Running is about talent.
Running is about physique (skinnier the better, with muscles in all the right places).
Running is about mental toughness.
The End.
Just Kidding, or "JK" as they say nowadays.
I started running at age 12. I mean, I ran before age 12--all kids run, but usually they get yelled at for it ("no running in school!" "no running in church!" "no running in the house!" "no running in the grocery store!").
But at age 12, I ran intentionally. I ran to start getting faster, to consider the possibility of winning races. I started taping pictures of Alberto Salazar on my wall.
Talent? Not really.
Physique? Nope.
Mental toughness. Well, yes, I guess so. Aye, there's the rub.
I have decided: Running is about Brain Chemistry. Has anyone out there ever experienced depression? I am not talking about: "Geez, I am so depressed that the Giants lost again." Or, "I find that movie "The Fault in Our Stars" rather depressing". Or, "Are you as depressed as I am that the Supreme Court is in bed with a store as stupidly named as The Hobby Lobby?"
I am talking about the crush of despair, for no good reason. There are plenty of reasons to be down and discouraged in life, but depression is pure darkness.
It is challenging to run in the dark. There are head lamps, of course. Last time I used a head lamp, a 15 year old had to lead me out of the woods. My vision is fair by day and abysmal by night. Close your eyes and imagine an abyss. You are not sure if your next step will lead to oblivion or if your last step did and here is where you landed. Oblivion is nothing to crow about. And crows are the darkest birds I know.
Alberto Salazar talked about depression in his book 14 Minutes. He took Prozac and ran faster for it. He got a lot of flak for that. We say depression is accepted, but it is not. Yet here I am writing about it for all the world to see.
Mental toughness? In running, it means you accept pain as a fact. You cope with it. You are capable of telling yourself it is a limited condition. You get in a zone, probably not unlike an accomplished meditator (is that an oxymoron?). But depression completely messes that up. You start to run and from step 1 you question: who am I to think I can do this? Clearly I am too fat and old to do it well. So, therefore, what is the point?
Depression ="what is the point?"
Ponder it: what is the point?
OK, there can be many good answers to this question, normally. But with depression, there is not a single answer worth uttering.
Practice your music, and still not be as good as you want to be. What's the point?
Study your profession and still deal with a broken system. What's the point?
Love your children, and still find your heart broken. The point?
I come from a tradition of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. I believe in hard work, sacrifice, and compassion.
But I am no longer clear that I am a runner.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Monday, July 7, 2014
How to Like It. Maybe Even A Lot.
I sat in a couple of fairly decent hotels, drinking coffee in the morning hours while the teens were abed, reading. Currently, my book of choice is called Behind the Beautiful Forevers. This book is about the kind of poverty that makes you feel like a total shit for your irritation regarding your hotel's lack of air conditioning, and the fact that its "pool" is about the size of a bath tub, begging you to do 1000 laps before bed.
Travels with my teenaged daughters made me feel sort of like a kidnapper. I declared "we are going on a trip", and mind you, they were happy enough with the prospect. They never complained (well not very loudly) and they made tremendous adventure mates. I can, and did, rip them from the far more interesting world which they inhabit, and I do not, to spend a few days with a middle-aged Mom. And with the other 17 million people who chose the Central Coast of California as a dandy place to spend 4th of July weekend.
Seriously, who goes to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk on the 4th of July? OK, everyone, and us. But it seemed to me we were the only legitimate visitors, and everyone else was just foolish and were they REALLY going to eat that deep fried Twinkie? I dropped the girls with some cash and promises to be back as soon as I found parking, which it turned out was all the way back at the hotel, and the 2 mile walk after the 1 hour it took to get from Boardwalk back to hotel was rather a relief. For me, anyway. The Girls were dubious. At least they got to ride the Giant Dipper. It made the day both fun and educational.
Travels to tourist-ridden places brings out the snob in me. Truth be told, that snob is probably not so deep under the surface. But more than snobbery, it brings out the questioning mind, the one who recalls a quote a friend shared recently, "think of the poorest person you've ever seen and ask if your next act is of any use."
Monterey Aquarium is a favorite of mine. I have been there perhaps 10 times in my life. Pre-children, when I was still a teenager myself. Then with my little kids in tow. Then with older kids, and this weekend with two teens. WHO CHOOSES JULY 4th WEEKEND TO GO TO THE AQUARIUM? OK, everyone, and us. Thankfully I had my tickets beforehand and could avoid the 60 minute line, after the over 60 minute 2 mile drive through town in a traffic jam of people dying to walk down Cannery Row. When we got into the aquarium, I felt suffocated by the throngs of unhappy, whining children and obese adults (snob, I know), and the people pointing at these amazing sea creatures and saying "ewww that's so gross". I almost turned around and left, but J just gave me this look like, Mom, you have to be kidding me here, and I pulled myself together and made the best of it. Rewards: sea otters, penguins, sharks, tunafish, ocean sunfish, jelly fish, sardines. All somewhere in the range from awe-inspiring to unbearably cute. But the treasure of my day was this magnificent octopus. It spread itself into its full sail, tentacles reaching and it is just so hard to describe how lovely it was.
After the crush of Monterey (Steinbeck was puking, I am sure of it. Though in reality I bet Cannery Row was pretty disgusting and horrible back in the day), we were driving back to Santa Cruz and I turned off and up this single land road, in the higher hills where the redwoods grow, and into a quiet space that re-inflated my soul. No, seriously, it was like someone gave my soul CPR, though technically the new guidelines no longer involve mouth to mouth/chest inflation. At the end of this road was The Land of the Medicine Buddha. We prayed with the prayer wheel. We hiked (a bit; mind you, two skeptical teens in flip flops are at my side). Prayer flags everywhere, the sky intensely blue and SO quiet. Granted, 2 monks drove by in a SUV and that sort of blew the effect a little, but I guess it also cracked me up. Purity does not exist.
The only proper ending to the 2 days of tourist stew being shoved down my throat was a good cry. Have you seen The Fault in Our Stars? I almost choked to death on my own sob snot.
The next day, we headed up the coast. I say this as if I take it for granted. I do not. The central (and northern) coast of California is my absolute favorite place to be in the whole entire world. I think the teens like to too, though maybe not with the intensity of someone who considers each day precious, and who is deep in her questioning mind. We did hike out to see the elephant seals. They travel approximately 25,000 miles per year, so said the naturalist at our well earned vantage point (deep sand, headwinds, and what J described as "the longest walk I have ever taken in my entire life). And they always come back to this place, where they were born. It was all males that day, head-butting each other and making this guttural growl which V said sounds like a backed up toilet (which is true). After viewing them, the guttural noise and wind was at our back. I was happy, and my kidnappees were real survivors.
A long walk, and oh yeah, there was some running later on, along the coast trail (my coast! I could eat you on toast, I love you so!), and we were so hungry. We had to wait for V to finish writing a paragraph or a chapter or something. Being the wife and mother of authors can be very trying at times. But we made it to dine with The Blue Lady. She haunts the Distillery in Moss Beach. I was wondering if I pinched one of the waiter's asses, then looked away, if I could blame it on the Blue Lady. The girls gave me a panic-stricken, "Mom! Don't!" Like I would. Like, would I? Hmmmmm…
The trip involved bad hotel TV (Naked and Afraid? This is actually a reality TV show, and I may never get the vision of these people's buttocks out of my head). It involved sitting quietly with and laughing with my girls. It involved a lot of sunshine, and a hell of a lot of tourists. Octopus beauty and monks and prayer flags and coffee on the balcony while looking at a great blue heron in the bay. Runs, walks, and food. I am not at all sure any of it was of any use, but I am so very grateful that I know how to like it.
Travels with my teenaged daughters made me feel sort of like a kidnapper. I declared "we are going on a trip", and mind you, they were happy enough with the prospect. They never complained (well not very loudly) and they made tremendous adventure mates. I can, and did, rip them from the far more interesting world which they inhabit, and I do not, to spend a few days with a middle-aged Mom. And with the other 17 million people who chose the Central Coast of California as a dandy place to spend 4th of July weekend.
Seriously, who goes to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk on the 4th of July? OK, everyone, and us. But it seemed to me we were the only legitimate visitors, and everyone else was just foolish and were they REALLY going to eat that deep fried Twinkie? I dropped the girls with some cash and promises to be back as soon as I found parking, which it turned out was all the way back at the hotel, and the 2 mile walk after the 1 hour it took to get from Boardwalk back to hotel was rather a relief. For me, anyway. The Girls were dubious. At least they got to ride the Giant Dipper. It made the day both fun and educational.
Travels to tourist-ridden places brings out the snob in me. Truth be told, that snob is probably not so deep under the surface. But more than snobbery, it brings out the questioning mind, the one who recalls a quote a friend shared recently, "think of the poorest person you've ever seen and ask if your next act is of any use."
Monterey Aquarium is a favorite of mine. I have been there perhaps 10 times in my life. Pre-children, when I was still a teenager myself. Then with my little kids in tow. Then with older kids, and this weekend with two teens. WHO CHOOSES JULY 4th WEEKEND TO GO TO THE AQUARIUM? OK, everyone, and us. Thankfully I had my tickets beforehand and could avoid the 60 minute line, after the over 60 minute 2 mile drive through town in a traffic jam of people dying to walk down Cannery Row. When we got into the aquarium, I felt suffocated by the throngs of unhappy, whining children and obese adults (snob, I know), and the people pointing at these amazing sea creatures and saying "ewww that's so gross". I almost turned around and left, but J just gave me this look like, Mom, you have to be kidding me here, and I pulled myself together and made the best of it. Rewards: sea otters, penguins, sharks, tunafish, ocean sunfish, jelly fish, sardines. All somewhere in the range from awe-inspiring to unbearably cute. But the treasure of my day was this magnificent octopus. It spread itself into its full sail, tentacles reaching and it is just so hard to describe how lovely it was.
After the crush of Monterey (Steinbeck was puking, I am sure of it. Though in reality I bet Cannery Row was pretty disgusting and horrible back in the day), we were driving back to Santa Cruz and I turned off and up this single land road, in the higher hills where the redwoods grow, and into a quiet space that re-inflated my soul. No, seriously, it was like someone gave my soul CPR, though technically the new guidelines no longer involve mouth to mouth/chest inflation. At the end of this road was The Land of the Medicine Buddha. We prayed with the prayer wheel. We hiked (a bit; mind you, two skeptical teens in flip flops are at my side). Prayer flags everywhere, the sky intensely blue and SO quiet. Granted, 2 monks drove by in a SUV and that sort of blew the effect a little, but I guess it also cracked me up. Purity does not exist.
The only proper ending to the 2 days of tourist stew being shoved down my throat was a good cry. Have you seen The Fault in Our Stars? I almost choked to death on my own sob snot.
The next day, we headed up the coast. I say this as if I take it for granted. I do not. The central (and northern) coast of California is my absolute favorite place to be in the whole entire world. I think the teens like to too, though maybe not with the intensity of someone who considers each day precious, and who is deep in her questioning mind. We did hike out to see the elephant seals. They travel approximately 25,000 miles per year, so said the naturalist at our well earned vantage point (deep sand, headwinds, and what J described as "the longest walk I have ever taken in my entire life). And they always come back to this place, where they were born. It was all males that day, head-butting each other and making this guttural growl which V said sounds like a backed up toilet (which is true). After viewing them, the guttural noise and wind was at our back. I was happy, and my kidnappees were real survivors.
A long walk, and oh yeah, there was some running later on, along the coast trail (my coast! I could eat you on toast, I love you so!), and we were so hungry. We had to wait for V to finish writing a paragraph or a chapter or something. Being the wife and mother of authors can be very trying at times. But we made it to dine with The Blue Lady. She haunts the Distillery in Moss Beach. I was wondering if I pinched one of the waiter's asses, then looked away, if I could blame it on the Blue Lady. The girls gave me a panic-stricken, "Mom! Don't!" Like I would. Like, would I? Hmmmmm…
The trip involved bad hotel TV (Naked and Afraid? This is actually a reality TV show, and I may never get the vision of these people's buttocks out of my head). It involved sitting quietly with and laughing with my girls. It involved a lot of sunshine, and a hell of a lot of tourists. Octopus beauty and monks and prayer flags and coffee on the balcony while looking at a great blue heron in the bay. Runs, walks, and food. I am not at all sure any of it was of any use, but I am so very grateful that I know how to like it.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
What if
Aside from my mother, I worry more than anyone I know. Hopefully, Mom has found a worry free zone in the afterlife. If she is sitting on cloud 9 fretting over whether some angel is home late because she is dead in a ditch somewhere, I am pretty bummed.
I have posted Wendell Berry's poem before. Many times actually. I think of it most days, and the fact that it speaks to me so probably is one of the main reasons I have landed in such a rural, scenic area, despite the lack of things open after 8pm and the tendency for the population to wear socks with sandals.
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
Today I ran with my eldest on a trail along the Elk River (or stream, really, as it is in this drought). My foot hurt. What if I cannot run?
What if I never actually learn all of the preludes and fugues at once, and the Beethoven Sonatas? What if I never properly learn how to groom my standard poodle?
What if I chose the wrong profession? What if we go back to war in Iraq? What if my kids never call or write after they leave home?
First world worries, for the most part. I was thinking today about how much I like water. I mean a good, cold glass of water from the tap. It is miraculous, and even though I take things for granted almost every waking second of my life, I almost always say a little prayer of thanks for having clean, cold water, right here in my home, my workplace, wherever really. I don't have to walk 5 miles to get it while being shot at or threatened with rape and kidnapping. I don't have to then build a fire to boil it so my kids don't die of some diarrheal illness that will turn their guts inside out. Sometimes I worry of course, like, what if the "big one" hits? We have not set up a garage full of water supply for this purpose as we probably should. Despite being a worrier, I am not the type to build a bomb shelter or seriously plan for the next quake.
What if my hens don't lay eggs after my husband has so diligently built them a fortress? I mean a fortress. A bear might be able to get those girls, but every other critter will be thwarted. Even the poodle.
I worry about my patients. I worry about my friends. I worry about my family. I worry about that raggedy guy on the corner who looks like he needs a bath and 3 squares, stat. I have been having some dreams with whales lately, and that usually happens right before something big happens. WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN????
But I digress. This is about running, and redwoods. Today, I ran in the woods, by the anemic but still lovely river, with my daughter. For a time, I rested in the grace of the world, and was free.
I have posted Wendell Berry's poem before. Many times actually. I think of it most days, and the fact that it speaks to me so probably is one of the main reasons I have landed in such a rural, scenic area, despite the lack of things open after 8pm and the tendency for the population to wear socks with sandals.
The
Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in meand I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
Today I ran with my eldest on a trail along the Elk River (or stream, really, as it is in this drought). My foot hurt. What if I cannot run?
What if I never actually learn all of the preludes and fugues at once, and the Beethoven Sonatas? What if I never properly learn how to groom my standard poodle?
What if I chose the wrong profession? What if we go back to war in Iraq? What if my kids never call or write after they leave home?
First world worries, for the most part. I was thinking today about how much I like water. I mean a good, cold glass of water from the tap. It is miraculous, and even though I take things for granted almost every waking second of my life, I almost always say a little prayer of thanks for having clean, cold water, right here in my home, my workplace, wherever really. I don't have to walk 5 miles to get it while being shot at or threatened with rape and kidnapping. I don't have to then build a fire to boil it so my kids don't die of some diarrheal illness that will turn their guts inside out. Sometimes I worry of course, like, what if the "big one" hits? We have not set up a garage full of water supply for this purpose as we probably should. Despite being a worrier, I am not the type to build a bomb shelter or seriously plan for the next quake.
What if my hens don't lay eggs after my husband has so diligently built them a fortress? I mean a fortress. A bear might be able to get those girls, but every other critter will be thwarted. Even the poodle.
I worry about my patients. I worry about my friends. I worry about my family. I worry about that raggedy guy on the corner who looks like he needs a bath and 3 squares, stat. I have been having some dreams with whales lately, and that usually happens right before something big happens. WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN????
But I digress. This is about running, and redwoods. Today, I ran in the woods, by the anemic but still lovely river, with my daughter. For a time, I rested in the grace of the world, and was free.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Rock Bottom
Rock Bottom.
That was what I was thinking while I sat in the occupational health office getting my mandatory physical exam for my new job. Weight, blood pressure, pulse, all 10-15 points higher than my healthy baseline. Color me shocked? Not really. I can feel it. That is what 15 hour work days for months does to you. I am no CJ from the West Wing.
But now work life is more reasonable. And I am working with a coach to get my ass in gear for a PR and I am doing hot yoga and swimming and, and, and.
It struck me today, as I was walking on Parnassus, past the statue of Hippocrates and across from the Death Star. My very worst health was in residency. At the end of residency to be exact, when every fiber of my being was beaten into a pulp and my soul was barely intact. Or was it in medical school?
As a pregnant first year, I once walked across campus carrying a see through hefty sized bag of condoms to give a talk on birth control. It hit me that I looked a lot like Santa, only a girl, a doctor-to-be, expecting, and how very ironic to be carrying a bag of condoms in my condition. I wish now I had one of those video cameras people wear on their heads when doing extreme sports, just to capture the looks I got from passers-by. At the time, I was mostly just irritable, and probably did not see the humor. My ankles were swollen and I had a test to study for. And who the heck gets pregnant in medical school anyway?
Or was it in high school, when I felt out of place and bored to the point of despair? I used to leave class to practice piano, with mostly a shrug of "OK, whatever" from my teachers. I tested out of this and that and finally decided to just skip the rest of it and head to music school. I still have nightmares that someone comes to my door, pointing out I cannot be a licensed physician without my high school diploma. They then hand me my old PE uniform and send me out for laps. Or worse: golfing. Once in high school a classmate hit me square in the head with a wooden club (accidentally) (at least I think so). I awoke, on the ground, with my fat, toupeed gym teacher bending over me. From then on, he called me "Hard Head Heidmann". It is possible this injury explains a lot of my short fallings in life. It was not amusing.
Or was it in junior high, when I used to walk to the orthodontist from my downtown brick school, which was well in the aroma-sphere of the local brewery, to get my weekly torture, tightening of the wires? My orthodontist was mean in a way that would not fly in today's litigious, helicopter-parenting society. He was an asshole, actually. Once I bit him on purpose. He asked me at one visit what we did in school that day, and I reported happily about the English Muffin pizzas we had made in home economics class. His reply, and I swear he had a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth while he drawled this, was "I wouldn't feed that to my dog." That might've been the day I bit him
Or was it during puberty, when my body rebelled and went from wiry thin kid to slightly curvy, menstruating and gawky (braces-wearing) teenager? I hated myself as a teenager. I wanted to be Alberto Salazar, or Grete Waitz, or any of a number of my cuter friends who somehow went through puberty without the freaks and geeks detour. To my credit: never drank, did not do drugs, and ran and ran and ran with the discovery that running was my bliss and my ticket to health.
Which brings me back to this: rock bottom. I am finally not working 15 hours per day. I am sleeping, I am eating well, and my 10-15 point elevation of weight, blood pressure and pulse is starting to drop. But my foot hurts. Plantar fasciitis, probably. A first for me, or at least the first foot pain in a long while. In the grand scheme of tragic events, this ranks low. But I do find myself wondering what God is thinking. Running for me: my meditation, my mental health, my passion (well, other than Beethoven anyway), my mental health, my drug of choice, my mental health, my lifelong, as long as I can remember, THING. I am not and never will be elite, but running is my non-animate soulmate.
My Dad had a heart transplant. My Mom had breast cancer, twice. My kids are strong and they rise up against the BS of adolescence with grace and humor. My husband writes magical books and has raised our children and has been there, all out, for our family from day one. My dear friend had a baby and traveled across the country. My patients face death with astounding grace. My colleagues continue to fight the good fight in a system that promotes insanity. My dogs offer unconditional adoration. Beethoven and Bach beckon.
Rock bottom?
A little foot pain never killed anyone.
That I know of.
That was what I was thinking while I sat in the occupational health office getting my mandatory physical exam for my new job. Weight, blood pressure, pulse, all 10-15 points higher than my healthy baseline. Color me shocked? Not really. I can feel it. That is what 15 hour work days for months does to you. I am no CJ from the West Wing.
But now work life is more reasonable. And I am working with a coach to get my ass in gear for a PR and I am doing hot yoga and swimming and, and, and.
It struck me today, as I was walking on Parnassus, past the statue of Hippocrates and across from the Death Star. My very worst health was in residency. At the end of residency to be exact, when every fiber of my being was beaten into a pulp and my soul was barely intact. Or was it in medical school?
As a pregnant first year, I once walked across campus carrying a see through hefty sized bag of condoms to give a talk on birth control. It hit me that I looked a lot like Santa, only a girl, a doctor-to-be, expecting, and how very ironic to be carrying a bag of condoms in my condition. I wish now I had one of those video cameras people wear on their heads when doing extreme sports, just to capture the looks I got from passers-by. At the time, I was mostly just irritable, and probably did not see the humor. My ankles were swollen and I had a test to study for. And who the heck gets pregnant in medical school anyway?
Or was it in high school, when I felt out of place and bored to the point of despair? I used to leave class to practice piano, with mostly a shrug of "OK, whatever" from my teachers. I tested out of this and that and finally decided to just skip the rest of it and head to music school. I still have nightmares that someone comes to my door, pointing out I cannot be a licensed physician without my high school diploma. They then hand me my old PE uniform and send me out for laps. Or worse: golfing. Once in high school a classmate hit me square in the head with a wooden club (accidentally) (at least I think so). I awoke, on the ground, with my fat, toupeed gym teacher bending over me. From then on, he called me "Hard Head Heidmann". It is possible this injury explains a lot of my short fallings in life. It was not amusing.
Or was it in junior high, when I used to walk to the orthodontist from my downtown brick school, which was well in the aroma-sphere of the local brewery, to get my weekly torture, tightening of the wires? My orthodontist was mean in a way that would not fly in today's litigious, helicopter-parenting society. He was an asshole, actually. Once I bit him on purpose. He asked me at one visit what we did in school that day, and I reported happily about the English Muffin pizzas we had made in home economics class. His reply, and I swear he had a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth while he drawled this, was "I wouldn't feed that to my dog." That might've been the day I bit him
Or was it during puberty, when my body rebelled and went from wiry thin kid to slightly curvy, menstruating and gawky (braces-wearing) teenager? I hated myself as a teenager. I wanted to be Alberto Salazar, or Grete Waitz, or any of a number of my cuter friends who somehow went through puberty without the freaks and geeks detour. To my credit: never drank, did not do drugs, and ran and ran and ran with the discovery that running was my bliss and my ticket to health.
Which brings me back to this: rock bottom. I am finally not working 15 hours per day. I am sleeping, I am eating well, and my 10-15 point elevation of weight, blood pressure and pulse is starting to drop. But my foot hurts. Plantar fasciitis, probably. A first for me, or at least the first foot pain in a long while. In the grand scheme of tragic events, this ranks low. But I do find myself wondering what God is thinking. Running for me: my meditation, my mental health, my passion (well, other than Beethoven anyway), my mental health, my drug of choice, my mental health, my lifelong, as long as I can remember, THING. I am not and never will be elite, but running is my non-animate soulmate.
My Dad had a heart transplant. My Mom had breast cancer, twice. My kids are strong and they rise up against the BS of adolescence with grace and humor. My husband writes magical books and has raised our children and has been there, all out, for our family from day one. My dear friend had a baby and traveled across the country. My patients face death with astounding grace. My colleagues continue to fight the good fight in a system that promotes insanity. My dogs offer unconditional adoration. Beethoven and Bach beckon.
Rock bottom?
A little foot pain never killed anyone.
That I know of.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Vultures and Vampires
When I was a kid, one of my best friends lived across the street. We had nighttime neighborhood games, like kick-the-can, and ghost in the graveyard. We had sleepovers in my treehouse and we danced in her basement to the strobe light her super-cool older sister possessed. We commiserated over the "vampires", which was, in our parlance, the people who tried to suck the life-blood out of you. We could just mention the V word and know that someone was trying to sap our power.
Because we were powerful.
Today, when running along this road,
Because we were powerful.
Today, when running along this road,
the turkey vultures circled overhead. It reminded me of the childhood vampires. Now, as then, I scoffed. Do not mistake me for weak and powerless.
It occurred to me today that this is a mantra for my own misgivings, and not only for those who see me as prey.
I care for the old and the dying for a living. Dying is inevitable. Old age, well that is just a gift we can hope for. My parents did not get it. Many people will not. We like to think it is a curse, this thing called aging. Aching bodies, wrinkly skin, lesser vision and ears that fail us.
At age 44 I may only be half way there, and though I feel the years in a new way, no longer oblivious to my body's needs, I don't think I am vulture food.
Today, when running along the roads, I passed through the tri-kids triathlon course. Signs warned me they may be about, but really just made me think: My once-kid triathlete leaves home in a few months.
College. To learn and grow and live in a dorm and run D3 cross country and likely steal into Portland for Voodoo doughnuts now and then. How and when did I become the parent of an adult? Should parents of adults still be attempting PR's? Or is that akin to shopping in the juniors section after age 40, whilst clerks less than half your age pop gum on one side of their mouths while sneering at you from the other? What is truth, and if they are calling my child an adult, does that make me one too? Do I like get a badge, or something?
I am going to miss that kiddo.
There is nothing more true and visceral than running. Than running on a road that evokes memories of vampires of youth. That evokes the certainty of death through vulturous eyes and those ugly-beautiful wrinkly red heads, turkey-like, yet not. That brings the ugly-beautiful truth of the limitations of a body no longer young, but not quite old either, right to the forefront. That criss-crosses the path of the next generation of tri-kids. That promises health of mind, maybe of body, certainly of soul, and offers proof of what we all know to be true:
what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
Win some, lose some. Age. Or not. But whatever else happens, don't let the vampires or vultures get you down. Probably you can outrun them anyhow.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Alberto
When we moved into our house, I was about 6. My Dad very firmly told me, this being the first (and last) non-rental house for my parents, "NO POSTERS ON THE WALLS." Therefore, I proceeded to completely cover my walls with posters. I think there were several on the ceiling too. I vaguely remember my Mom running interference regarding my Dad's initial fuming response to this. My Mom was also very good at closing the door to my room to avoid looking at the mess. My Mom kept a very clean house.
I am reflecting on this as my high school coach is retiring and I look back at those days of running, when my wall was plastered with inspirational quotes and pictures of runners and newspaper clippings about our cross country team. My Dad, who clearly knew this battle was lost, even contributed one thing to add to my wall to ceiling to wall collection, which was a litany of failures Abe Lincoln had prior to becoming one of the most revered Presidents ever. The guy lost. A lot. This was somehow reassuring to me, as I was never the star of running on a team of very fast girls. I was usually in the top 5, but never the one that won. And I had braces and was really awkward. Even more awkward than I am now!
One of my posters was of Alberto Salazar. First of all: cute. Second of all: fast. Third of all: tough as nails. I just listened to his book 14 Minutes. I came away from it thinking he is kind of intense. Sort of how Mount Everest is kind of tall. The book is advertised as some sort of treatise on cheating death, but it really is not. He beat the odds, no doubt, but it seems to me that the book is finally about passion and presence. Closeness to God, awareness of what is beautiful and real, and never taking it for granted.
Also, it is about running, and he was such an animal! He would define me as a "citizen runner". I am thinking of getting a t-shirt made.
Alberto Salazar says something in his book that more than any of the other stuff (living through cardiac arrest, mystical Catholicism, 4:20 mile repeats) stuck with me. It is that you have to state a goal to reach it. Yes, stating a goal does not guarantee success, but until you state it, there is no skin in the game.
I just want to run a PR in the marathon. That's all. Also likely a more realistic goal than keeping as clean a house as my Mom.
I am reflecting on this as my high school coach is retiring and I look back at those days of running, when my wall was plastered with inspirational quotes and pictures of runners and newspaper clippings about our cross country team. My Dad, who clearly knew this battle was lost, even contributed one thing to add to my wall to ceiling to wall collection, which was a litany of failures Abe Lincoln had prior to becoming one of the most revered Presidents ever. The guy lost. A lot. This was somehow reassuring to me, as I was never the star of running on a team of very fast girls. I was usually in the top 5, but never the one that won. And I had braces and was really awkward. Even more awkward than I am now!
One of my posters was of Alberto Salazar. First of all: cute. Second of all: fast. Third of all: tough as nails. I just listened to his book 14 Minutes. I came away from it thinking he is kind of intense. Sort of how Mount Everest is kind of tall. The book is advertised as some sort of treatise on cheating death, but it really is not. He beat the odds, no doubt, but it seems to me that the book is finally about passion and presence. Closeness to God, awareness of what is beautiful and real, and never taking it for granted.
Also, it is about running, and he was such an animal! He would define me as a "citizen runner". I am thinking of getting a t-shirt made.
Alberto Salazar says something in his book that more than any of the other stuff (living through cardiac arrest, mystical Catholicism, 4:20 mile repeats) stuck with me. It is that you have to state a goal to reach it. Yes, stating a goal does not guarantee success, but until you state it, there is no skin in the game.
I just want to run a PR in the marathon. That's all. Also likely a more realistic goal than keeping as clean a house as my Mom.
Friday, May 2, 2014
The Best Part
For some reason I have that Folger's commercial running through my head.
Maybe it came from this thought that sprung up yesterday while running, which was something like: "The best part of being out of shape, is the sky is the limit in terms of improvement." Seriously, it is like a clean slate. When you are in top form, it is difficult to improve. When you are a jiggly sloth with those little stir straws for bronchial tubes, well, look out world! Obviously, being a jiggly sloth precludes any thoughts of running in the upcoming local marathon. But the next big race, in October? For sure.
Unless jiggliness turns into waddliness in which case I may take up being a professional lounger.
I ran in Tahoe last weekend, and the air was thin. It also snowed. I had a blast, but who forgot the air? I was hoping to come back to sea level with a new pair of lungs but my short time at altitude did not quite do the trick.
How did this happen, this state of sloth, this foreign body attached to my brain which still sees me as a real runner?
Doesn't matter. The best part now is starting over. My teens were bemoaning teendom yesterday. One of them was also overheard saying "once you get past 30, you can't do anything anymore." Bullshit says I!
The best part of aging is you pay better attention. To your body (what is that little nagging pain? serious? no, it'll pass, back to it now….). To pretty things. To goofy things. To the suffering of others, not just yourself. To how the coffee tastes and how nice it feels to have your beloved up against you.
I have always wanted to be in Runner's World magazine. It has become fairly clear to me that the only hope of that at this point is keep running till I am 105. I am thinking I can demand some space in that magazine if I succeed. The fastest 105 year old ever. What's her secret? Read all about it, page 72.
In my work now, I am focusing much more on seniors. This I have learned:
The best part of growing older? More appreciation for how good it feels to kick ass.
More appreciation.
Maybe it came from this thought that sprung up yesterday while running, which was something like: "The best part of being out of shape, is the sky is the limit in terms of improvement." Seriously, it is like a clean slate. When you are in top form, it is difficult to improve. When you are a jiggly sloth with those little stir straws for bronchial tubes, well, look out world! Obviously, being a jiggly sloth precludes any thoughts of running in the upcoming local marathon. But the next big race, in October? For sure.
Unless jiggliness turns into waddliness in which case I may take up being a professional lounger.
I ran in Tahoe last weekend, and the air was thin. It also snowed. I had a blast, but who forgot the air? I was hoping to come back to sea level with a new pair of lungs but my short time at altitude did not quite do the trick.
How did this happen, this state of sloth, this foreign body attached to my brain which still sees me as a real runner?
Doesn't matter. The best part now is starting over. My teens were bemoaning teendom yesterday. One of them was also overheard saying "once you get past 30, you can't do anything anymore." Bullshit says I!
The best part of aging is you pay better attention. To your body (what is that little nagging pain? serious? no, it'll pass, back to it now….). To pretty things. To goofy things. To the suffering of others, not just yourself. To how the coffee tastes and how nice it feels to have your beloved up against you.
I have always wanted to be in Runner's World magazine. It has become fairly clear to me that the only hope of that at this point is keep running till I am 105. I am thinking I can demand some space in that magazine if I succeed. The fastest 105 year old ever. What's her secret? Read all about it, page 72.
In my work now, I am focusing much more on seniors. This I have learned:
The best part of growing older? More appreciation for how good it feels to kick ass.
More appreciation.
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