First, a word about age. It's not helping my mental state with regard to running to realize that in the running world, 43 is geriatric. Thankfully, it appears that this is more skewed toward men, as evidenced in the coverage of the NY Marathon today.
“A lot of people were writing him off, saying he was too old,” said Ryan Hall... “But if there was one other guy who I wanted to see win this race, it was Meb. He’s like an older brother to me.” MUCH older. Dude, he's 34, not 97.
Meanwhile, Derartu Tulu, a 37-year-old mother of two, had the kick of her life for the last half mile to beat the women's field. Nobody mentioned her age or the fact that she can throw out a half-mile kick out of nowhere despite her maternal status. Suck it up, boys.
But back to the blog. I have bigger worries than my advancing age. What is it about running? I mean really, I should just quit. It's now just embarrassing. I was thinking I should try something new -- like a triathlon. Because I have done such a good job at focusing on one sport, why not try three at once? I was thinking Sprint. A quick start. Something to invoke other muscles that I am sure used to exist in my body somewhere. Not an Ironman. A small one. The two hottest moms I've met recently do tris. One does big ones, one does small ones. Both hot. I am vain and desperate enough to divert my running fantasies back to my abs and only my abs.
Alas, the idea is not sticking. I don't know if it's my complete inability to focus on more than one thing at a time or if it's my complete inability to give up on running a kick ass marathon some time in the next few years (or category three, my idea of an awesome bike has flowers and a basket on it), but I'm skeptical. I miss running. I love running. I love running far. I love running away. I love running back. I miss my nasty toes. I miss my running coach.
And I really miss the endorphins. I've thrown everything at work, but I'm starting to numb. I realized yesterday that this is the longest span in my life I've gone without exercise, the absurdity of participating in the marathon a few weeks ago aside. My brain needs a break. This afternoon, I went out for a short trot in the fabulously bright sun that is Colorado. Something about the pavement knocks everything back into place. Even when I'm not running, I'm a runner.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Respect. And other things I learned from the back of the pack.
Assuming I didn't in fact inflict long-term damage on my very surprised shins and knees, showing up and participating in Sunday's Nike Women's Marathon with exactly one training run under my belt may have done what years of stops and starts and mental battles over running versus working versus parenting versus aging could not.
The irony is that at each of my previous marathons, I arrived at the starting line wracked with insecurity. I believed I had no business being there. I hadn't trained properly. I shouldn't participate until I proved I was serious. I didn't want to just be part of the pack. I wanted to race. To count. I wanted in the club of serious runners.
Running has been my singular metric for assessing my ability to achieve the holy grail of womanhood. I want the joyous, fulfilled family life; the challenging, satisfying career that includes insulation from present and future financial worries; and I want to achieve a personal milestone the cements a place that is just for me (and cements my abs in the process). I wanted it to be so seamless, so seemingly effortless (while acknowledging it was not the least bit effortless), that the doubters would stand back and marvel at my fortitude.
I have shared with much candor that it has been neither effortless nor entirely successful. Work has been terrifying and thrilling, as has motherhood for that matter. I couldn't do it all and I had to pick and I picked work. Work. Not work/life balance. Just work. Not a popular sentiment. But true. It was with spousal buy-in (mostly), but still, pretty ballsy move for me and my guilt-savaged ego. Both my Abs and my abs have paid the price. I am in a place that seemed extremely distant six months ago, when I was setting myself up for the 180 degree opposite pick.
Through work, I have had to admit that I don't always know where to start, although I generally know where I need to go. I have checked my ego at the door (and subsequently lost it completely) and worked twice as hard; hired smart, experienced people; and asked for lots of help. I stopped worrying about whether I can do it and have just done what I can as fast as possible without thinking about it too much. I assume if I'm on the wrong path, someone will hit me over the head. I realized that even if I fail, I will learn a ton. I stopped asking myself and anyone else who would listen whether I had any right to be in my job. Funny thing is, that's a great setup for walking on to a marathon course.
I am not going to run a 2:45 marathon before I am 45. But I will someday. I see where I need to go and I can't imagine how I'm going to get there. But I will. I completed the Nike Women's Marathon in over 6 hours and was met by the guy who has taken over school lunch preparation, preschool drop-offs, and the morning searches for the right tights. He told me he was proud of me. And he meant it. It was very humbling.
For the first time, after chasing times and running marathons with the desperation of wanting to quality for Boston and the disappointment of missing, I started this race with the sole intent of finishing. My head in such a different place that I picked up a 6:00 - 7:29 pace band assuming that 6:00 meant 6 hours. And for the first time, i walked off the course completely satisfied. I knocked my goal out of the park. I also knocked some respect back into my head for those around me.
As I was not solely focused on my time, I actually spent a lot of time looking around. I was amazed by the sea of purple shirts, covered with names and pictures and filled with supporters, grievers, and survivors. I was humbled by the folks who strap on their shoes and take off from the starting line knowing they are undertaking an effort that will take 6, 7, 8, or more hours; for the kids and the dads that waited patiently for hours to provide two minutes of hugs and cheers; for the ability of women to take an event that involves 20,000 strangers from all over the place driven by a variety of reasons and tackling a variety of goals and ambitions and make it an immensely personal, emotional, touching, and humbling experience. I was reminded that 26.2 miles is really freaking far.
I don't need to take this approach to a marathon ever again. Life lesson #8,891,233 is officially checked off the list. Assuming I can someday get my running shoes back on, I'd like to actually train for the race and try it again. I even kept the pace band. Just in case.
The irony is that at each of my previous marathons, I arrived at the starting line wracked with insecurity. I believed I had no business being there. I hadn't trained properly. I shouldn't participate until I proved I was serious. I didn't want to just be part of the pack. I wanted to race. To count. I wanted in the club of serious runners.
Running has been my singular metric for assessing my ability to achieve the holy grail of womanhood. I want the joyous, fulfilled family life; the challenging, satisfying career that includes insulation from present and future financial worries; and I want to achieve a personal milestone the cements a place that is just for me (and cements my abs in the process). I wanted it to be so seamless, so seemingly effortless (while acknowledging it was not the least bit effortless), that the doubters would stand back and marvel at my fortitude.
I have shared with much candor that it has been neither effortless nor entirely successful. Work has been terrifying and thrilling, as has motherhood for that matter. I couldn't do it all and I had to pick and I picked work. Work. Not work/life balance. Just work. Not a popular sentiment. But true. It was with spousal buy-in (mostly), but still, pretty ballsy move for me and my guilt-savaged ego. Both my Abs and my abs have paid the price. I am in a place that seemed extremely distant six months ago, when I was setting myself up for the 180 degree opposite pick.
Through work, I have had to admit that I don't always know where to start, although I generally know where I need to go. I have checked my ego at the door (and subsequently lost it completely) and worked twice as hard; hired smart, experienced people; and asked for lots of help. I stopped worrying about whether I can do it and have just done what I can as fast as possible without thinking about it too much. I assume if I'm on the wrong path, someone will hit me over the head. I realized that even if I fail, I will learn a ton. I stopped asking myself and anyone else who would listen whether I had any right to be in my job. Funny thing is, that's a great setup for walking on to a marathon course.
I am not going to run a 2:45 marathon before I am 45. But I will someday. I see where I need to go and I can't imagine how I'm going to get there. But I will. I completed the Nike Women's Marathon in over 6 hours and was met by the guy who has taken over school lunch preparation, preschool drop-offs, and the morning searches for the right tights. He told me he was proud of me. And he meant it. It was very humbling.
For the first time, after chasing times and running marathons with the desperation of wanting to quality for Boston and the disappointment of missing, I started this race with the sole intent of finishing. My head in such a different place that I picked up a 6:00 - 7:29 pace band assuming that 6:00 meant 6 hours. And for the first time, i walked off the course completely satisfied. I knocked my goal out of the park. I also knocked some respect back into my head for those around me.
As I was not solely focused on my time, I actually spent a lot of time looking around. I was amazed by the sea of purple shirts, covered with names and pictures and filled with supporters, grievers, and survivors. I was humbled by the folks who strap on their shoes and take off from the starting line knowing they are undertaking an effort that will take 6, 7, 8, or more hours; for the kids and the dads that waited patiently for hours to provide two minutes of hugs and cheers; for the ability of women to take an event that involves 20,000 strangers from all over the place driven by a variety of reasons and tackling a variety of goals and ambitions and make it an immensely personal, emotional, touching, and humbling experience. I was reminded that 26.2 miles is really freaking far.
I don't need to take this approach to a marathon ever again. Life lesson #8,891,233 is officially checked off the list. Assuming I can someday get my running shoes back on, I'd like to actually train for the race and try it again. I even kept the pace band. Just in case.
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