September 16, 2010

• TH Diaries: Day One

  Monday, September 13, 2010

  So my code name is Oksana.  Don't ask.  I decided on this yesterday.  It is my running name.  Gimme a pair of red shorts and I'm golden.  (Don't ask questions. Much of this is meant to be shrouded in mystery.  And a lot of dust.)

  Anyway, I went for a run today.  I mean, more like, I went out with the intention of running.  Mind you, it's been a good... hm...  10 months or so since I've done any kind of semi-strenuous exercise.  This doesn't include the hill up to the camping site I went to last week. Nor does it include the running I do to my car every morning (it's in front of my house.)  To drive the .2 miles it is to my job.  Don't ask.  Oksana won't tell.  She's planning on flip-flopping it in the mornings from now on.  

  So as I was saying, I went for a run today.  I was only mildly inspired by a marathon of the Ironman World Championships.  What I mean is that we watched a marathon (two back-to-back years) of the greatest race ever, in which a marathon (26.2 miles) is preceded by a 2.4 mile swim and a 112 mile cycling round.  I was more inspired by the people I was watching it with along with some stories in the film than by virtue of the race itself.  Whatever it was, it got me on the road.

  

  There's this quote I read recently which said, "Decide.  Commit.  Succeed."  It was from this exercise video (wow, did I say video? Who knows what those things are anymore?)  It's close to my own personal saying, but this one made me think a little bit.  

  And so I had my hand on the doorknob a few short minutes after reading the series of commands (I'm wondering, is "succeed" a command? Yeah. Yeah, it is. A promise, maybe), and I realized I was struggling with commitment.  I'd already decided.  The vision was there.  I'd even dreamed of cycling like the wind (I'm pretty sure in real life, it would be more like  me on the pavement with the wind not in my hair, but knocked out of me as I lay there in a bloody, toothy pool.)  No, the decision was there.  It was commitment to that decision that was lacking.  And then I heard a familiar voice in my head.  I like that voice.  It's probably my own, but I think sometimes, because I'm so stubborn, I believe Inspiration uses me to bash myself.  Well, ok, so I like that voice most of the time.  

  It said, Just do it, you fool.  Shut up, and leave.

  And I said, "But...  I don't want to.  I want to shower and..."  My hand is still on the doorknob.  

  You'll shower when you get back.  It's all the same.

  "But there's stuff to do..."

  Shut up and leave. This interchange rinsed and repeated itself over a few cycles.  

  "I don't even know where I'm going to go!"

  Leave.  

  The conversation was over.  The good thing about talking to yourself is that (if you're an optimist), you always win.  I'm not the biggest optimist, but I like winning. Well, not even that. I actually don't know why I succumbed. 

  I'm outside, and I break into stride.  It feels good.  

  Until I get to the fence. 

  Shin splints.  

  "Maybe I should go back."

  No answer from my other half.  I think I hear some snickering.  I'm upset because I'm laughing at myself.  I push harder.  I'm halfway down the road.  I already know better than to blame my old shoes.  My breath is even...  one breath for four strides.  In.  Out. 

  One breath per three strides.  My legs are hurting.  I'm done.  I haven't passed the neighbor's mailbox.  

  OMG.

  I can't tell which voice that was.  Was that the encouraging one, or that one that wants to go back home?  I think they're in agreement.  I'm not even at the bridge, which is about 1/4 of a mile from my house.  Yeah, I should go back.  

  Don't be stupid. 

  OK, definitely not confusing the voices.  I want to go back.  My shins are hurting.  I tell them to stop.  I slow into a walk. 

  You're supposed to keep running.

  "Shut up."  That's me.  My legs are giving out before my breath is.  I consider that a good sign.  It takes a lot longer for my breath to get stronger than it would for my legs to shape up.  I'll be ship shape in two weeks, tops.  Then again, I've never jogged hard before.  Maybe my lungs won't hold up later.

  I'm walking.  Speed walking.  I've done this before, 10 months ago.  I can speed walk forever once I hit my stride.  

  I'm not hitting my stride.  My breath is getting ragged.  In for three strides, out in two weird huffs, but still for three strides.  I'm pushing myself, and I'm barely passing under the bridge.  I know there's a good 2.5 miles ahead of me yet, at the very least.  With hills.  I'd planned a short distance today.  I haven't decided if I'm going to be a distance runner or a timed runner.  I like the distance idea better.  I try to throw in a jog.  I'm failing.  At this point, I'm starting to curse myself.  Not with expletives, but ruing the day I decided to do this.  

  That was today.  

  Another snicker.  I hate myself.  I'm not even enjoying the speed walking like I normally do.  It's hot.  It's sunny.  The sun's in my eye.  I'm already sweating.  I can't focus on things.  Cars are honking.  I tell myself it's because they're being encouraging.  Somebody waves.  I hope it's not someone I know.  But I realize that lately, I've stopped caring about a lot of things.  It's a mini-milestone, really.  Not that I really ever cared, but there were some precious things I wanted to care about.  But not forever.  So I'm stopping.  It's nice.  More on this in another post.  Because right now, I'm speed walking and hating my very existence.  Ironman is not helping.  Nothing is helping.  I'm just telling myself, if a guy with no legs and a woman who had stage four cancer and a 75 year-old man can do this, you can do this.  The voices are getting confusing, but at this point, I don't care.  I tell myself I need a story to tell my friends.  I don't care about that either.

  I'm turning past the fast food chain to the hill.  I hate the hill. 

  In my mind, I am conjuring up my friend, who first introduced me to this circuit.  She's this tall black chick who's a good head taller than me when we're both in flats, and she has legs that come up to my chest.  I remembered the first time we'd come out.  She'd been doing this for two weeks and was already semi-conditioned.  We're speed walking.  Well, she's speed walking.  I'm trotting and thinking I was going to die.  I tell her this.  She laughs and says she felt the same way the first time.  The voice in my head tells me to shut up.  We keep walking.  

  I imagine her by me now, our Minority Crew (made up of two) cruising down (up) the street, ponytails, sweat, silent huffing.  

  She wouldn't let me go back.  Don't go back.  

  In my mind, I thanked her.  She was the only thing that helped me up that hill.  

  And then the track.  Usually we go twice, maybe three times around.  On my agenda, it's one for today.  

  3/4 of the way around the track, I am realizing that my shin splints are gone.  So is my ragged breath.  My arms are pumping at my sides like JJ, the speed walking instructor, had told me to do it.  I am just a little short of jogging.  I can hold a gaspy conversation if I had to.  My legs feel bad, but not like I want to die.  Well, the grass is looking like acres of a stretcher that I could just lie down on and be carried away.  But I know I won't be carried away.  I know I'd have to get up, and I'd rather keep going than have to get up from the floor.  I'm striding.  I push myself harder.  I hold two fingers to my pulse on my neck but really, I have no idea how to read it.  I just know that I'm getting some cardio.  

  Coming back.  Not so bad.  I pass a girl on the road.  The backs of her legs are slick with sweat, and she's pausing under the shade.  Maybe she felt me gaining on her.  I want to tell her to move her arms differently when she speed walks, but I don't.  She's carrying a water bottle.  I'm carrying my phone and pepper spray in my pants pockets.  I have not thought about water at all.  That's a lie.  I was thinking about a camelback.  You know, those backpacks that you can slurp water off of.

  I am jogging now as I pass back under the bridge.  Hating my life.  I have a mark I want to reach before I shut down.  I pass it.  I shut down.  I force myself to speed walk.  I am ragged.  Someone passes me on the road in a car, going the opposite way.  Hey, I know her.  She's fit.  She's also like 30 years older than me.  OK, maybe 20.  Maybe less.  I see the white fence.  I feel like I want to pass out.  I am talking to myself out loud. 

  "I'm never doing this again."

  What?

  "I'm never doing this again."

  I can't hear you!

  "I'M NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN!!!"  I'm shouting now.  At the fence.  The voice is mocking me. 

  Why not?

  I start to whisper every excuse I can think of: "I don't have the time."

  No answer. 

  "I can't commit to this kind of thing."

  No answer. 

  "I'm not built for this kind of thing."

  Nothing. 

  "I have different priorities.  i can't choose them all."

  Nada. 

  "The kids..."

  That's ridiculous.  Don't drag the kids into this.  

  That's the only interjection I got.  As for the rest of the excuses, I know I didn't need answers for them.  I already knew that they were lame.  That these very thoughts had been conquered before.  That it was possible to harmonize a busy life with a fit life.  I keep whispering excuses, and the wind is blowing them away as soon as they escape my lips.  It's behind me.  I've passed the fence without even knowing it.  

  In the door.  The stairs are like Mount Kilimanjaro.  I am staggering up them like I have some kind of altitude sickness.  Collapse on my floor.  Stretch.  Child's pose (my favorite post-exercise thing to do; maybe even above showering. And not significantly, the only pose I really know.)  I realize I'm panting even when I come out of the shower.  Big drink of water.  Brief thought about electrolytes.  Brief story in my head about marathoners, preferences about going natural, distilled water, and the Gatorade company.     

  More water.  I look at the time.  I'd been out an hour.  I have no idea what the distance is, but I'm estimating around 3-4 miles.  That's awful.   15 minute miles.  That's how I trotted in high school.  We'll see.  The ice has been broken.  

  I am still alive.  And maybe I will be for round two. 

  

   

  For the series:

  Day Two
  Continuing Saga 
  Week Four
  Race for the Run

   

  • 6:18 pm
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