Since this is an unconventional race, I'm going to do an unconventional race report...
10 things I learned from my Doughman experience:
1. I can make a perfectly acceptable black studded choker out of ribbon, stickers, and self-adhesive Velcro. And even better: I can make four of them in less than an hour.
2. I can run in fishnet stockings.
3. Pink eye shadow and pink hair highlights rock my socks.
4. I love Durham even more than I thought I did. Great Durham moments of the day included: When I ran past a family walking down the sidewalk on Morgan Street, I heard the dad say to his daughter, “Well, this is Durham; you have to expect anything.” Later, a lady walked up to me at the finish area and asked me what was going on. I explained the race, and she replied, “Oh, OK, I knew this wasn’t your average farmer’s market.”
5. I love the people of Bull City Running Company and the Bull City Track Club even more than I thought I did (and it was already a lot). Great BCRC/BCTC moments of the day are too numerous to list.
6. I can eat “like a boss,” and apparently my teammates can as well (special thanks to Kim Chapman-Page for this new phrasal addition to my lexicon).
7. There is a beautiful comic irony in the need to shout “don’t eat the leaves” at a bunch of people eating vegan food (the “leaves” were tamale wrappers).
8. Mushroom and kale tamales, while delicious, are not the best pre-run food.
9. Fruity Locopops might actually the best post-run food.
10. (Last but not least) I would have likely fallen apart (or tossed my cookies) on this run were it not for the companionship and encouragement of the amazing Jen Dixon (thanks, g).
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
The Race I'm Always Racing
I wrote this post weeks ago and have been going back and forth (and back and forth) about whether to actually post it. Today, I decided to just go for it. Gulp.
There are many reasons why I like swimming. But the main reason why I tend to retreat to swimming when I find myself burned out on running is because swimmers don’t use adjectives like “fast” and “slow” to describe their workouts or even their workout groups. At Masters team practices, you are in the “short” lane because you are doing a shorter set or the “long” lane because you are doing a longer set. How much nicer is that?
Of course, we all know that the short lane folks have shorter sets because they don’t swim as fast, but that’s not the point. The focus stays on the nature of the workout, not on trying to evaluate anything about the person doing the workout. I think runners could learn a lot from this. Sure, it looks like we are taking the same approach when we say that the run is “tempo” or “speed” or even “easy,” but the distance often doesn’t really matter is these workouts, it’s the pace. I’m equally likely to obsess over my Garmin data on any of these types of runs.
The problem with this speed focus, I think, is that we can too easily tie a workout’s (or even a race’s) value exclusively to pace. From there, it’s not much of leap to also starting equating pace with overall running success or failure and thus, overall self worth, since, let’s face it, most of use pour our hearts and souls into running. I feel this insidious connection between pace and self worth every time I hear runners that are faster then I am saying that they are “slow.” And they don’t just usually say “slow,” they say something to the effect of “painfully slow” or “I felt like I was walking”—or even worse, “crawling.” And they are usually describing a pace that is at least two minutes per mile faster than mine.
My first impulse when I hear this, honestly, is to cry and toss out my running shoes. It’s a morale killer. But after I’ve had a few hours (sometimes more) to compose myself, I can usually remember the reasons why I don’t do that. Those reasons are best summed up in a quote that Trek bikes posted on their facebook feed a while back, “Don’t judge your beginning by someone else’s middle.”
Most of the fast runners I know have been running years longer than I have, so there’s that. But not all of them have. I’ve heard stories from folks who have only been running a year but still mange a 1:30 half marathon or a 20-minute 5k. I also recently read an article about a woman who just started running six months ago but got her BQ.
But I don’t think the point of the Trek quote was just time in the shoes. Beginning, middle, and end are terms that we use for journeys, and running is not a singular journey; rather, it is a myriad of interconnected journeys: emotional, physical, psychological, relational, and probably more words that end in “-al” that I just can’t think of right now. And all of these interconnected journeys are very intimate and complex.
Not many people know (not anymore!) that I have a chronic neuromuscular autoimmune disease, Myasthenia Gravis. I was diagnosed in 1994, at which point, I was suffering muscle weakness to the point that I could barely brush my own hair, walk up a flight of stairs without falling, or speak continuously for more than a couple of minutes. My left eyelid consistently drooped shut without warning, and I couldn’t even tighten the lid on a jar of applesauce.
After thoracic surgery to remove a defective gland and after almost a decade of immunosuppressive therapy, I stabilized, and in 2006, I resolved to try to be medication free. As part of this resolution, I began running and cycling, and I eventually worked my way up to a 5k. Three miles, though, was my wall. Still, I took my last pill in January of 2007. Six months later, when I was pregnant with my son, the doctors told me that my condition made my pregnancy high-risk, and they advised against running. So, I stopped. For three years.
On my son’s second birthday, I put my running shoes back on. The miles came much easier than they had before; I was faster than I’d ever been before. No one knows why. And I’m still getting better. Better with each race. Better than I ever thought I could be. I may not get better as fast as other runners get better, but “better” for me isn’t just about outrunning a PR, it’s also about outrunning a disease. This means that my the physical journey isn’t going to match up with many other runners.’ My emotional and psychological journeys have also inevitably been tied to this alternate physical experience. And everyone has something like this, something that makes one or more of their journeys just a little different than everyone else’s. Everyone’s beginnings and middles are in different places.
The neurologist declared me “in remission” last year, and as I’ve continued to set PRs and try new types of races and distances, I update her on my progress. She continues to tell me that she has no other patients who can do what I do and, in fact, that there are very few, if any, Myasthenia patients anywhere who can do what I do. But she also reminds me that remission can be temporary; that I probably will stay well, but there is a chance that I won’t. I could wake up tomorrow and suddenly be back to where I was in 1994. So, I try to remember that every run should be precious to me because it could be my last. It shouldn’t matter if I do that run at a “fast” pace or a “slow” one—at least I’m out there, on the journey.
There are many reasons why I like swimming. But the main reason why I tend to retreat to swimming when I find myself burned out on running is because swimmers don’t use adjectives like “fast” and “slow” to describe their workouts or even their workout groups. At Masters team practices, you are in the “short” lane because you are doing a shorter set or the “long” lane because you are doing a longer set. How much nicer is that?
Of course, we all know that the short lane folks have shorter sets because they don’t swim as fast, but that’s not the point. The focus stays on the nature of the workout, not on trying to evaluate anything about the person doing the workout. I think runners could learn a lot from this. Sure, it looks like we are taking the same approach when we say that the run is “tempo” or “speed” or even “easy,” but the distance often doesn’t really matter is these workouts, it’s the pace. I’m equally likely to obsess over my Garmin data on any of these types of runs.
The problem with this speed focus, I think, is that we can too easily tie a workout’s (or even a race’s) value exclusively to pace. From there, it’s not much of leap to also starting equating pace with overall running success or failure and thus, overall self worth, since, let’s face it, most of use pour our hearts and souls into running. I feel this insidious connection between pace and self worth every time I hear runners that are faster then I am saying that they are “slow.” And they don’t just usually say “slow,” they say something to the effect of “painfully slow” or “I felt like I was walking”—or even worse, “crawling.” And they are usually describing a pace that is at least two minutes per mile faster than mine.
My first impulse when I hear this, honestly, is to cry and toss out my running shoes. It’s a morale killer. But after I’ve had a few hours (sometimes more) to compose myself, I can usually remember the reasons why I don’t do that. Those reasons are best summed up in a quote that Trek bikes posted on their facebook feed a while back, “Don’t judge your beginning by someone else’s middle.”
Most of the fast runners I know have been running years longer than I have, so there’s that. But not all of them have. I’ve heard stories from folks who have only been running a year but still mange a 1:30 half marathon or a 20-minute 5k. I also recently read an article about a woman who just started running six months ago but got her BQ.
But I don’t think the point of the Trek quote was just time in the shoes. Beginning, middle, and end are terms that we use for journeys, and running is not a singular journey; rather, it is a myriad of interconnected journeys: emotional, physical, psychological, relational, and probably more words that end in “-al” that I just can’t think of right now. And all of these interconnected journeys are very intimate and complex.
Not many people know (not anymore!) that I have a chronic neuromuscular autoimmune disease, Myasthenia Gravis. I was diagnosed in 1994, at which point, I was suffering muscle weakness to the point that I could barely brush my own hair, walk up a flight of stairs without falling, or speak continuously for more than a couple of minutes. My left eyelid consistently drooped shut without warning, and I couldn’t even tighten the lid on a jar of applesauce.
After thoracic surgery to remove a defective gland and after almost a decade of immunosuppressive therapy, I stabilized, and in 2006, I resolved to try to be medication free. As part of this resolution, I began running and cycling, and I eventually worked my way up to a 5k. Three miles, though, was my wall. Still, I took my last pill in January of 2007. Six months later, when I was pregnant with my son, the doctors told me that my condition made my pregnancy high-risk, and they advised against running. So, I stopped. For three years.
On my son’s second birthday, I put my running shoes back on. The miles came much easier than they had before; I was faster than I’d ever been before. No one knows why. And I’m still getting better. Better with each race. Better than I ever thought I could be. I may not get better as fast as other runners get better, but “better” for me isn’t just about outrunning a PR, it’s also about outrunning a disease. This means that my the physical journey isn’t going to match up with many other runners.’ My emotional and psychological journeys have also inevitably been tied to this alternate physical experience. And everyone has something like this, something that makes one or more of their journeys just a little different than everyone else’s. Everyone’s beginnings and middles are in different places.
The neurologist declared me “in remission” last year, and as I’ve continued to set PRs and try new types of races and distances, I update her on my progress. She continues to tell me that she has no other patients who can do what I do and, in fact, that there are very few, if any, Myasthenia patients anywhere who can do what I do. But she also reminds me that remission can be temporary; that I probably will stay well, but there is a chance that I won’t. I could wake up tomorrow and suddenly be back to where I was in 1994. So, I try to remember that every run should be precious to me because it could be my last. It shouldn’t matter if I do that run at a “fast” pace or a “slow” one—at least I’m out there, on the journey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)