that there are some choice muscle groups that are quite sore. But I finished. I did everything the coach asked me to do, and I met some really nice people to boot. And I’m so proud of myself that I can barely stand it.
I’ll be out of town next Wednesday (in California, woo!), but I’m looking forward to returning to speed training after that. Yes, I was the slowest one there. But I had such a good time that I hardly even care. And after my experience yesterday, I believe I will get faster, as long as I keep working. I owe all that to the group of runners that took the time to notice how hard I was working and encourage me. Thanks to them, I’m a new kind of self-conscious now – conscious of my potential instead of my inexperience.
It’s a good way to be.
I knew these workouts would be very beneficial for me. Despite the fact that I ran 8 races last summer, doubled my race length, and took a full minute off my mile time, one sad truth remains: I really know nothing about running. I know nothing about the benefits of cross training, speed bursts, or long versus short runs. My goal this season is to finish the rock and roll half-marathon on August 2 – an ambitious goal to say the least – and I’ve already pushed the limits of what I can do on my own. I knew I needed help, and these speed workouts seemed like a good start. So, I told myself that I’d wait out the coldest months, then start going to the weekly Wednesday night sessions starting in March.
As March grew closer, I became more and more nervous, and I was forced to confront the fact that despite my enthusiasm, deep down I was terrified. A big piece of me really wanted to go to the speed workouts, but all I could think about was the very real possibility that I would be the slowest runner present, or worse, that what I would be asked to do would be beyond my abilities altogether. So I knew that I willing myself to go would be no small thing.
When I left work yesterday, I began chanting to myself, I will go to speed training. I will go to speed training. I changed into my running clothes and soon as I got home, and left early, knowing that if I waited around I might use the possibility of being late as an excuse to not go. After a short period of waiting at the store, finally we took off on our warm up run to the training site (a parking lot about a mile away), and I felt a bit better. I was there, and on my way, and no matter how bad it was, it would be over in an hour.
Sad to say, that cheeriness didn’t last long. As I followed the other team members to the parking lot, I found that I could barely keep up with their warm-up pace. I instantly felt conspicuous and self-conscious. Oh God, I thought. I am out of my league. This is going to be embarrassing. They all must be wondering what I think I am doing here. I finished the warm up a couple hundred feet behind everyone else, wondering whether I should just leave now. But I didn’t. I stuck it out, and I am SO glad that I did.
Once at the training site, we met up with the coach, who explained the first task. Start at this lamppost. For a third of the distance to the next lamppost, crabwalk facing one direction. For the second third, crabwalk facing the other direction. For the last third, run backward. Then sprint the whole distance back (maybe 75 m?) at a pace faster than your 5K pace. Repeat four times.
And, we were off. I fully admit that even in this funny running style, I was the slowest one there, by far. But you know what? I was having so much fun doing that drill that I barely noticed. There were a few super serious people there who did the drills with intense scowls on their faces, but most other people were laughing at themselves, just like me. My nerves faded.
When everyone was finished, the coach explained the second, more lengthy, and much more ambitious part of the workout. Run, at a challenging pace, down to the second stop sign (200 m). Let your heart rate recover to about 120 beats per minute. Then run back and do another recovery. Run one more 200 m stretch, then jog onto the cement path and turn right. Run aggressively up the hill to the Grant statue, then jog back down at an easy pace. Run up and jog down two more times. Then jog back to the parking lot and run another 200 m back to the starting point.
That sounded ambitious enough for me, but you’ll never guess what he said after that…. “That’s one set. Do that three times.” Oy.
I had a feeling I would only be able to finish two sets in the time it took everyone else to finish three, but I gave it a shot anyway. My 200 m sprints were indeed the slowest, by a noticeable margin, but my recoveries were shorter, so I was able to finish the first set of 200 m sprints only a minute or two behind. The hill was another story, however. I’ve really never run on hills, and after running up two times, I was hurting, and I fell further behind. Just like that, I became very self-conscious again. I had yet to talk to anyone – people seemed to all know each other and not be interesting in socializing much – and as I started my way up the hill the third time, I wondered if anyone would notice if I only did two sets. But then, as the rest of the group passed me, on their way down as I still was working my way up, one woman about my age smiled at me and said, “Nice job.”
I don’t know why, but this reinvigorated me. I reached the top of the hill, jogged back down, and sprinted the last 200 m, telling myself that I would finish three sets even if everyone else left before I was finished. When I crossed the makeshift finish line, someone else asked me how I was doing. I said, “Oh, I’m great. I’m just slow, so don’t mind me.” She smiled and said, “I always like to say that we’re faster than the people that don’t come.” Touche.
I was most struck, though, that she used the word “we.” Perhaps they didn’t see me as beneath them. Maybe I was the only one who saw myself that way.
I’m proud to say that I did finish all three of my sets, chatting with the group of ladies that I was closest to keeping up with at each of the recoveries. I learned their names and got a few tips, and I was really touched when, as they passed me on the last hill, they told me they’d wait for me at the top so I wouldn’t have to run back to the store alone. They were completely friendly, encouraging, and nonjudgmental. They treated me as an equal, and I was and still am very grateful to them.
We jogged back to the store, and then I walked to the train smiling from ear to ear. It looks like this racing team is going to be everything I hoped it could be. I was a bit stiff all day today, and especially after running an 8K after work, I must admit that there are some choice muscle groups that are quite sore. But I finished. I did everything the coach asked me to do, and I met some really nice people to boot. And I’m so proud of myself that I can barely stand it.
I’ll be out of town next Wednesday (in California, woo!), but I’m looking forward to returning to speed training after that. Yes, I was the slowest one there. But I had such a good time that I hardly even care. And after my experience yesterday, I believe I will get faster, as long as I keep working. I owe all that to the group of runners that took the time to notice how hard I was working and encourage me. Thanks to them, I’m a new kind of self-conscious now – conscious of my potential instead of my inexperience.
It’s a good way to be.
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