So, lately I've been thinking about whether or not I want to share this "journey" as I call it with other people.
Well, I mean, I've already "shared" it, as in, I've told people about it, but I mean really share. Like run, side by side, with others.
It's funny because I really hadn't thought about it much until recently, but I haven't ran with another person since my first semester at college almost three years ago. Since then, it's always been such an individual endeavor. Maybe that contributed to why re-starting to run seemed so daunting or was so hard to continue.
This time around, with a short-term goal each day to complete "x" miles and several long-term goals in the forms of 5K, 10K and half-marathon races, I get out there to complete my tasks and I'm actually holding myself accountable. It's not because someone is out there jogging in place, waiting for me to show up. It's because I have this schedule that I've committed myself to and I know that if I take one day off when I'm not supposed to, it's going to hurt later. And I won't let myself quit, because that leaves me worse off than not starting at all.
So back to the "running partner" dilemma. I've come across a few opportunities for "team" or "group" running, but I'm not sure how I feel about them. One is the "Advanced Boot Camp" class at the HRC on Butler's campus. Each Monday and Wednesday a group of students, alumni, faculty, community members--whoever--show up and attend this "class", which I've always been too intimidated to take in the past. Heck, it's called "boot camp!" I saw them out in the gardens last week when I was on the track doing intervals. They were doing lines or speed workouts or what have you. I think they might also do weight training, but I'm not sure. I'm just nervous because I'm not sure if I'm quite up to par with them yet and I don't want to make a fool out of myself.
The other opportunity is the Indy Runners Club. This is something I might actually be interested in, especially if I plan on racing more in the future. I kind of want that circle of friends or mentors who also enjoy running and can give me advice or listen to my concerns when I have them. They have group runs several times a week leaving from Butler or Broad Ripple, which seems to be fatefully convenient. What seems really cool is their Saturday long runs--they have a training plan for Fall half/full marathoners that includes a Sat. morning long run with water stations along the way and refreshments afterwards. The schedule shows the half-marathoners as doing 5-6 miles this weekend. I'm only at about 4. Again, I don't want to make a fool out of myself if I'm not up to speed.
I guess I've realized my biggest worry about group running is sort of the same reason why I left it/lost my passion for it in high school. My peers became my competition and I felt this pressure to perform well or live up to their expectations or something. I'd really just like people to support me and tell me that I'm doing a good job and once in awhile kick my butt a little. Is that too much to ask? :)
I guess I'll find out this week at boot camp...
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
My Biggest Fan
Tomorrow is Father's Day and, unfortunately, I won't be able to see my dad. I've been thinking about him a lot lately and reflecting on our relationship throughout my life.
I never realized when I was younger, just how much my dad sacrificed to raise two girls by himself. I hear about these families who have such a hard time with their kids not going to bed or not listening or not eating their food. I'm not sure if it's because it's from my own perspective and I see myself being that perfect child when I was little (yeah right), but I feel like my dad did a pretty good job with me and my sister. We got up ("Rise and shine! Up and at 'em!") and we went to school. We did our homework on Friday afternoons instead of waiting until Sunday night. We were involved in sports and music and theatre and clubs. At night, we took a shower, brushed our teeth and went to bed. There were never very many questions asked. At least not that I remember. Dad told us to, so we did it.
Yeah, there were those times, mostly in high school, that I really really did not like what my dad told me to do. It's funny because, looking back now, it really was for my own good, just like he said. Sometimes he wouldn't let us do exactly what we wanted to, but more times than not, there was a good reason behind it.
Sometimes, I think about my love of reading and I hope beyond hopes that, someday, my kids will enjoy it as much as I do. Even if it's not really the cause behind my bookishness, I always attribute that love to my dad and I reading in the rocking chair before bed when I was little. Whether it was Berenstein Bears or Budgie the Little Helicopter or Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, he was always there reading to me each night. And eventually I graduated to my own rocking chair and I was reading to him, Boxcar Children and Miss Mulligan's St. Patrick's Day Parade (or something like that...) I guess it's when I was thinking back to those days that I realized that my dad has always been my biggest fan.
My dad was the man with the video camera. He went to every Christmas program, every Spring performance, every band concert, every school festival. He even wore a white Travolta-style suit to our elementary school sock hop (and much to my dismay, the DJ with the mic had to bring him up in front to do a solo dance). He was the assistant coach on our soccer teams and he helped us sell girl scout cookies to everyone at his work. He took us on vacations to Disney and made sure that I got Pluto's autograph. He played Santa and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and he always made sure that we listened to Danny the Elf each Christmas season. I never knew it, but I had the perfect dad.
When I decided to try track in eighth grade, my dad was supportive the entire way. He attended each of my meets and always had a water bottle at the finish line for me. When I joined cross country in high school, there was dad, at the mile mark, at the two mile mark, at the finish, cheering me on, yelling "Good job! Run!" I always thought to myself, "Run? What does it look like I'm doing?!" but it really felt good seeing him up ahead knowing that my dad was going to be there at the end, telling me how good I did, no matter what my time was.
Dad bought me t-shirts at nearly every meet. He got me shorts, that I'm actually wearing right now, that say TRACK on the butt. He bought me running shoes multiple times a year and even took me to a special running shoe store (in Oshkosh, I think) so they could measure my feet and arch and get me the perfect ones. He sat through hours-long track meets because I ran the 4x8 and the 4x4--the first and last events. He bought me running flats and new spikes and a spike wrench, so I could go just a little faster. He woke up early to drive me to Saturday morning "bagel runs" when he could have been sleeping in. He asked me about my times, my goals, how I felt. And that meant more to me than anything. That he really took an interest in it. He was so proud of me.
Since I started college, my dad has asked a few times if I've been running. After a few of my snide comments ("No, have YOU been running?") he stopped asking as much. We had a bumpy patch when I first left for college. Maybe it was just me that felt it, but I think he did too. I wanted so bad to be a "big girl" and assert my independence that I tried pushing him out of everything I was doing. I'm so thankful that he still makes the effort and gives me so much after that first year or so of my fighting to get away.
Earlier this week, when I told my dad about my potential plans to run the half-marathon, I thought he'd say, "You should really concentrate on work and school" or "You need to be careful" or "Oh, cool" or something like that. Instead, he asked questions. He wanted to know where and when it was. He asked about how I came to that decision. He wanted to know about running partners. He was the only person who actually cared when I told them about this goal. He encouraged me and made me feel like I could really do it. That meant so much to me and it was at that point that I knew that my dad always has been and always will be my biggest fan. I wish I could find a way to thank him or tell him how much he means to me.
I guess, I really shouldn't have been surprised about his support and encouragement, though. Because, looking back, I realize he's always been there for me. Standing at the finish line. Smile on his face and water bottle in his hand.
I never realized when I was younger, just how much my dad sacrificed to raise two girls by himself. I hear about these families who have such a hard time with their kids not going to bed or not listening or not eating their food. I'm not sure if it's because it's from my own perspective and I see myself being that perfect child when I was little (yeah right), but I feel like my dad did a pretty good job with me and my sister. We got up ("Rise and shine! Up and at 'em!") and we went to school. We did our homework on Friday afternoons instead of waiting until Sunday night. We were involved in sports and music and theatre and clubs. At night, we took a shower, brushed our teeth and went to bed. There were never very many questions asked. At least not that I remember. Dad told us to, so we did it.
Yeah, there were those times, mostly in high school, that I really really did not like what my dad told me to do. It's funny because, looking back now, it really was for my own good, just like he said. Sometimes he wouldn't let us do exactly what we wanted to, but more times than not, there was a good reason behind it.
Sometimes, I think about my love of reading and I hope beyond hopes that, someday, my kids will enjoy it as much as I do. Even if it's not really the cause behind my bookishness, I always attribute that love to my dad and I reading in the rocking chair before bed when I was little. Whether it was Berenstein Bears or Budgie the Little Helicopter or Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, he was always there reading to me each night. And eventually I graduated to my own rocking chair and I was reading to him, Boxcar Children and Miss Mulligan's St. Patrick's Day Parade (or something like that...) I guess it's when I was thinking back to those days that I realized that my dad has always been my biggest fan.
My dad was the man with the video camera. He went to every Christmas program, every Spring performance, every band concert, every school festival. He even wore a white Travolta-style suit to our elementary school sock hop (and much to my dismay, the DJ with the mic had to bring him up in front to do a solo dance). He was the assistant coach on our soccer teams and he helped us sell girl scout cookies to everyone at his work. He took us on vacations to Disney and made sure that I got Pluto's autograph. He played Santa and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and he always made sure that we listened to Danny the Elf each Christmas season. I never knew it, but I had the perfect dad.
When I decided to try track in eighth grade, my dad was supportive the entire way. He attended each of my meets and always had a water bottle at the finish line for me. When I joined cross country in high school, there was dad, at the mile mark, at the two mile mark, at the finish, cheering me on, yelling "Good job! Run!" I always thought to myself, "Run? What does it look like I'm doing?!" but it really felt good seeing him up ahead knowing that my dad was going to be there at the end, telling me how good I did, no matter what my time was.
Dad bought me t-shirts at nearly every meet. He got me shorts, that I'm actually wearing right now, that say TRACK on the butt. He bought me running shoes multiple times a year and even took me to a special running shoe store (in Oshkosh, I think) so they could measure my feet and arch and get me the perfect ones. He sat through hours-long track meets because I ran the 4x8 and the 4x4--the first and last events. He bought me running flats and new spikes and a spike wrench, so I could go just a little faster. He woke up early to drive me to Saturday morning "bagel runs" when he could have been sleeping in. He asked me about my times, my goals, how I felt. And that meant more to me than anything. That he really took an interest in it. He was so proud of me.
Since I started college, my dad has asked a few times if I've been running. After a few of my snide comments ("No, have YOU been running?") he stopped asking as much. We had a bumpy patch when I first left for college. Maybe it was just me that felt it, but I think he did too. I wanted so bad to be a "big girl" and assert my independence that I tried pushing him out of everything I was doing. I'm so thankful that he still makes the effort and gives me so much after that first year or so of my fighting to get away.
Earlier this week, when I told my dad about my potential plans to run the half-marathon, I thought he'd say, "You should really concentrate on work and school" or "You need to be careful" or "Oh, cool" or something like that. Instead, he asked questions. He wanted to know where and when it was. He asked about how I came to that decision. He wanted to know about running partners. He was the only person who actually cared when I told them about this goal. He encouraged me and made me feel like I could really do it. That meant so much to me and it was at that point that I knew that my dad always has been and always will be my biggest fan. I wish I could find a way to thank him or tell him how much he means to me.
I guess, I really shouldn't have been surprised about his support and encouragement, though. Because, looking back, I realize he's always been there for me. Standing at the finish line. Smile on his face and water bottle in his hand.
Friday, June 19, 2009
"I'm a runner"
I decided to start this blog on a whim. Just the way I decided to start running the first time.
And the second time.
I guess I should explain myself. I mean, isn't that what one of these things is for? These days, I'm not usually very spontaneous. As I've grown older I find myself planning life more and more. Picking out my clothes and packing my lunch each night before work. Making lists and schedules and deviating little from my plans once they've been penciled into my mind. I like to know ahead of time what to expect in any situation and I have to mentally prepare all week for a night out with my roommates.
Many who knew me when I was younger, especially in high school, can take this time to congratulate me on my apparently long-time-coming gain of maturity and conscientiousness. Those who know me now can roll their eyes that I'm championing my party-pooper antics.
But this blog isn't called, "How I've grown up over the last three years" or "I'm a big girl now." It's called "zero to thirteen point one" and it's intended purpose (I decided about twenty minutes ago) is to chronicle my journey to my first half-marathon.
"Whoop-dee-doo," you say. "A half-marathon. Sounds enthralling. I'll be sure to keep reading." It's okay, I don't blame you. By the ninth mile of the thirteen-mile race I'll probably be thinking the same thing.
But I hope that this doesn't turn into a running log, because I already have one of those. And they're boring to read. Who cares if today was "hot, windy.. went 2.7 miles... side ache on my right side toward the end." Even I never re-read my log.
No, I'm hoping that this becomes less about running and more about strength. I hope that the next four months really are a "journey" to self-discovery or inner-strength or some deep phrase quoted by Buddha or Ghandi.
When I first started running, it wasn't because I wanted to get in shape or reach my goals. Heck, I was a 95-pound, flat-chested freshman in high school. If anything, I wanted to gain weight. And goals, huh. My goal for the year was to snag a cute boyfriend. Which leads me to why I began running: my friends were doing it and there were boys on the team.
Why I began is different than why I continued and why I pushed through the pain and why I persevered. I liked being in control. I liked being able to "keep running, keep running" even though my lungs were burning and my legs felt like rubber. I liked the feeling when I kicked to the finish line and inched out that other girl. And of course, I did happen to catch some cute boys from the xc team along the way.
Why I stopped. That's been the hardest thing for me to discern. People might suggest that I stopped because I was entering college and everything was new. That I got lazy and my priorities changed. But what people don't understand is I stopped long before college. I stopped running in October of 03. Even though I logged hundreds of miles and races after that, my heart wasn't in it and it showed in my performances. There was no more passion. There was no more determination. I wasn't a runner anymore.
Like I said, I'm not sure what caused it and I honestly have never addressed it until now. It was the xc sectional meet my sophomore year. I was preparing to run a hard race and help my team advance to state. But something clicked inside me. It was like the fire that had been building for a year and a half was suddenly snuffed out. After watching the top JV runner earn her record-best time, I got scared. Selfishly scared. Scared for my position on the Varsity team. Scared that someone else would be commended for her feats. Scared that running was no longer "mine".
And as we edged the starting line, I didn't feel it anymore. My coach always told me that I ran like a horse, meaning I didn't think about pace or pain or anything other than to "keep running"--the mantra I repeated to myself during races. And after that day, when I stood on the line, I was more afraid than I was excited. It wasn't the anxious feeling you get, knowing that you're trying to set a record best. Or when you see that girl from the last race who had slipped past you at the end by a millisecond. It was fear.
I became the joke of the team, especially the boys. I couldn't laugh and goof around on the bus ride to the course anymore. I couldn't gossip during the warm up run with the other girls. I was so focused on not crying. Not puking. Just finishing the race and not letting anyone down. But I did cry. And I did quit. Race after race.
So when the season ended in spring my senior year, I was done. I ran a little when I first got to college, just because it created a familiarity in an unknown place, but once I had settled in to my new home with my new friends, I just stopped. I didn't run. I didn't exercise at all. I joked with other non-runners about "why run when no one is chasing you?" I had lost the fire and I never thought I'd get it back. And I really didn't care if I didn't.
Of course, like any college girl--or any human, really--I started to gain weight. It's a simple equation: junk food+ late nights+ free frozen yogurt - exercise = freshman 15. So I decided to start exercising to get rid of the extra lining I had acquired. After a week, I stopped. I was "too busy", "too tired", and "no one would go with me"...any excuse I could make. A semester later, I tried again. Again, I dwindled until I reverted back into my laziness. This happened time and time again.
This summer, I have a set schedule, just as I like it. I know what to expect and my days never vary. I began an internship with the NFHS in May. All day, every day I talk about high school sports. I write about high school sports. I research high school sports. I never thought it would have the effect on me that it did. Seeing the pictures and interviewing the athletes, hearing their stories about what makes them compete. Reading the records and reviewing the rules... It got me thinking about my high school sports experiences. I realized that I miss my team. I miss the starting line. And I miss being a runner.
So I started running. Every day after work--a new schedule, just as I like it. And I'm planning ahead. Setting goals. I never realized that for year I had never set a single goal. In anything. Which obviously means, I haven't broken any goals in years. How sad that seems. That I was just wandering. I decided to set the bar high and really test myself to see what I can take. My friends think it's a phase. They roll their eyes when I talk about running. They think I'm doing it to get in shape. They don't understand the weight of it. The life change I'm making. All they see is me heading out each afternoon in my running gear--they don't see the pain and the mental games and the ultimate success when I just "keep running." But I'm not doing it for them. I'm doing it for me. Because each time I start out, I feel the passion and the fire.
Earlier today, my boss was talking about the annual Corporate Challenge--a city-wide competition in running and sporting events between companies across Indy. I told him it sounded like fun. Sign me up!
He asked me, "Are you a biker?"
"No," I told him with a smile. "I'm a runner."
And the second time.
I guess I should explain myself. I mean, isn't that what one of these things is for? These days, I'm not usually very spontaneous. As I've grown older I find myself planning life more and more. Picking out my clothes and packing my lunch each night before work. Making lists and schedules and deviating little from my plans once they've been penciled into my mind. I like to know ahead of time what to expect in any situation and I have to mentally prepare all week for a night out with my roommates.
Many who knew me when I was younger, especially in high school, can take this time to congratulate me on my apparently long-time-coming gain of maturity and conscientiousness. Those who know me now can roll their eyes that I'm championing my party-pooper antics.
But this blog isn't called, "How I've grown up over the last three years" or "I'm a big girl now." It's called "zero to thirteen point one" and it's intended purpose (I decided about twenty minutes ago) is to chronicle my journey to my first half-marathon.
"Whoop-dee-doo," you say. "A half-marathon. Sounds enthralling. I'll be sure to keep reading." It's okay, I don't blame you. By the ninth mile of the thirteen-mile race I'll probably be thinking the same thing.
But I hope that this doesn't turn into a running log, because I already have one of those. And they're boring to read. Who cares if today was "hot, windy.. went 2.7 miles... side ache on my right side toward the end." Even I never re-read my log.
No, I'm hoping that this becomes less about running and more about strength. I hope that the next four months really are a "journey" to self-discovery or inner-strength or some deep phrase quoted by Buddha or Ghandi.
When I first started running, it wasn't because I wanted to get in shape or reach my goals. Heck, I was a 95-pound, flat-chested freshman in high school. If anything, I wanted to gain weight. And goals, huh. My goal for the year was to snag a cute boyfriend. Which leads me to why I began running: my friends were doing it and there were boys on the team.
Why I began is different than why I continued and why I pushed through the pain and why I persevered. I liked being in control. I liked being able to "keep running, keep running" even though my lungs were burning and my legs felt like rubber. I liked the feeling when I kicked to the finish line and inched out that other girl. And of course, I did happen to catch some cute boys from the xc team along the way.
Why I stopped. That's been the hardest thing for me to discern. People might suggest that I stopped because I was entering college and everything was new. That I got lazy and my priorities changed. But what people don't understand is I stopped long before college. I stopped running in October of 03. Even though I logged hundreds of miles and races after that, my heart wasn't in it and it showed in my performances. There was no more passion. There was no more determination. I wasn't a runner anymore.
Like I said, I'm not sure what caused it and I honestly have never addressed it until now. It was the xc sectional meet my sophomore year. I was preparing to run a hard race and help my team advance to state. But something clicked inside me. It was like the fire that had been building for a year and a half was suddenly snuffed out. After watching the top JV runner earn her record-best time, I got scared. Selfishly scared. Scared for my position on the Varsity team. Scared that someone else would be commended for her feats. Scared that running was no longer "mine".
And as we edged the starting line, I didn't feel it anymore. My coach always told me that I ran like a horse, meaning I didn't think about pace or pain or anything other than to "keep running"--the mantra I repeated to myself during races. And after that day, when I stood on the line, I was more afraid than I was excited. It wasn't the anxious feeling you get, knowing that you're trying to set a record best. Or when you see that girl from the last race who had slipped past you at the end by a millisecond. It was fear.
I became the joke of the team, especially the boys. I couldn't laugh and goof around on the bus ride to the course anymore. I couldn't gossip during the warm up run with the other girls. I was so focused on not crying. Not puking. Just finishing the race and not letting anyone down. But I did cry. And I did quit. Race after race.
So when the season ended in spring my senior year, I was done. I ran a little when I first got to college, just because it created a familiarity in an unknown place, but once I had settled in to my new home with my new friends, I just stopped. I didn't run. I didn't exercise at all. I joked with other non-runners about "why run when no one is chasing you?" I had lost the fire and I never thought I'd get it back. And I really didn't care if I didn't.
Of course, like any college girl--or any human, really--I started to gain weight. It's a simple equation: junk food+ late nights+ free frozen yogurt - exercise = freshman 15. So I decided to start exercising to get rid of the extra lining I had acquired. After a week, I stopped. I was "too busy", "too tired", and "no one would go with me"...any excuse I could make. A semester later, I tried again. Again, I dwindled until I reverted back into my laziness. This happened time and time again.
This summer, I have a set schedule, just as I like it. I know what to expect and my days never vary. I began an internship with the NFHS in May. All day, every day I talk about high school sports. I write about high school sports. I research high school sports. I never thought it would have the effect on me that it did. Seeing the pictures and interviewing the athletes, hearing their stories about what makes them compete. Reading the records and reviewing the rules... It got me thinking about my high school sports experiences. I realized that I miss my team. I miss the starting line. And I miss being a runner.
So I started running. Every day after work--a new schedule, just as I like it. And I'm planning ahead. Setting goals. I never realized that for year I had never set a single goal. In anything. Which obviously means, I haven't broken any goals in years. How sad that seems. That I was just wandering. I decided to set the bar high and really test myself to see what I can take. My friends think it's a phase. They roll their eyes when I talk about running. They think I'm doing it to get in shape. They don't understand the weight of it. The life change I'm making. All they see is me heading out each afternoon in my running gear--they don't see the pain and the mental games and the ultimate success when I just "keep running." But I'm not doing it for them. I'm doing it for me. Because each time I start out, I feel the passion and the fire.
Earlier today, my boss was talking about the annual Corporate Challenge--a city-wide competition in running and sporting events between companies across Indy. I told him it sounded like fun. Sign me up!
He asked me, "Are you a biker?"
"No," I told him with a smile. "I'm a runner."
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