I Want to be Running When the Sand Runs Out

Heading into the Spartan Beast on Saturday, I found myself at  a crossroads in several areas of my life. My overthinking brain was on overdrive with personal decisions I need to make. Do I stick with something I have always known or do I forge ahead betting on myself in a way I never have before? These are the lifestyle altering choices I am facing that keep me up at 3:00 am.  Well that, and I work every shift there is, so "normal sleep cycle" is not a phrase I am familiar with.  Nonetheless, I suppose that is why The Beast didn’t really consume my thoughts ahead of time like it did last year. Besides, I was racing with my core team of just three others.   The four of us have done 6-8 Spartans apiece. Most of these were done together. However, throughout  the year this year, we always brought with us a tribe of newbies.  Much as I love watching people experience their own victories, this was a race where it was just us.  The core four racing sharks taking on the Beast.

As I had not really looked at the venue ahead of time, I was a little surprised at what greeted me on the course.  Not snow, mud, a mountain or stadium steps.  Sand.  Lots and lots of sandy multicolored gravel that made up the dunes of the ATV park in Indiana. I had convinced myself this would be a midwestern “flat beast”. Surely it would be easier than the punishing 20 miles of the mountains of West Virginia we did last year.  Little did I know, sand dunes are hardly flat, or small. Up and down I went, surprised at how well the titanium in my hip seemed to like the sand.  The downhills were faster, and the uphills, although not solid footing, were not slippery like the mud of the Chicago Super either.  I even said to my team that this was the first time in a race I could say I was past the notion of,"this is going to be hard, but the medal and sense of accomplishment will be worth it" to "I am loving being on the course.” This statement alone was so far removed from my first Beast as I screamed over and over again, "I don't got this!”

There were the cargo nets of the A frame and the vertical wall, both of which were quite loose, in fact, on the vertical wall, it was so loose that when the person ahead of me got off the obstacle,  the net went slack and slipped down six inches with me on it.  As scary as it was, I reveled in the fact that I was on the back side, not laying across the top of the metal frame ten feet up paralyzed with fear like I did a year ago. There were however, all new fears to face, a huge culvert to walk through with rushing water and rocks, a rushing stream to wade through, and a sandbag carry on inclines up and down in ankle deep sand.

As I was considering how far I have come as a racer earlier this week, a song came on.  I swear my iPhone has some sort of uncanny timing.  In the random playlist of hundreds of songs, it spewed out Rascal Flatts,"When the Sand Runs Out".  I started chuckling at the irony of the sand reference, until I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks and found myself in serious contemplation. To be honest,  I am not really a country music fan, but this song exists on my list as it was one my sister-in-law loved.  She was my family, my friend and confidant.  She fought obesity right along with me and we even had weight loss surgery a day apart 14 years ago and did our recovery together.  When she died without warning 12 years ago it was like losing a part of myself.  It suddenly occurs to me that this song is actually about visiting a friend's grave and the message from beyond.

...and the voice of my old friend whispered in my ear....

"I’m gonna stop looking back, and start moving on, and learn how to face my fears,

Love with all of my heart, make my mark, I wanna leave something here,

Go out on a ledge, without any net, that's what I'm gonna be about"

Suddenly, three years of  conquering fears, changing from the inside out. as the song goes, has me emerging just like I did from the sand dunes on Saturday.  The answer to a question I have wrestled with now clearly answered.  Sticking with a known as I have for so long no longer matches who I am learning to be. It is a comfort zone that will ultimately hold me back and relying on others for the validation I can now offer myself. It is time for me to realize that in order to make the difference and leave my mark I need to bet on me and live life for all it’s worth. So here I go, set for the next phase of the best life has to offer. As I look at the finish line pictures I realize I did just as Lisa would have wanted, I was running when the sand ran out. Thank you my friend for the gentle push in the right direction and the reminder that my best is yet to come.

A Stripped Phillips Head is Never Functional

On Sunday, I found myself rooting through the junk drawer in the kitchen looking for a Phillips head screwdriver. The hinge on the pantry was missing a wood screw and I finally had a day off to fix it. There were usually screwdrivers, and other random small tools in there like a regular or needle nose pliers, intermixed with the old cell phone charging cords, random paper clips, old pens and a variety of things I probably really didn’t need anymore but don’t have the heart to throw out. I did locate said screwdriver, three of them as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, none of them would work. Kids and tools. It’s a thing. All three of them were nearly flat at the tip. I am guessing they were used to stab holes in concrete or a tree branch or whatever thing kids want use a Phillips head for that does not involve screws.  Even the previously mentioned pliers are sadly stripped from gripping God knows what, and not functional.

It would appear the hinge situation would require a trip upstairs to the secret tool box hidden in my closet. The fact is, I am kind of a tool nerd. Yes, I like to fix things around the house. I am the woman who went to the local home improvement store looking for an 18V cordless screwdriver because the 6v I had was not going to do it for the job I was doing. Besides, who doesn’t need a high volt cordless screwdriver? That visit was frustrating as three different male employees walked me to the pink screwdriver that took double A’s.  I think they thought I had some dainty little Pintrest project to do instead of changing out bathroom hardware.  Anyway, as I headed toward the stairs toward my secret tool stash, I happened to glance at the calendar. August 19. It was my granddaughter’s second birthday. I had gotten so wrapped up in that I had forgotten it was another very important anniversary for me.

Fourteen years. Fourteen years ago that day. I laid in a hospital bed 296 pounds, waking up from anesthesia from my roux-en-y gastric bypass. That was the day I just knew I would never be fat again. The answer. The fix. Here it was in a magical four hour surgery. Just follow the rules and surgery would take care of the rest and all the horrors of a lifetime of obesity would be gone. Well..... That assumption would prove to not be entirely accurate. Yes, I lost weight. Yes, I hit my goal, even dipped below it for a time losing 135 pounds. I even did a commercial for the group that did my surgery. Yes. My 15 mins of fame in the greater Dayton, OH area. The two days of filming was like my swan song as someone did my hair and makeup and right there under the lights, I had triumphed over my previous demons.

Years would pass. As with most things the “rules” would get a bit looser. I would start getting away with more food wise. Old habits crept in. It was ok. Some regain happened. Besides, I assumed it was part of the deal. Twenty pounds came back. Well, I figured I was not 296. So it was ok. Still a huge success. After a decade of gradual misuse of food, I found myself up 85 pounds and once again, obese. I was starting all over. Maybe not my lifetime maximum but starting all over again. Suddenly, facing a huge number. As I embarked on this journey three and a half years ago I had to really look at the surgery. Did it “not work” as so many like to say about it? 

Well, I wouldn’t say that. I was told  on day one this was a “tool”. Not really the miracle or the final answer. It was a tool. I suppose in the end, like those dull Phillips heads that plague my junk drawer if I used the tool other than the way it was intended it probably was not going to work well for me. For someone who loves tools and even spent one full day in complete nerded bliss over my new mitre saw, how is it I could use a tool so improperly? 

Maybe the answer was to realize that really no single tool will get us to good health.  I had ignored intentional exercise to use my body as an efficient machine to control the intake.  I had ignored the self care activities that now feed my spirit like a badass mani, coffee with a good friend or a new pair of running shoes.  What I was left with was 85 pounds of fat and a proverbial junk drawer of useless crap. 

I am happy to report on Sunday, I got my sharp, well cared for Phillips head out of it's padded metal box, installed a new wood screw, and the pantry door once again closes properly.  Said Phillips head is now safely back in its home, still sharp and ready to be used effectively on a moment's notice. As for my gastric bypass?  I have once again made my peace with the "rules" and am using them effectively for nutrition, however, I have come to learn that good health, much like big projects,  always need more than one tool.  I guess that's why my badass tool box has the coolest pair of needle nose pliers you have ever seen and a complete socket set.  I may not be perfect at using all of my tools, but one thing is for sure, I protect them like precious gold and try to keep others from dulling their purpose. 

I think I still have a long way to go to learn how to master all of my health tools, but am  grateful for being at my goal weight for two and a half years, the ability to take on new challenges and knowing in my heart of hearts the best is yet to come.

Learning to Live Again

This morning after Orangetheory, I found myself on the Mohawk Hudson Bike trail doing my normal half marathon training run.  For someone who used to hate every single thing about running, I am coming to covet this time a bit as I am alone with my own thoughts for a change.  Today, I found myself reviewing the week.  Monday.  Yeah.  That was a day.  I did what most people in their late forties do, I had a "procedure."  Really it was an upper endoscopy to try to find an answer to my god awful acid reflux.  Yes, I know.  I drink a ton of coffee, but no, I am sure that plays no part in this.   I had spent that morning extremely pissed off.  I finally got a day off and I got to waste it being sedated with a camera shoved down my throat.  I didn't get to work out. I didn't get to go get the grocery shopping done, pay the bills or deal with the mountain of laundry in the corner.  I had to do this instead. Well, I had it in my mind I may not be able to drive after due to the drugs, but I still could deal with the house stuff.  Yes, I would be done in an hour, go home and hit the ground running.

There was an issue with that notion.  I couldn't.  I was tired.  The drugs had left me tired.  OK, I'll take a little nap, and then I will get things done.  I found myself in my adult son's room, as it is separate from the rest of the house.  If I walled myself off from the kids, I could power nap without interruption and then get busy.  Only, the bed was warm.   Like a cozy cocoon.  The Netflix was good, and suddenly I was more tired than I remember being in a very long time.  I had slept two hours Sunday morning after my overnight shift to make it to Goat Yoga on time (more on that experience later), and stayed up until midnight after that taking care of household things.  The six hours of fitful sleep that followed that as I had anxiety over the procedure, did not prove restorative.  Suddenly, my post procedure "power nap" was four hours long.  I was warm and cozy and slept like the dead.  I woke up feeling better, put dinner on the table and spent the rest of the evening continuing my Netflix binge watch and moving very little.    My step counter for the day read .37 miles.  Certainly a low for me. 

When I got up on Tuesday, I felt energized and ready to go.  I began to wonder why it was I am so oppositional to giving myself the rest I so clearly need.  I used to think it was more about not wanting to slide backwards by missing a workout, but as I chugged along on the trail today, I began to think that this may not be totally the case.  My "procedure" had forced me to a place I realize now, I have learned to avoid.  Years of being cocooned in my basement, with carb laden salty snacks and Netflix night after night had produced a shield of fat that kept me perfectly isolated and unhappy.  I had convinced myself at the time, that this was my reward for working all day, and moming all night.  However, a certain amount of guilt always followed this, and  I would go to bed each night, promising myself that I would start again the next day, only to fail time and time again.    Now, that I have emerged from that place, fit and healthy, with the badass butterfly tattoo on my left ankle signifying my escape from the cocoon of misery, I think maybe it isn't the fear of going backwards that has me push back on rest day, but the resentment of the years when rest and unhealthy snacks had become my primary activity. 

What happened after my day of rest?  I went to Orangetheory for class, and after had the best training run I have ever had for my half marathon training.  Thirty minutes of intervals all run at a sub 9:30 pace.  Granted it was on the treadmill, making control a lot easier, it was still a win for me.  That proved two things to me, I need rest and I need to trust I can run faster outside if I just get out of my own way.  As these things came into focus today, I would find sudden wisdom in my running playlist.   The Foo Fighters.  "Times Like These" would come on in my third mile.  "It's times like these you learn to live again..."  Three and a half years of learning to live again outside of the cocoon of my basement, under a sea of salty snacks, maybe had a steeper learning curve than I originally anticipated.  In fact, I am quite sure I have quite a bit left to discover about learning to live again.

 I would end my run today at Lock 7, admiring the massive amount of lily pads, watching a cardinal fly by suddenly knowing in my heart of hearts my mom was right here with me urging me to keep learning how to live again.  I may never get good at rest day, but I can try.  Regardless, though, one thing is for sure, the best is yet to come.

Skipping the Backslide of Sorry

Unfortunately, our vacation to the Outer Banks this year is off to a rather bumpy start with several days worth of unprecedented rain.  We have had seek out other forms of entertainment indoors instead of the customary boogie boarding we usually do.  I discovered my two youngest children, aged 7 and 8 into a cabinet at the rental  house with board games, in particular, Sorry.  I found myself immediately saying out loud to my oldest son, aged 22, that under no circumstances was he to even consider playing THAT game. 

He and my oldest daughter are two years apart, both adopted from Russia in 1996 and grew up side by side.  They ranged from being the greatest friends pulling some epic capers to mortal enemies at times, just like most siblings. Nonetheless, there was the Christmas that Santa made the mistake of getting them Sorry.  I sat down with them and taught them to play and before long they got the hang of it and were off and running.  Pretty soon, each time they played, I would hear my daughter gleefully yelling,"SORRRRRRYYYYY!!!!" as she slid his pieces backwards. This would go on for several turns until the crowning blow, "Sorry" was met with the sound of a game board being launched off the table, pieces hitting the wall, and furious stomping out of the room.  It was truly a site to behold, to the place that even at age 22, I don't think I have it in me to watch him play.  

Running through this in my head I began to think about how many times in the struggles of life we become bad losers.  We become so caught up in our own defeat, be it a bad diet day, a pound or two gained, losing a race or trying to come back from injury.  Our own proverbial game pieces seemingly being moved further from our goal. We seem to begin to resent the guy who appears to sail through with no issues, and just get to the place we want to chuck it all and take ourselves out of the game as we think there is no way to win.  

Maybe the better answer is actually to see what that guy is doing that allows him to win.  I would suspect that anyone reaching the same goals we hope for has a strategy.  Something we have not thought of, or has suffered setbacks we had no idea existed.  Maybe instead of avoiding the game we need to learn to be better losers and draw from the experience of the guy ahead of us instead of resenting where we are. As we start to propel forward, I also think we need to take the time to look behind us.  See who is behind us and how we can lift them up to join us on the journey.  We need to hand them their own game pieces and not yell sorry as we revel in our own win.

I am beginning to wonder if maybe taking my kids out of this particular game to keep the peace was perhaps a parenting fail.  I am starting to see that avoiding challenges and conflict just because we may not win right out of the gate, or we may be uncomfortable, breeds a brand of complacency that allows us to miss some of the greatest things life has to offer.  It may take some losses, some backward sliding, but in the end there will be a win.   It will just take a certain amount of gracious losing, learning from the strategies of those ahead of us and having the perseverance to keep our game pieces firmly on the board.  

Tomorrow, we are to have a bit of rain again.  Perhaps it is time to dust off the Sorry and show the kids how to stay in the game.  The best is yet to come.

Things My Mama Said....

I seem to have taken on this huge thing, at least in my mind.  The Mohawk Hudson Half Marathon in October.  A double digit distance run.  I have never run for that distance just to run.  As anyone who knows me will tell you, as I lost the weight I became an obstacle racer, with running just occupying the space between obstacles.  Nonetheless, here I am, committed.  For this, I decided what I needed was structure.  I began Jeff Galloway's Half Marathon training app, and to be honest, I have been faithfully completing each run/walk for the last 5 weeks.  To be fair, these were short distances until now.  Nothing I had not done before.  That is until Sunday.  The first long run. The 6.5 mile run.  Add in warm up and cool down and I was anticipating over 7.  Seven miles.  God, that was a huge number.  Why did I do this to myself?  Well, I kinda owed some endurance running sharks I know a bit of a payback.  I took them to Spartan Races on the dare that I would do one of these things.  I had spent most of Saturday with the five stages of cardio preparation: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.  Lets just say I am not certain I passed that third one. 

With these anxiety producing thoughts plaguing me all day, imagine the irony when I got home from work on Saturday night to find my kids watching "Forrest Gump".  Not only that, it was the scenes of him running across the country.  I watched his beard grow longer as his voice over talked about him running "for no particular reason", yet he criss crossed the country gathering a following of people all dying to know what purpose he had found in such a feat.  He would ultimately decide he was running to put the past behind him, like losing the great love of his life and the loss of his mother. 

As much as I love summer, this summer has proven to be a bit of a challenge as I recently passed the one year anniversary of my mother's sudden death.  Grief is a funny thing.  It tends to sneak in when you are not prepared and stop you in your tracks for a time.  I find this to be a bit worse right now, so I decided maybe Forrest was on to something.  I could spend my run trying to work through some of the grief and move forward.

I got out of my car at Lock 7 headed to the Mohawk Hudson Bike Trail, bright and early at 7:15 am as I still had a ten hour shift to work when I was done. I was grateful the heat wave of last week had ended and I had a cool, sunny 60 degree morning to take off in.  As I got moving, I found my mind wandering off to some of the things my own mama always said.  My mom always was a fan of the old time show,"Burns and Allen." This was a show that ran in the 50's starring George Burns and his wife Grace Allen and was essentially a sit com based on their life.  Little did these two know, many decades later, reality TV would hit the scene and become bigger than they could have imagined in those early days.  Nonetheless, they always appeared before the camera and ended their show sign off with George saying,"Say goodnight Gracie".  This was something my mom said to me from a very young age.  What began as a response to my refusal to go to bed as a young child, in my defense I still have insomnia at age 48, ultimately became a term of endearment. To be honest she still called me Grace at times until the day she died.  In fact, it is part of the reason my youngest daughter is named Grace.

 As my feet rhythmically hit the pavement I thought of other things.  Like when I would call her at work to complain of an ache or a pain, and she would say,"unless something is on fire, or someone is missing a limb, you are fine."  Any kid of a parent in health care probably has heard this a thousand times.  I mean really, just ask my kids. My mind suddenly flooded through dozens of other things she said, some producing chuckling right there in mile 3. 

Ultimately, I would be reminded of something she said continuously when I was a teenager.  In typical teen fashion I had all of the injustices of the world identified.  I absolutely knew when life wasn't being fair to me and I was exceptionally good at complaining about it. I would triumphantly plead my case.  I would present the evidence that I clearly was not at fault and was completely being treated unfairly. She would sit and listen to it all and respond simply with "Amy, there are no victims, only volunteers."  I would argue that I could not possibly have signed up for whatever particular injustice I felt I was being dealt.  She would simply shut it down, by repeating the phrase over and over and ultimately there would not be further discussion.  God that pissed me off at that age. 

During my run, however, I had my own Forrest Gump moment.  I have spent the better part of adulthood offering rationale for being obese and unhealthy.  Not enough time. My metabolism is slow. I have PCOS, I can't run.  I'm not really an athlete.  Diets don't work, not for me.  The gym made me self conscious.  I'm too busy with the kids.  See?  I was a victim of circumstance.  Suddenly, my overthinking brain grasped what it was she tried to teach me more than 30 years ago.  By giving in to those things that we perceive we have no control over, we volunteer to be victims of our own undoing.  Maybe the better answer is to step back, stop throwing our hands up in defeat, and take control over what we can and volunteer to be who we were made to be.

I went on to finish the run and the cool down.  I just about hit that 7 mile mark.  A new first for me.  In those moments, drenched in sweat, sitting on my favorite lakeside picnic table cooling off, a little bit shocked at my completion of this, I began to think Forrest may have been on to something with the notion of running to put the past behind him. After this run, I get the feeling that some of my past failures have let loose of me and gone off to die somewhere along the Mohawk Hudson.  I am beginning to think just maybe this distance running thing may be less about paying back some sharks and more about uncovering the me I am really supposed to be.  Once again, that leads me to believe the best is yet to come.   

Learning to Gain Traction in Slippery Mud

Anyone who knows me well understands that I am not someone who appreciates change all that much.  I am a planner.  I enjoy the quiet predictability in any situation to bring me to my comfort zone.  Changing course quickly generally does not go well for a period of time as I try to wrap my overthinking brain around circumstances I suddenly cannot control or make sense of.  I suppose that is why when I set out to run my seventh Spartan Race last Saturday, I was able enter it with a quiet confidence of an absolute known.  After all, I already knew I could do the monkey bars and the multi rig.  Grab hold, swing, swing, release on the back swing, patience, grab on the front swing, repeat, repeat, repeat....ring the bell.  I could do the spear, watch the rope, aim higher than the target, put some arc into it, step and throw.  I was working on the rope climb, j-hook, reach high, pull up... repeat, repeat, and maybe this time will ring the bell.   At the very least, I appeared to know what I was doing there.  I even learned the roll technique under the barbed wire was way easier than the crawl.  There really isn't an obstacle I have not seen before, and the ones I struggle with I have my core race team to pull me along.  As far as my running was concerned?  I had a full year of training under my belt since facing this same venue last year.

The venue itself was familiar too, as I had done it last year here.  It was a flat course, so no mountains to conquer.  Really, the only issue I had was worrying about that small stretch of mud we had last year.  It was probably a third of a mile of ankle deep mud where both of my calves cramped and I stood unable to move in sticky mud screaming as if my legs had been amputated. I think my business partner thought I had been shot at the time as he and my son struggled to limp me through that whole stretch while I struggled to keep my shoes on. Not this year though. I made sure to preemptively solve that problem, and drank some electrolyte water in the morning.  I left for the course with my biggest worry being supporting my team of newbie racers as they discover what they are made of. That was truly what Saturday was about and I was going to show them the way.

Then we arrived at the course.  It had rained all week in Chicago and getting off the bus to the venue we were met with mud.  Ankle deep mud.  Everywhere we turned there was mud.  As a rule, I never put my race shoes on until we get to the start line.  However, on Saturday, I lost a flip flop in the mud before I even reached check in and found myself walking to the start line barefoot not even sure how it was I was going to get my race socks and shoes on, as I already had mud well above my bare feet and ankles with no visible water source for a rinse off.  I finally decided that I would wipe my feet off with the outside of my long socks, figuring they would get muddy anyway.  It wasn't ideal, but my my shoes were at least on.  A group of sharks is also known as a shiver, and as we are the Team 1DOS Sharks, I lined up with my mighty shiver, the proud Mama Shark of a team of 7 experienced racers and 8 newbies.  We had the obligatory "I AM A SPARTAN, AROO, AROO, AROO" of the start line, we were off.  I should clarify we were off into ankle deep mud.  What began as a third of a mile of mud last year, had turned into a full 9.5 miles of ankle deep or more mud.  My worst thing.  My biggest challenge of last year was suddenly present the entire race.

I found myself slipping and sliding along with no opportunity to enjoy the quiet confidence I had awoken with that morning.  The things I knew how to do were suddenly all new and different, and my ability to conquer obstacles I had in the past was completely compromised.  I was not running how I had planned, as it was not possible with miles of sticky mud.  I was not in any kind of rhythm to focus on the quiet cadence I thought I had mastered at the monkey bars.  The first barbed wire crawl?  Inches of water overlying sticky mud making the rolling impossible and turned that more into a muddy slip and slide.  Nothing was going as planned.

I found I was frustrated with myself for a good bit of the race because all of the huge things I assumed I would adeptly demonstrate for my team of newbies had essentially fallen apart in front of me due to circumstances I didn't plan on.  I pondered all of this as I took a moment to pull ahead of my team for a minute to pull it together.  As I did that, I suddenly realized my timing chip was gone, lost in a sea of mud somewhere.  Now I would not even be able to analyze ranking later, or possibly would not even get credit for finishing the race.  Not one single thing was going according to the plan I had in my head for that day and I was well out of  the structured design I had come up with better known as my comfort zone.

It was in that moment I found myself climbing the castle stairs.  A wooden structure off the ground.  Firm footing, confident steps and solid ground.  Seven feet off the ground with my first confident steps an hour and a half into the race, I realized it was time to let loose of my preconceived notion of what a successful race looked like for me as the team captain and Mama Shark, and instead focus on firm footing, and leave the rest.  By the time I came down the back side of that I was ready to dig in and go again, only this time worrying about staying steady on my feet, encouraging my team, and finishing the race.  I paused and waited for my team to catch up and we did just that.  One step at a time, one obstacle at a time. Some we conquered, some we failed and had to do burpees, but in the end we came together to finish 5.5 hours later as one mighty shark shiver.

As I reflect on the events of Saturday, I think about how many times in life we as leaders enter into situations we feel are absolute knowns.  We set out to lead those around us through obstacles, assuming the best way to do that is to confidently show demonstrate our own prowess.  However, we seem to forget that sometimes, circumstances change on a dime.  What we feel is an absolute known can suddenly provide shaky footing and no longer resemble anything we thought we knew.  When the ground begins to shift we can suddenly feel our plans crumble as we slip and slide to gain traction yet still appear to lead.  Maybe the better answer is to stop sliding, toss out the preconceived notion of the experience, embrace the demonstration of vulnerability that goes with failure, and to learn to climb those unstable muddy hills arm in arm with teammates just as we did, drawing strength from the shiver, not personal position or past experience.  I am beginning to think that this is where leadership really exists.

I am grateful today to my 8 newbies who gave this course hell and held me up through my own stumblings.  I can't think of a more amazing team of gifted sharks each of whom taught me something different about myself.  I only hope you are starting to see as I have, that it really doesn't matter how many goals you reach or how many obstacles you conquer,  the best is truly yet to come. AROO!

Pushing Past the Finish Line Pull Back

The summer of 1987.  Yes, those were the days.  I had finished high school and had not yet started college.  Complete freedom with little in the way of responsibility.  My friends and I would wear kickin' Swatch Watches and slap bracelets.  We would discover the world of vampires with the ever amazing Kiefer Southerland and his other lost boys.  There were the nights of me putting my finest mix tapes of Prince, Madonna, Cindy Lauper and George Michael in the dash of my 1986 Nissan Sentra and cruise around town for no good reason.  I will say, I was the only one with a gigantic "Say Anything" boom box that had a dual cassette drive making me the mix tape queen.

This was also the summer one of my best friends and I decided it was time for us to get into shape.  I was on Weight Watchers for the third time in my young life and thought maybe getting moving would get me closer to the ever elusive goal weight I had chased for so long.  We would set out from the grade school we went to in our double knit polyester track suits, Kangaroos, and a Walkman that was so big, it required some sort of harness to stay in  place while we ran.  We were not great runners.  We walked a lot, I was still heavy and usually I was just grateful for my much thinner friend who would not leave me behind.  If memory serves, we had some idea of what we eventually wanted to be able to do from the beginning, in terms of running ability, but there was a problem.  This was hard.  Really hard. I wheezed when I ran, my body hurt, and those polyester track pants may have been fashion forward, but on obese touching thighs attempting to run, they lacked a bit in functionality.  Ultimately for me it was simply easier to let life take over, pull back from the routine, and then stop all together.  To be honest, this pattern would be the perfect metaphor for the attempts at being healthy that would consume the 25 years that followed. 

I was thinking about those early runs last week as I had a client struggling with believing she could run any distance on her own.  No amount of talking to her convinced her.  The "I can't" was way stronger than the "Yes you can."  I decided it was just time to take her running.  I wanted her to see if I could do it, she could too.  Besides, I train at Orangetheory with her all the time.  I knew what she was capable of.  It was her who didn't.  As I headed into that day, it dawned on me, besides an organized race, I had not run outside the gym with another human being, besides my son, since the summer of '87. My history of running with others prior to that was limited to gym class where the ridicule ran deep and my confidence level was a firm zero, making this run almost as terrifying for me as she was saying it was for her. 

Finally the day came for our run.  We would hit up Lock 7, only for me, I had traded in my Swatch watch, my polyester double knit track pants, my Walkman harness and my Kangaroos for my trusty Apple Watch, Nike Dri Fit running shorts, a dri fit tank with my logo, a sleek neoprene arm band to house my iphone 10, and custom fit Brooks.  Yes, I was ready and a far cry from 1987.  As a side note, I cannot promise my play list was all that different though.   My newbie settled into her pace quickly and I found I was running comfortably enough that I could still point out landmarks, help her to count steps and breathe, and essentially work the whole mental side of endurance running.  Yes, this was going well.  She did not even stop to walk.  I guess in the 30 years that have passed I have gotten better at this running thing, and honestly having someone along really was not all that bad.

  Pretty soon I would see the yellow pole.  I love that yellow pole.  It sticks straight up out of the concrete signifying a road to cross along the bike path.  A pole placed to signify caution, yet to me it was the glorious finish.  I would tell my newbie to look at it, there it is, a quarter mile in the distance.  But wait, she's not next to me, she's behind me.  Wait.  Did I leave her behind?  Shit, my high school friend never left me.  I need to focus.  As I check my pace, I realize I hadn't sped up, she had slowed down.  She slowed down with the finish line right in front of her.  I found myself saying out loud,"you're pulling back.  We are at the end and you are pulling back. Oh hell no.  Not today." 

She picked it up, and we would finish.  Two days later we went on to run her first running 5k together.  She pulled back once in the last mile, and again, I employed the "hell no" strategy, linking arms with her and pulling her back on pace where she would stay until we saw the finish.  We came to the straight away and there it was.  I could see the doubt in her eyes, until I told her to look at the clock.   35 minutes.  She had done her last one walking, 75 pounds heavier months ago at 54 mins.  I felt this would be the one thing keeping her from pulling back at the end. She would see she was so far ahead of where she was months ago, she would surely want to triumphantly sprint to the finish.  I would point to a tree about 30 yards from the finish and tell her when we got there she was to give it all she had. Oh yes.  We had this. 

To my surprise, this very quiet racer to this point would say,"I F#@*ing can't!"  I was shocked.  She'd already kept pace for three miles.  This was 30 yards, she was winning.  Beating the prior versions of herself.  No.  This was not happening.  This was the moment at the wholesome family oriented Heart Association 5k I found myself shouting at her. "You F#@*ing can!  Now do it!"  You know what?  She did.  Sprinted to the finish completing it in under 37 minutes, almost 18 minutes faster than her last one. 

Since our two runs together, my newbie and me, I have thought a lot about this notion of pulling back just yards before the finish.  As illogical as it seemed with a glorious finish in site, the urge to pull back was stronger than the urge to succeed.  This is a notion I know all too well, dieting to within ten pounds of my goal, only to pull back and gain it all back.  Start an exercise program with a goal in mind such as a race, but never registering and giving myself an out.  Thing after thing.  Time after time.  I would come so close and pull back at the moment of truth. 

In the three years since I have been on this journey, I have learned there is something scary about success.  It changes who you are.  Being complacent in the failure is somehow easier than living up to expectations that will surely come with doing things you have never done before.  However,  we miss so much avoiding the thing we say we want so badly.  As for my high school friend, she and I reconnected some years back, both of us on a fitness journey, her as a marathon runner and me as a badass Spartan.  She would come to climb walls and  jump fire with me, and recently I would get to embrace the slap bracelet again with her during the handoffs of the 12 man 200 mile relay of Cape Cod Ragnar. 

Through it all I have conquered my fear of heights, well mostly. I learned that I need to stop calling myself a non-runner, because running is less about the hard I originally thought it was, and more about control.  It is that confidence and control that has leaked into other parts of my life, making the outsider's heightened expectations of me a bit easier to handle. 

Mostly, though,  I have learned the value of taking on these huge challenges with epic people.  Beyond all of the finish lines I have crossed in the last couple years, I have found some of the best times of my adult life, and learned I am so much more capable than I ever imagined.  These are things I would have missed had I continued to pull back like I did for all of those years.  A week from Saturday, I will take on the Chicago Spartan Super for the second time with my son, my friends and a team of newbies.  I hope those newbies realize, they will not pull back at the finish.  Nope.  Not on our watch.  As they will soon see, there is a lot of value that lives in the space beyond jumping the fire and the finish line and the best is truly yet to come.