It took me all of five days before I started looking at races again. I saw in an email that there's a marathon in OKC commemorating the victims of the OKC bombing. Sounds like fun. I have a lot of friends in OK, and could see some people. I tried to sneak a peek at the finisher's medal. That led to a little web-surfing, which led to this website. Oh boy.
I don't think of myself as a materialistic person, at least not in the "gotta go get this new thing immediately" sense (though Lord knows, I could stand to simplify my life quite a bit). I don't really covet things. But I coveted these medals. I craved them. I practically lusted after them. It was a little scary, man. ;- )
This got me thinking--Why am I doing all this? Why do I want to do another half so quickly, when my plan was to do this one, finish, then get healthier before I do the next? Why do I want to rush into it?
The first answer is, I want that medal. I've played team sports before, in high school mostly. I've never been a star athlete. I've never really been honored in any way for athletic achievement. But the finisher's medal--it's not elite, but it's something. There's an element of "I earned this!" that's very cool about it. But the thing is, there was something else driving the desire for a medal. Something darker. Pride. (Not "the kind that my mother has, but the kind in the Bible that turns you bad.")
I've realized that I soaked up all the attention I've gotten for this. I really drank it in. And I still want more. I want that medal and I want praise from dozens of my friends and family members.
There's a way to appreciate all these things that is appropriate and humble and good. I know there is. But in the past week and a half, I caught myself sliding past that point down into the depths of using a finisher's medal and the attention of those in my circle to find personal validation.
That's not the source of my validation. My worth, my purpose, my balance is found in Jesus Christ. I'm here on this spinnin' rock to make His name great, not my own. And running can be a part of that--as long as I don't co-opt my running to become an altar to the greatness of me.
That truth is a hard pill to swallow, kids. Because, like I've said before, these are all good things. The feeling of accomplishment, the feeling of cameraderie and family, the joy of activity and healthy pursuits. These are all gifts from God, and can and should be enjoyed as such.
The temptation, as it always is, is to take these good gifts from God and twist them into something that gives ME glory instead of Him. That's what I caught myself starting to do.
So I came to a decision, and I wanted to tell you about it.
For the rest of this year, I'm not going to participate in any race alone. I'm sharing these experiences with others.
Mi amigo Trevor has already agreed to take part in the OKC with me as part of a marathon relay team. We're looking for 3 more people to compete with us. When we celebrate the finish, it will be the joined celebration of friends accomplishing something together.
Any shorter races I do this summer, 5Ks or 10Ks, will be with other people, like my dad or my sister.
And hopefully, if I can register in time, I want to do another half-marathon in the fall, as part of Team WorldVision, or another such organization, so that my participation will be about bringing attention to a worthy cause, and particularly the work of God's church and God's people in the world.
And hopefully, through these experiences, I'll learn to appreciate running and racing in right proportion, and see past them to the gracious Father who gives us all good things.
===
So what now? Well, I have to tell you, I'm getting the itch to get back to the gym--which is something I've never thought I would say. I actually WANT TO work out. I want to jump on the elliptical and sweat out a half-hour or 45 minutes. I'm starting to make better food choices, eat cleaner foods, and get more sleep. It seems like the next logical step is to get back to pushing myself physically to accomplish more. Hopefully, as a result, I'll start shedding the 200+ pound fat-suit I've been carrying around for the last decade.
So I still need your encouragement, not to lose sight of my goals just because the first big race is past me. I love your comments. And I could use your prayers, as I start pursuing total health with a renewed vigor. So thanks for your support and friendship thusfar, and stick around, because this page will be my chronicle of the ups and downs of this crazy ride.
Have a great rest of your week. And waddle on, you thunderin' herd!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
5 hours, 31 minutes...
They say you don't sleep, the night before the big race. I guess "they" never slept on the heavenly bed at the Hampton Inn in Lake Jackson, TX. Seriously, most comfortable bed EVER. And I slept like a rock.
They say you should wake up when you wake up, even if it's early. I woke up at 3:30, and then went back to sleep for two hours.
But when 5:30 came around, I didn't want to get up. The bed was warm and didn't want to release me to the cold morning. But after hitting the alarm a few times, I finally got up and got ready.
Had breakfast with the folks in the hotel lobby. They were visible worried. It made me a little more nervous actually. I can't blame them at all--their nearly-quarter-ton son was about to go attempt a distance of 13.1 miles. My mother insisted that, if I felt I needed to stop, to prevent serious injury, I should do so--I wasn't there to impress them. I told her I understood. But it wasn't about them, not mainly. This has always been about me. What i needed to prove to myself.
Driving alone to the beach, I started panicking a little. What was I doing here? Why on earth did I sign up for this? Am I totally insane? The sky was starting to lighten up. Dawn, such as it was on this overcast, cold morning, was breaking.
I pulled into my parking space, walked up to the starting line and the tent, got my timing chip, and got in line. Talked to a Hispanic gentleman holding a large American flag. He's run 43 marathons. He carried the flag in most of them. I held the flag for him while he was in the portocan.
Met up with my friends John and Patrick, who signed up for this race with me. They introduced me to Cain, who was running with them. We shook out our cold limbs, jumped up and down. Stretched out. Waited. 15 minutes to go. I looked for my parents and couldn't find them. Stretched. The National anthem was sung. A prayer was prayed. I prayed. Then the countdown.
And we're off. I had my phone and keys with me, because i couldn't find my folks before the race to hand them off. I stuck them in the pockets of my hoodie. I was walking at a steady 3 mph pace, my comfort zone. Figured I wouldn't lose anything.
About a quarter mile in, I unzipped the hoodie to retie my sweatpants, and unwittingly lost my keys. I noticed this about five minutes later. I turned around, laughing to myself to keep from freaking out. After a couple minutes of walking backwards, scanning the ground, someone stopped me and said that a lady behind them had keys someone dropped. Retrieved my keys, and started heading the right direction again, trying to make up for lost time.
The first leg of the half was a down-and-back that totaled around 4 miles. The beach was pressed flat by the tide, strewn with rocks and shells and small debris, sand slightly rippled by the water. This made the surface a little easier on the joints, but uneven, so every step turned the surface of my soles a different angle. My ankles would be killing me by the time this was all over.
As I was still going "down" while almost all of the other runners were coming "back," I had a near-constant stream of "Yeah Dave! Keep it up! Looking great!" I had written "DAVE!" in bold letters on my shirt, for this reason. And once again, the running community proved how unbelievable nice they were. Throughout the entire race, I was being encouraged by other runners. Elites and novices alike. Everyone was supportive. That's the only way this thing works sometimes, for people like me. The feeling of cameraderie keeps you connected, makes you want to keep trying.
I hit the first turnaround, came back toward the start/finish line area. I cheered on the two or three who were still behind me, and charged ahead ("charged" at my prescribed pace, anyway). As I approached the tent area, I saw my friend Heather walking toward me. Four of my friends from church had driven down to cheer me on. Heather met me first, walked with me, checked up on me. She was an experienced runner, taking this season off, so she knew how i was feeling and what to ask. Then I saw Crissy, Leah, and Maranda with signs. Actually, I could hear them before i could see the signs. They were loud. It was great. They walked with me a little farther when my dad joined us for a few minutes. I saw my mom standing by the side of the "track." She encouraged me to keep going, told me I was doing great. My dad and the girls walked with me a ways farther as we passed the start/finished and continued up the beach, and then let me continue on alone.
After that, the miles started feeling much longer. I had ditched my coat and hat, stuck with a headband and just my yellow tech shirt and longsleeve cotton undershirt. I was getting warm, even under the cloudy canopy. And the miles continued to get longer and longer.
The girls showed up again around mile 6 1/2. Their enthusiasm was undimmed, even as my energy was starting to lag. They walked a bit and tried to cheer me up and keep me going. After a while though, I felt I needed to retreat into my head a bit. I asked them if it was okay if I listened to music, and they said yes, and then told me they'd see me later.
Miles 7 and 8 really took a toll on me. The water stops were few and far between, and in this second segment of the race, a four and a half mile stretch down the beach before a turnaround, it started getting lonely and disheartening. I still got encouraging words from other runners passing me on their way to the finish, but these runners were fighting their own personal battles. The strain was showing on their faces. I started cheering them on, because they needed it as much as I did. I saw Patrick and John and Cain pass me on their way to the end. A few runners cut 25 feet to their left to reach over and give me a high-five before moving back to continue on. But as the half-marathoners all passed me, there became fewer and fewer people on the beach. I started seeing the full-marathoners, fluid/fuel belts mostly emptied, straining and struggling.
The miles seemed infinite. I started cursing my foolhardy decision to do this stupid race. I mocked my own naive plans to do another one of these in the fall. I swore to myself I'd never sign up for a distance race again. My ankles and knees ached. My back tightened up. My stomach growled. My neck and shoulders ached. My feet seemed to turn into giant blisters. I finally approached the Mile 8 sign. Still no turnaround in sight. I prayed for strength. I listened to music. I realized that this, right here, was the furthest I'd ever gone in one setting. Every step past this was a victory. I thought that realization would be a motivator. Not really. I appreciated the personal milestone but was still five miles away from the finish line (and 4.5 miles from my car).
Finally, I saw a runner pass who looked at me and said, "The turnaround's just up ahead, you can do it!" And there it was. I was hoping there'd be a water table, maybe even a chair mercifully placed. Nope, just a couple of signs and an inverted "U" of cones. I made the left turn around the cones, bent over, gasped for air and stretched, and then started back.
Saw a girl in a green sweatshirt who had played "leapfrog" with me through the middle miles. I called out, "The turnaround's coming up, you can do it!" She replied, "I know, as soon as I saw you, i was relieved!" She would later pass me again and finish ahead of me. I was happy for her.
At some point during Mile 9, I realized I was actually doing this. I was 2/3 of the way through, less than 5 miles from finishing.
At Mile 10, I recognized that my "pace" had slowed to a trudge. I was starting to weave a bit to the left and right as I slowly progressed. Also, whenever I'm exhausted, I get hyperemotional (even for me). On my iPod shuffle, I loaded a bunch of songs that had to do with running, fighting, finishing, and not giving up. And as I heard certain lines or choruses, I started bursting into tears. I did my best not to gush, but I felt overwhelmed by the race, my hopes, the physical discomfort, and the thought of the finish line.
Even this song made me start to cry.
Halfway through Mile 10, I saw a familiar figure approaching me. My dad. I asked, "What are you doing here?" (I'm not sure why. I was really tired, and was feeling really alone, I guess.) He said, "I'm here to walk with you the rest of the way." I can't tell you how much that meant to me. My father, the man I want most to be proud of me in my life, walked 2.5 miles up the beach alone to meet me and walk with me the rest of the way. At one point, he turned to me and just said, "You're my hero, bud. You're really doing this." (Even as I type this, my eyes are filling.) As long as I live, this may be one of the best moments in my life.
John, Patrick, and Cain, who had already finished this race, came back and met us around Mile 11, and walked with us. At one point, I was hit with a wave of fatigue, turned to my dad, and chocked up. I said, "This is just really frigging hard." He nodded, "I know."
One we continued. Every 200 yards or so, I had to stop and bend down, stretching my back and hamstrings, dropping into a squat to bend my knees and ankles. I could see the white tent, but it keep sliding father and farther away, like a mirage. Suddenly, we passed the Mile 12 sign. Just over a mile to go! Cars were starting to pass, leaving the beach, but several rolled down their windows, and I recognized the same runners from earlier, sticking their heads out the windows and yelling, "Way to go Dave! You're doing it, man! You're a beast! Kick its butt!"
The last half-mile, the guys peeled away, and it was just my dad and I. Then he let me take the last 100 yards or so myself. I trudged, step after belaboured step, toward the "FINISH" banner. I had given my dad my iPod, so all I heard were the cheers of the girls from church, the guys, the PA announcer, dozens of strangers, my mom, my dad. I lifted up my arm and weakly slapped at the finish banner as I passed under it. And I was done.
I cried. Of course I did. Because I finished. The man who was afraid to let people down, and so was too often afraid to try. The man who felt imprisoned by his own body, a body of his own fearful making. I finished. Five hours and 31 minutes after I had started. I completed a half-marathon.
I thought that the most important word from this experience would be "finished." And it's obviously still important. But what I realize in retrospect, is that a more important word marks my first half-marathon: family. Because I didn't run this race alone. My mom, my dad, John, Patrick, Cain, Heather, Leah, Crissy, Maranda, Mr. Lugo and his American flag, the girl in the green hoodie, the countless runners of all skill levels who cheered me on during the race and congratulated me afterward, the dozens of friends who encouraged me, prayed for me, and cheered me on before and after this amazing Saturday. This great and glorious family. You. You all helped me do this. And I cannot, will not ever thank you enough for that.
===
What have I learned?
Maybe I couldn't have been ready for this race, but I know I should have been more prepared. I will not make that mistake again.
Because, yes, despite my exhausted vows never to sign up for another distance event, I'm going to do it again. Possibly in the fall. Definitely after I lose at least 80 pounds.
This type of challenge is not worth undertaking without support. So when I run another race, I'm counting on you to help me. To remind me to hit the gym or the track. To chide me when you see me eating junkfood. And to wish me well and pray for me when I suffer the temporary insanity of toe-ing another half-marathon starting line.
Finally, what I learned is that I can do this. I can set a crazy goal and achieve it. I can finish a half-marathon.
And so can you.
So can you.
Waddle on, friends.
They say you should wake up when you wake up, even if it's early. I woke up at 3:30, and then went back to sleep for two hours.
But when 5:30 came around, I didn't want to get up. The bed was warm and didn't want to release me to the cold morning. But after hitting the alarm a few times, I finally got up and got ready.
Had breakfast with the folks in the hotel lobby. They were visible worried. It made me a little more nervous actually. I can't blame them at all--their nearly-quarter-ton son was about to go attempt a distance of 13.1 miles. My mother insisted that, if I felt I needed to stop, to prevent serious injury, I should do so--I wasn't there to impress them. I told her I understood. But it wasn't about them, not mainly. This has always been about me. What i needed to prove to myself.
Driving alone to the beach, I started panicking a little. What was I doing here? Why on earth did I sign up for this? Am I totally insane? The sky was starting to lighten up. Dawn, such as it was on this overcast, cold morning, was breaking.
I pulled into my parking space, walked up to the starting line and the tent, got my timing chip, and got in line. Talked to a Hispanic gentleman holding a large American flag. He's run 43 marathons. He carried the flag in most of them. I held the flag for him while he was in the portocan.
Met up with my friends John and Patrick, who signed up for this race with me. They introduced me to Cain, who was running with them. We shook out our cold limbs, jumped up and down. Stretched out. Waited. 15 minutes to go. I looked for my parents and couldn't find them. Stretched. The National anthem was sung. A prayer was prayed. I prayed. Then the countdown.
And we're off. I had my phone and keys with me, because i couldn't find my folks before the race to hand them off. I stuck them in the pockets of my hoodie. I was walking at a steady 3 mph pace, my comfort zone. Figured I wouldn't lose anything.
About a quarter mile in, I unzipped the hoodie to retie my sweatpants, and unwittingly lost my keys. I noticed this about five minutes later. I turned around, laughing to myself to keep from freaking out. After a couple minutes of walking backwards, scanning the ground, someone stopped me and said that a lady behind them had keys someone dropped. Retrieved my keys, and started heading the right direction again, trying to make up for lost time.
The first leg of the half was a down-and-back that totaled around 4 miles. The beach was pressed flat by the tide, strewn with rocks and shells and small debris, sand slightly rippled by the water. This made the surface a little easier on the joints, but uneven, so every step turned the surface of my soles a different angle. My ankles would be killing me by the time this was all over.
As I was still going "down" while almost all of the other runners were coming "back," I had a near-constant stream of "Yeah Dave! Keep it up! Looking great!" I had written "DAVE!" in bold letters on my shirt, for this reason. And once again, the running community proved how unbelievable nice they were. Throughout the entire race, I was being encouraged by other runners. Elites and novices alike. Everyone was supportive. That's the only way this thing works sometimes, for people like me. The feeling of cameraderie keeps you connected, makes you want to keep trying.
I hit the first turnaround, came back toward the start/finish line area. I cheered on the two or three who were still behind me, and charged ahead ("charged" at my prescribed pace, anyway). As I approached the tent area, I saw my friend Heather walking toward me. Four of my friends from church had driven down to cheer me on. Heather met me first, walked with me, checked up on me. She was an experienced runner, taking this season off, so she knew how i was feeling and what to ask. Then I saw Crissy, Leah, and Maranda with signs. Actually, I could hear them before i could see the signs. They were loud. It was great. They walked with me a little farther when my dad joined us for a few minutes. I saw my mom standing by the side of the "track." She encouraged me to keep going, told me I was doing great. My dad and the girls walked with me a ways farther as we passed the start/finished and continued up the beach, and then let me continue on alone.
After that, the miles started feeling much longer. I had ditched my coat and hat, stuck with a headband and just my yellow tech shirt and longsleeve cotton undershirt. I was getting warm, even under the cloudy canopy. And the miles continued to get longer and longer.
The girls showed up again around mile 6 1/2. Their enthusiasm was undimmed, even as my energy was starting to lag. They walked a bit and tried to cheer me up and keep me going. After a while though, I felt I needed to retreat into my head a bit. I asked them if it was okay if I listened to music, and they said yes, and then told me they'd see me later.
Miles 7 and 8 really took a toll on me. The water stops were few and far between, and in this second segment of the race, a four and a half mile stretch down the beach before a turnaround, it started getting lonely and disheartening. I still got encouraging words from other runners passing me on their way to the finish, but these runners were fighting their own personal battles. The strain was showing on their faces. I started cheering them on, because they needed it as much as I did. I saw Patrick and John and Cain pass me on their way to the end. A few runners cut 25 feet to their left to reach over and give me a high-five before moving back to continue on. But as the half-marathoners all passed me, there became fewer and fewer people on the beach. I started seeing the full-marathoners, fluid/fuel belts mostly emptied, straining and struggling.
The miles seemed infinite. I started cursing my foolhardy decision to do this stupid race. I mocked my own naive plans to do another one of these in the fall. I swore to myself I'd never sign up for a distance race again. My ankles and knees ached. My back tightened up. My stomach growled. My neck and shoulders ached. My feet seemed to turn into giant blisters. I finally approached the Mile 8 sign. Still no turnaround in sight. I prayed for strength. I listened to music. I realized that this, right here, was the furthest I'd ever gone in one setting. Every step past this was a victory. I thought that realization would be a motivator. Not really. I appreciated the personal milestone but was still five miles away from the finish line (and 4.5 miles from my car).
Finally, I saw a runner pass who looked at me and said, "The turnaround's just up ahead, you can do it!" And there it was. I was hoping there'd be a water table, maybe even a chair mercifully placed. Nope, just a couple of signs and an inverted "U" of cones. I made the left turn around the cones, bent over, gasped for air and stretched, and then started back.
Saw a girl in a green sweatshirt who had played "leapfrog" with me through the middle miles. I called out, "The turnaround's coming up, you can do it!" She replied, "I know, as soon as I saw you, i was relieved!" She would later pass me again and finish ahead of me. I was happy for her.
At some point during Mile 9, I realized I was actually doing this. I was 2/3 of the way through, less than 5 miles from finishing.
At Mile 10, I recognized that my "pace" had slowed to a trudge. I was starting to weave a bit to the left and right as I slowly progressed. Also, whenever I'm exhausted, I get hyperemotional (even for me). On my iPod shuffle, I loaded a bunch of songs that had to do with running, fighting, finishing, and not giving up. And as I heard certain lines or choruses, I started bursting into tears. I did my best not to gush, but I felt overwhelmed by the race, my hopes, the physical discomfort, and the thought of the finish line.
Even this song made me start to cry.
Halfway through Mile 10, I saw a familiar figure approaching me. My dad. I asked, "What are you doing here?" (I'm not sure why. I was really tired, and was feeling really alone, I guess.) He said, "I'm here to walk with you the rest of the way." I can't tell you how much that meant to me. My father, the man I want most to be proud of me in my life, walked 2.5 miles up the beach alone to meet me and walk with me the rest of the way. At one point, he turned to me and just said, "You're my hero, bud. You're really doing this." (Even as I type this, my eyes are filling.) As long as I live, this may be one of the best moments in my life.
John, Patrick, and Cain, who had already finished this race, came back and met us around Mile 11, and walked with us. At one point, I was hit with a wave of fatigue, turned to my dad, and chocked up. I said, "This is just really frigging hard." He nodded, "I know."
One we continued. Every 200 yards or so, I had to stop and bend down, stretching my back and hamstrings, dropping into a squat to bend my knees and ankles. I could see the white tent, but it keep sliding father and farther away, like a mirage. Suddenly, we passed the Mile 12 sign. Just over a mile to go! Cars were starting to pass, leaving the beach, but several rolled down their windows, and I recognized the same runners from earlier, sticking their heads out the windows and yelling, "Way to go Dave! You're doing it, man! You're a beast! Kick its butt!"
The last half-mile, the guys peeled away, and it was just my dad and I. Then he let me take the last 100 yards or so myself. I trudged, step after belaboured step, toward the "FINISH" banner. I had given my dad my iPod, so all I heard were the cheers of the girls from church, the guys, the PA announcer, dozens of strangers, my mom, my dad. I lifted up my arm and weakly slapped at the finish banner as I passed under it. And I was done.
I cried. Of course I did. Because I finished. The man who was afraid to let people down, and so was too often afraid to try. The man who felt imprisoned by his own body, a body of his own fearful making. I finished. Five hours and 31 minutes after I had started. I completed a half-marathon.
I thought that the most important word from this experience would be "finished." And it's obviously still important. But what I realize in retrospect, is that a more important word marks my first half-marathon: family. Because I didn't run this race alone. My mom, my dad, John, Patrick, Cain, Heather, Leah, Crissy, Maranda, Mr. Lugo and his American flag, the girl in the green hoodie, the countless runners of all skill levels who cheered me on during the race and congratulated me afterward, the dozens of friends who encouraged me, prayed for me, and cheered me on before and after this amazing Saturday. This great and glorious family. You. You all helped me do this. And I cannot, will not ever thank you enough for that.
===
What have I learned?
Maybe I couldn't have been ready for this race, but I know I should have been more prepared. I will not make that mistake again.
Because, yes, despite my exhausted vows never to sign up for another distance event, I'm going to do it again. Possibly in the fall. Definitely after I lose at least 80 pounds.
This type of challenge is not worth undertaking without support. So when I run another race, I'm counting on you to help me. To remind me to hit the gym or the track. To chide me when you see me eating junkfood. And to wish me well and pray for me when I suffer the temporary insanity of toe-ing another half-marathon starting line.
Finally, what I learned is that I can do this. I can set a crazy goal and achieve it. I can finish a half-marathon.
And so can you.
So can you.
Waddle on, friends.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Ready or Not
I know, it's been a month since we last spoke. Here's what's happened since then...
...
Shoot, I was hoping the slow fade out and flashback montage would kick in there.
Okay, is too much, lemme sum up: My workouts faded out, to the point where I was just going to the gym once a week or so, and then doing a "long" day every Saturday. The longest distance I reached was 8 miles. (Actually, it was 7.5 miles. I can't lie to you, bloggy blog.) I also took part in the Christopher's Heart Charity 5K (for Team Curtis! W00t!), helped to raise a paltry $75 for research of childhood diseases, and succeeded in finishing a race--something I hadn't done since Halloween (remember the DNF? I do.). So seeing a finish line was a comfort.
And now here we are, WBB. I'm in a hotel room in Lake Jackson, TX, less than 12 hours away from the start of my first half-marathon (the first of many, I hope). I'm gonna nibble on a little chocolate, drink some milk, watch a half hour or so of a documentary on marathoners, and then spend 45 minutes stressing out on the exact angle my race number hangs, as i pin it to my shirt for tomorrow. Everything is laid out. Everything is ready. Except me, maybe.
People have been asking me for the last two weeks, "Are you ready?" Can I answer that? Dare I? Does anyone ever feel "ready" for their first long-distance race? It's like asking a first-time mom if she's ready to undergo childbirth. Ready or not, this baby is happening. "Ready" is running's version of the Loch Ness Monster. (No offense, Marshall.) People swear they've seen ready, but no one knows for sure.
Maybe this is just the pre-race nerves talking. Maybe I'll be "ready" for my next race. But I doubt it. "Ready" people aren't facing challenges they may not be able to handle. "Ready" people aren't pushing themselves to their limit and then a little bit beyond that. "Ready" people play it safe.
I'm not ready. But I'm doing this. Come hell or high tide (depending on how long I'm out there, heh).
John "The Penguin" Bingham's philosophy on his race-day goal is a simple one: "Finish the same day that you start." I love that. Because that's what it's about. I'm not out there to win any awards. The winners will be eating BBQ and on their way home by the time I come close to the tape. My small goal is just to finish the half in 5 hours or less, but if it takes more, that's okay. Because I'll be a finisher.
A finisher. That's something I've struggled with for a good part of my adult life. Finishing things well.
Tomorrow, I'm atoning for all the times I've given up and given in. The times I've sabotaged myself so that I wouldn't come close to greatness, lest I risk falling short and feeling pain or disappointment, or risk letting people down.
Tomorrow, a little piece of personal redemption hangs by a ribbon, waiting to be draped around my neck.
You can have your Olympics, your Super Bowls, your basketball championships. I just want to win the Battle of Stopping Short. I want to take hold of the prize that's due the man who finishes the race.
That's all the glory i need.
11 hours, 11 minutes away. Make a wish.
And as John the Penguin would say, "Waddle on, friends."
...
Shoot, I was hoping the slow fade out and flashback montage would kick in there.
Okay, is too much, lemme sum up: My workouts faded out, to the point where I was just going to the gym once a week or so, and then doing a "long" day every Saturday. The longest distance I reached was 8 miles. (Actually, it was 7.5 miles. I can't lie to you, bloggy blog.) I also took part in the Christopher's Heart Charity 5K (for Team Curtis! W00t!), helped to raise a paltry $75 for research of childhood diseases, and succeeded in finishing a race--something I hadn't done since Halloween (remember the DNF? I do.). So seeing a finish line was a comfort.
And now here we are, WBB. I'm in a hotel room in Lake Jackson, TX, less than 12 hours away from the start of my first half-marathon (the first of many, I hope). I'm gonna nibble on a little chocolate, drink some milk, watch a half hour or so of a documentary on marathoners, and then spend 45 minutes stressing out on the exact angle my race number hangs, as i pin it to my shirt for tomorrow. Everything is laid out. Everything is ready. Except me, maybe.
People have been asking me for the last two weeks, "Are you ready?" Can I answer that? Dare I? Does anyone ever feel "ready" for their first long-distance race? It's like asking a first-time mom if she's ready to undergo childbirth. Ready or not, this baby is happening. "Ready" is running's version of the Loch Ness Monster. (No offense, Marshall.) People swear they've seen ready, but no one knows for sure.
Maybe this is just the pre-race nerves talking. Maybe I'll be "ready" for my next race. But I doubt it. "Ready" people aren't facing challenges they may not be able to handle. "Ready" people aren't pushing themselves to their limit and then a little bit beyond that. "Ready" people play it safe.
I'm not ready. But I'm doing this. Come hell or high tide (depending on how long I'm out there, heh).
John "The Penguin" Bingham's philosophy on his race-day goal is a simple one: "Finish the same day that you start." I love that. Because that's what it's about. I'm not out there to win any awards. The winners will be eating BBQ and on their way home by the time I come close to the tape. My small goal is just to finish the half in 5 hours or less, but if it takes more, that's okay. Because I'll be a finisher.
A finisher. That's something I've struggled with for a good part of my adult life. Finishing things well.
Tomorrow, I'm atoning for all the times I've given up and given in. The times I've sabotaged myself so that I wouldn't come close to greatness, lest I risk falling short and feeling pain or disappointment, or risk letting people down.
Tomorrow, a little piece of personal redemption hangs by a ribbon, waiting to be draped around my neck.
You can have your Olympics, your Super Bowls, your basketball championships. I just want to win the Battle of Stopping Short. I want to take hold of the prize that's due the man who finishes the race.
That's all the glory i need.
11 hours, 11 minutes away. Make a wish.
And as John the Penguin would say, "Waddle on, friends."
Monday, January 11, 2010
Still going, like a great big Energizer Bunny...
Saturday morning, I woke up an hour later than I wanted to, and then spent almost a half-hour with my shoes on, debating with myself whether or not I would actually get up and out the door. I made it to the gym, and hit the track just before 10:30 a.m.
I walked for the next 2.5 hours. I would stop for a few seconds to stretch out a tight muscle, or to grab a couple swigs of G2 (low-cal Gatorade) at every "mile" mark.
56 laps. 7 miles. Another milestone.
I listened to music on and off. Sometimes, if I just wanted time to think, I'd pause the music and just listen to my own breathing. I prayed some, but it seemed forced, like I was using it to distract myself instead of letting it flow naturally. I need to figure out how that will work.
I spent some time imagining ("visualizing" sounds too New Agey) the final 0.1 of the half. What music could be playing? Will I try to sprint the last 500 feet, or will i be too shredded to do more than trudge? Will I cry? (Of course, I'll cry. I'll be a basket-case. Just thinking about it gets me all verklempt.)
One of the songs on my Shuffle that I love running to is Johnny Cash's cover of Soundgarden's "Rusty Cage." It's got a great, quick tempo that keeps my pace up, and Johnny's singing about how he's gonna break his rusty cage and run. Then there's this transition, about 1:20 in--a pause, followed by a key change and shift in tempo. Every time I hear it, I can't help but start sprinting (or the closest thing I can do to sprinting). It's like my own personal "Chariots of Fire" anthem. I don't know why, but it just touches some primal part of me as an athlete.
Here, see what i mean:
I walked for the next 2.5 hours. I would stop for a few seconds to stretch out a tight muscle, or to grab a couple swigs of G2 (low-cal Gatorade) at every "mile" mark.
56 laps. 7 miles. Another milestone.
I listened to music on and off. Sometimes, if I just wanted time to think, I'd pause the music and just listen to my own breathing. I prayed some, but it seemed forced, like I was using it to distract myself instead of letting it flow naturally. I need to figure out how that will work.
I spent some time imagining ("visualizing" sounds too New Agey) the final 0.1 of the half. What music could be playing? Will I try to sprint the last 500 feet, or will i be too shredded to do more than trudge? Will I cry? (Of course, I'll cry. I'll be a basket-case. Just thinking about it gets me all verklempt.)
One of the songs on my Shuffle that I love running to is Johnny Cash's cover of Soundgarden's "Rusty Cage." It's got a great, quick tempo that keeps my pace up, and Johnny's singing about how he's gonna break his rusty cage and run. Then there's this transition, about 1:20 in--a pause, followed by a key change and shift in tempo. Every time I hear it, I can't help but start sprinting (or the closest thing I can do to sprinting). It's like my own personal "Chariots of Fire" anthem. I don't know why, but it just touches some primal part of me as an athlete.
Here, see what i mean:
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Trev's a Loser, God love him...
Hey there, WBB readers! (I have faith there's someone out there reading.)
Check out my friend Trevor's blog/vlog about weight loss in 2010! Cheer him on!
Trevor is a Loser!
Check out my friend Trevor's blog/vlog about weight loss in 2010! Cheer him on!
Trevor is a Loser!
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Yadda Yadda Yadda...
Man, once I stopped blogging on PBB, I got super blog-lazy, didn't I? That's okay, no one is reading this one anyway (yet).
Happy new year, non-existent future readers of the WBB (Waddling Bison blog)! Here's a recap of what's gone on in the last three weeks:
--I attempted a six-miler a week after my last post. Unfortunately, the night before, I didn't eat like an athlete, or someone attempting six miles the next morning. There's a saying that the Penguin says in his books--the problem with carbo-loading the night before a race is that you may have to off-load during the race. So, when I had to stop for a restroom break halfway through Mile 3, I lost time and momentum, and finished Miles 3 and 4 before calling it a day.
--Then came Christmas Week. No workouts.
--Then came New Years week. No workouts still.
--Laziness and lack of sleep abounded.
--I went on a College and Single Adult retreat with my church to Mo Ranch over New Years, and spent three days walking up and down hills, participating in rec-time events, and generally being sore. My leg muscles, my joints, and my back were all bitterly angry at me all weekend. I mean, i was London-tired. You probably don't know what that is. Feel free to ask me sometime. But it's dang tired.
And here we are again. The first two evenings of this work-week were spent with the very important tasks of writing out my goals and action plan for personal growth in the next year (of which health, fitness, and marathon-training are a key part, to be sure), and creating my January budget (so that financial fitness can be part of my life, too). I wanted to make sure I stopped putting those things off, so I gave them first priority. With them done, it's back to the gym, Johnny. (Who's Johnny? I don't know.)
I'm going to the gym in about fifteen minutes, but before I do, I wanted to check in, say hi, and touch on one other issue.
===
This blog used to be the "Big Loser Dave" blog, during my past attempts to lose weight alone and to try to be a contestant on The Biggest Loser. When I discovered an appreciation (it's not quite love yet) for distance-"woggling," I revamped this space to become the WBB. But my weight issue has been the shadow hanging over all this. A wiiiide shadow.
I still want this blog to be about running, training, and eventually getting healthy. But I want it to also be an encouragement to other waddling runners out there. So I want to be real about this part of my training, too, ya dig?
So I'm going to keep you posted on the weight-loss thing. I'm starting back on Weight Watchers point-counting tomorrow, in addition to the training. Hopefully, I can drop a couple dozen pounds at least in the next month before the big race. I think I read earlier this week in Runners World that every five pounds lost is an extra two seconds off your mile pace. That's a heckuva deal, Brownie. (Brownie? Who's got a brownie?)
Time to be honest. Time to own it.
This here bison weighed in yesterday at 488.0 pounds. That's a big ol' boy.
Time to outrun that fat kid and find a new, faster me.
Happy new year, non-existent future readers of the WBB (Waddling Bison blog)! Here's a recap of what's gone on in the last three weeks:
--I attempted a six-miler a week after my last post. Unfortunately, the night before, I didn't eat like an athlete, or someone attempting six miles the next morning. There's a saying that the Penguin says in his books--the problem with carbo-loading the night before a race is that you may have to off-load during the race. So, when I had to stop for a restroom break halfway through Mile 3, I lost time and momentum, and finished Miles 3 and 4 before calling it a day.
--Then came Christmas Week. No workouts.
--Then came New Years week. No workouts still.
--Laziness and lack of sleep abounded.
--I went on a College and Single Adult retreat with my church to Mo Ranch over New Years, and spent three days walking up and down hills, participating in rec-time events, and generally being sore. My leg muscles, my joints, and my back were all bitterly angry at me all weekend. I mean, i was London-tired. You probably don't know what that is. Feel free to ask me sometime. But it's dang tired.
And here we are again. The first two evenings of this work-week were spent with the very important tasks of writing out my goals and action plan for personal growth in the next year (of which health, fitness, and marathon-training are a key part, to be sure), and creating my January budget (so that financial fitness can be part of my life, too). I wanted to make sure I stopped putting those things off, so I gave them first priority. With them done, it's back to the gym, Johnny. (Who's Johnny? I don't know.)
I'm going to the gym in about fifteen minutes, but before I do, I wanted to check in, say hi, and touch on one other issue.
===
This blog used to be the "Big Loser Dave" blog, during my past attempts to lose weight alone and to try to be a contestant on The Biggest Loser. When I discovered an appreciation (it's not quite love yet) for distance-"woggling," I revamped this space to become the WBB. But my weight issue has been the shadow hanging over all this. A wiiiide shadow.
I still want this blog to be about running, training, and eventually getting healthy. But I want it to also be an encouragement to other waddling runners out there. So I want to be real about this part of my training, too, ya dig?
So I'm going to keep you posted on the weight-loss thing. I'm starting back on Weight Watchers point-counting tomorrow, in addition to the training. Hopefully, I can drop a couple dozen pounds at least in the next month before the big race. I think I read earlier this week in Runners World that every five pounds lost is an extra two seconds off your mile pace. That's a heckuva deal, Brownie. (Brownie? Who's got a brownie?)
Time to be honest. Time to own it.
This here bison weighed in yesterday at 488.0 pounds. That's a big ol' boy.
Time to outrun that fat kid and find a new, faster me.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
5 Miles
I'm a little stiff and sore from today's workout, five miles of walking (with a few bursts of jogging), in about an hour and 50 minutes. Not quite the pace I'd like, but that's not the point of these long days. Today was about finishing, and this was a victory I needed.
Before today, I had not attempted a long (for me) distance since the DNF. I had jumped on the elliptical a few times, and rocked out a couple of brisk miles a time or two. But today, I again had to confront the question of quitting head-on.
It happened realitively early, too. About a mile and a half into the walk, I started getting some inklings of doubt. Thoughts of what I'd rather be doing INSTEAD of what I was doing right then.
But I've learned a bit about myself in this process, and immediately banished the temptation to stop.
Then the thought popped up that I'm not going to be able to finish. But I realized (and argued to myself) that quitting now when I was just starting to get tired would mean that I'd ALWAYS quit. That I would KEEP quitting every time, and that I'd never EVER finish a race. If I was ever going to succeed, if I was ever going to finish, the battle had to be fought here, now, today, on this indoor track.
I had to decide today that I was a finisher.
Three miles down. Past the halfway point and feeling good. Starting to get tired, and a little tight around the hips. At one point, I stopped long enough to touch my toes, stretch out my calves a little, and flex my quads a little to keep them from knotting up.
And sometime during that fourth mile, I began to believe again. Began to really believe that I could do this. That I could become a distance athlete. I started remembering what it felt like to cross the 5K finish line, having gone the distance in previous races. And I started asking, "How much farther can I push myself this time?"
Then four miles were gone.
I had lost the use of my musical motivator back during the second mile. I keep forgetting to charge my iPod (one of those clip-on Shuffles), so the battery finally died today. For most of today's "run" (I'm gonna assume, dear reader, that when I use the word "run," you will understand that I mean the waddling, fast-walking gait I call my pace), all I could hear was my own ragged breath, the thud of my footfalls, and the sound of the other joggers approaching and then passing me. When I felt my steps slowing, I hummed a song to myself to make sure I kept my pace up. Unfortunately, the only useful melody I could remember was by Lady Gaga, but somehow between me and Gaga, I kept my legs pumping and one foot striking ahead of the other.
During the last mile, I had to focus on something other than my fatigue. Different people use different focal points: breathing, visualizing the finish line, observing the environment around them. Today, I started praying for each of my family members. I was able to get through all my immediately family during the last mile. I think I'll definitely use this technique in the future, because at the very least, it's a great chance to talk to God about what's going on, and focusing on something other than myself will definitely keep me from getting down on myself when I'm tired. Like I said, different things for different people, but that's what worked for me.
And then I was done. Five miles, straight through. The longest I've gone without stopping more than a few seconds. Even during the Turkey Trot, the roughly-five-miles was broken up by a couple of 10-20 minute breaks. This time, it was a continuous walk. And I finished with a feeling of accomplishment and renewed hope.
I know I have a lot to do between now and February 13. There are going to be a lot of long days and tough workouts. But today reminded me that I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. That's something I had forgotten.
Next Saturday? Six miles. And I believe I can do it.
Before today, I had not attempted a long (for me) distance since the DNF. I had jumped on the elliptical a few times, and rocked out a couple of brisk miles a time or two. But today, I again had to confront the question of quitting head-on.
It happened realitively early, too. About a mile and a half into the walk, I started getting some inklings of doubt. Thoughts of what I'd rather be doing INSTEAD of what I was doing right then.
But I've learned a bit about myself in this process, and immediately banished the temptation to stop.
Then the thought popped up that I'm not going to be able to finish. But I realized (and argued to myself) that quitting now when I was just starting to get tired would mean that I'd ALWAYS quit. That I would KEEP quitting every time, and that I'd never EVER finish a race. If I was ever going to succeed, if I was ever going to finish, the battle had to be fought here, now, today, on this indoor track.
I had to decide today that I was a finisher.
Three miles down. Past the halfway point and feeling good. Starting to get tired, and a little tight around the hips. At one point, I stopped long enough to touch my toes, stretch out my calves a little, and flex my quads a little to keep them from knotting up.
And sometime during that fourth mile, I began to believe again. Began to really believe that I could do this. That I could become a distance athlete. I started remembering what it felt like to cross the 5K finish line, having gone the distance in previous races. And I started asking, "How much farther can I push myself this time?"
Then four miles were gone.
I had lost the use of my musical motivator back during the second mile. I keep forgetting to charge my iPod (one of those clip-on Shuffles), so the battery finally died today. For most of today's "run" (I'm gonna assume, dear reader, that when I use the word "run," you will understand that I mean the waddling, fast-walking gait I call my pace), all I could hear was my own ragged breath, the thud of my footfalls, and the sound of the other joggers approaching and then passing me. When I felt my steps slowing, I hummed a song to myself to make sure I kept my pace up. Unfortunately, the only useful melody I could remember was by Lady Gaga, but somehow between me and Gaga, I kept my legs pumping and one foot striking ahead of the other.
During the last mile, I had to focus on something other than my fatigue. Different people use different focal points: breathing, visualizing the finish line, observing the environment around them. Today, I started praying for each of my family members. I was able to get through all my immediately family during the last mile. I think I'll definitely use this technique in the future, because at the very least, it's a great chance to talk to God about what's going on, and focusing on something other than myself will definitely keep me from getting down on myself when I'm tired. Like I said, different things for different people, but that's what worked for me.
And then I was done. Five miles, straight through. The longest I've gone without stopping more than a few seconds. Even during the Turkey Trot, the roughly-five-miles was broken up by a couple of 10-20 minute breaks. This time, it was a continuous walk. And I finished with a feeling of accomplishment and renewed hope.
I know I have a lot to do between now and February 13. There are going to be a lot of long days and tough workouts. But today reminded me that I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. That's something I had forgotten.
Next Saturday? Six miles. And I believe I can do it.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Lessons Learned by Losing
So, the DNF. Here's what I learned, following my unfinished Turkey Trot.
1) Sometimes, you have a bad running day. I always hear about this, but when other fitter runners describe this, I always imagine a "bad day" for them being only 6 miles instead of 10. Oh, boo hoo, Mr. 2% Body Fat. The fact is, every run for me is difficult, or at least strenuous. So I wasn't sure what to expect. But yeah, it was a bad day. After the initial adrenaline-fueled push, I crashed immediately. No power, no energy, no enjoyment. It was weird. I just ran out of gas as I approached the end of Mile 2. This is partly a lack of training, because let's be honest: I've been ridiculously lazy. But it was also a bad day.
2) I gave up on myself. Once the fatigue began to set in, so did the doubt. I had the spirit-killing thought, "I'm not going to make it. I'm not able to finish." Instead of destroying this thought, banishing it from my head, I allowed it to hang around, and it began to fester. As I trudged through another mile, and then another, the thought remained. It became part of my rhythm, just like my footfalls and breathing. I'm not gonna make it. I'm not gonna make it. I'm not prepared to finish. I'm not gonna make it.
I convinced myself that I couldn't do it. So I finally threw my hands up and gave up, about halfway through Mile 4. The medics on bikes and the cops in patrol cars had been shadowing me for about a half-hour. I finally said, "When we get to the corner, I'm done." We got there, passing a cheering group of volunteers who then realized that I wasn't continuing, so they turned and started packing up. The medic radioed to the sweeper van, who said they were close. So I waited. And waited. And waited. The van wasn't close, after all.
The shame of quitting became too great, as I saw the side-long looks of volunteers. Finally, I told the guys, "I'm gonna start going, tell the van to find me." The van finally caught up to me about 20 minutes later, another half-mile or more further. The van guy then couldn't get me back to the finish, due to construction, so I still had to hoof it a few more blocks. And then a quarter mile beyond that to my car.
So apparently, I could have finished. Not quickly, not easily, but I could have done it. I just didn't believe in myself enough to gut it out.
3) I actually wasn't prepared. I could have finished, yes, but much slower than I should at this point in my training. I've been lazy, I've been stupid, and I haven't been vigilant on my diet or fitness. And as I'm now nine or so weeks from a half-marathon, I'm...well, terrified. I don't know if I'll be physically prepared to participate in February. It's going to take more willpower and commitment than I have in me right now. My emotions and mindset has been all over the map lately, and I am worried that I'm not physically or mentally strong enough to really buckle down and train. (I recognize this is an excuse.)
I was planning on taking part in a five-mile Jingle Bell Run next Sunday, but I'm just not fast enough to do it, so I didn't sign up. I'm going to cover the distance on my own, or as close to it as I can. Next week, I'll give 6 miles another go, but I really have needed to make running a daily thing, and it hasn't been. I've grabbed on to every excuse possible, and all it's gotten me is that much closer to raceday with nothing to show for it.
As soon as I can finalize a work document tonight, I'm going to ignore the hunger pangs and go to the gym. 40 minutes on the track. No compromises.
(Even as I type that, I'm imagining just going home, eating something easy and bad, and just going to bed. This is the battle I'm fighting right now--how much I even want to try anymore.)
I'll keep you posted.
1) Sometimes, you have a bad running day. I always hear about this, but when other fitter runners describe this, I always imagine a "bad day" for them being only 6 miles instead of 10. Oh, boo hoo, Mr. 2% Body Fat. The fact is, every run for me is difficult, or at least strenuous. So I wasn't sure what to expect. But yeah, it was a bad day. After the initial adrenaline-fueled push, I crashed immediately. No power, no energy, no enjoyment. It was weird. I just ran out of gas as I approached the end of Mile 2. This is partly a lack of training, because let's be honest: I've been ridiculously lazy. But it was also a bad day.
2) I gave up on myself. Once the fatigue began to set in, so did the doubt. I had the spirit-killing thought, "I'm not going to make it. I'm not able to finish." Instead of destroying this thought, banishing it from my head, I allowed it to hang around, and it began to fester. As I trudged through another mile, and then another, the thought remained. It became part of my rhythm, just like my footfalls and breathing. I'm not gonna make it. I'm not gonna make it. I'm not prepared to finish. I'm not gonna make it.
I convinced myself that I couldn't do it. So I finally threw my hands up and gave up, about halfway through Mile 4. The medics on bikes and the cops in patrol cars had been shadowing me for about a half-hour. I finally said, "When we get to the corner, I'm done." We got there, passing a cheering group of volunteers who then realized that I wasn't continuing, so they turned and started packing up. The medic radioed to the sweeper van, who said they were close. So I waited. And waited. And waited. The van wasn't close, after all.
The shame of quitting became too great, as I saw the side-long looks of volunteers. Finally, I told the guys, "I'm gonna start going, tell the van to find me." The van finally caught up to me about 20 minutes later, another half-mile or more further. The van guy then couldn't get me back to the finish, due to construction, so I still had to hoof it a few more blocks. And then a quarter mile beyond that to my car.
So apparently, I could have finished. Not quickly, not easily, but I could have done it. I just didn't believe in myself enough to gut it out.
3) I actually wasn't prepared. I could have finished, yes, but much slower than I should at this point in my training. I've been lazy, I've been stupid, and I haven't been vigilant on my diet or fitness. And as I'm now nine or so weeks from a half-marathon, I'm...well, terrified. I don't know if I'll be physically prepared to participate in February. It's going to take more willpower and commitment than I have in me right now. My emotions and mindset has been all over the map lately, and I am worried that I'm not physically or mentally strong enough to really buckle down and train. (I recognize this is an excuse.)
I was planning on taking part in a five-mile Jingle Bell Run next Sunday, but I'm just not fast enough to do it, so I didn't sign up. I'm going to cover the distance on my own, or as close to it as I can. Next week, I'll give 6 miles another go, but I really have needed to make running a daily thing, and it hasn't been. I've grabbed on to every excuse possible, and all it's gotten me is that much closer to raceday with nothing to show for it.
As soon as I can finalize a work document tonight, I'm going to ignore the hunger pangs and go to the gym. 40 minutes on the track. No compromises.
(Even as I type that, I'm imagining just going home, eating something easy and bad, and just going to bed. This is the battle I'm fighting right now--how much I even want to try anymore.)
I'll keep you posted.
Friday, November 27, 2009
DNF
Made it to around Mile 5, before I gave up and got in the sweeper van.
I'll talk about it later. Let's just say I wasn't prepared for the distance, I'm disappointed in myself, and I'll eventually find the good in this.
I'll talk about it later. Let's just say I wasn't prepared for the distance, I'm disappointed in myself, and I'll eventually find the good in this.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Night Before
Status: I'm sitting here, waiting for clothes to dry, digesting some Chinese (it's called carbo-loading, shut up).
I'm crossing the starting line in less than 11 hours. Beyond that line lay 6.2 miles of road. 10 kilometers. When I was little, I wrongly pronounced it "kill-o-meters." Out of the mouths of babes, huh?
I've hit the gym a few times in the last few weeks, but haven't found a rhythm. I've allowed my life and schedule to get erratic over the last few months, and it's been murder on my motivation and stamina for gym-time. So now, I'm staring down the barrel of 6+ miles when the furthest I've ever walked in a fitness setting is just over half that.
I'm what the Penguin would call "begging for injury." And probably "an idiot."
I never claimed to be bright--just stubborn.
===
I went to pick up my race packet today, a day early because I knew the crowd tomorrow would be larger than any I've dealt with up to this point. Stopped in at Luke's Locker on West Gray, cutting through a line of about a hundred people waiting to get into the Honeybaked Ham store. (Really, people? You can't figure out how to cook Thanksgiving yourself, or ask Momma or Nana to do it? That's sad.)
As I walked through the athletic store to the crowded back section where they were passing out race packets, I passed signs inviting people to "Meet _____ _____" (whose name now escapes me). A man of fifty-five or so stood alone next to a table of books. He was apparently an author who wrote novels (?) about running. He caught my eye and looked up hopefully, like a scruffy dog forlornly wagging his tail once at the sight of a new friend. I smiled and nodded as I passed. Poor guy.
I collected my packet and left, walking past the author who was offering someone a bookmark and asking them if they liked fiction. My heart ached for him in that moment. But I had to get on the road, and get to a meeting.
On the way out the door, one of the race volunteers asked me if I'd like to take part in a pie-eating contest. Now, I knew he meant nothing by it. But there was a moment where I was offended. I was thinking, "Dude, I'm fat, i know, but you see the race packet bag in my hands, don't you?!?" So I laughed, and said, "NO!!! Um, thanks anyway!" I saw their booth across the street. The contest was part of pre-raceday activities and fundraising for Sheltering Arms, the senior-citizens charity sponsoring the race. The thing is, non-runner Dave would have been too embarrassed to take part in such a thing. Runner-Dave now has less shame, but more sense. So, no, well-intentioned volunteer; keep your pie to yourself.
===
Contents of the Race-Packet Gift Bag:
--Race T-shirt. White. Good quality. I paid a couple of bucks extra to get a 2XL, which means I'm only slightly more likely to ever fit into it.
--A Myoplex vanilla nutrition shake.
--A Snickers Marathon nutriton bar. (My favorite, I love these!)
--An LED sensor nightlight from TXU energy.
--Flyers for local businesses (race sponsors), upcoming races, and a foot and ankle fitness/rehab center (HA!)
--Race info, race bib, and timing tag.
Not too shabby, Sheltering Arms Turkey Trot 10K.
===
I'm right now watching the Biggest Loser "Where Are They Now" special. Feeling really inspired. Particularly by Matt Hoover, the early-season winner who gained a lot of weight back. He's now working to get rid of it again, and the special followed him as he fought to complete the Kona Ironman. He was clearly the biggest racer out there, but he didn't give up. The heartbreaking thing is he missed the finisher cut-off time by less than four minutes. But he didn't give up. He said, "I know people look at me and think, he shouldn't be out here. But I don't care, I'm not giving up." And he finished the race. And that attitude is exactly how I feel. I know that tomorrow morning, I'll be the biggest person out there (by a buck fifty, minimum), and there will be people who will see me and think, what in the world is this joker doing here?
But you know what? I'm doing it anyway, because not only will it be good for me, but I know there will be that one guy out there, bigger than your typical runner, who will see me and think, "Shoot, if that fattie can do it, I'm gonna do it too, next time."
I run for that guy. For that girl. For myself.
===
Less than ten hours from right now. 6.2 miles. I'm worried. I'm a bit intimidated, to be honest.
But I'm not giving up.
See you on the other side of that finish.
I'm crossing the starting line in less than 11 hours. Beyond that line lay 6.2 miles of road. 10 kilometers. When I was little, I wrongly pronounced it "kill-o-meters." Out of the mouths of babes, huh?
I've hit the gym a few times in the last few weeks, but haven't found a rhythm. I've allowed my life and schedule to get erratic over the last few months, and it's been murder on my motivation and stamina for gym-time. So now, I'm staring down the barrel of 6+ miles when the furthest I've ever walked in a fitness setting is just over half that.
I'm what the Penguin would call "begging for injury." And probably "an idiot."
I never claimed to be bright--just stubborn.
===
I went to pick up my race packet today, a day early because I knew the crowd tomorrow would be larger than any I've dealt with up to this point. Stopped in at Luke's Locker on West Gray, cutting through a line of about a hundred people waiting to get into the Honeybaked Ham store. (Really, people? You can't figure out how to cook Thanksgiving yourself, or ask Momma or Nana to do it? That's sad.)
As I walked through the athletic store to the crowded back section where they were passing out race packets, I passed signs inviting people to "Meet _____ _____" (whose name now escapes me). A man of fifty-five or so stood alone next to a table of books. He was apparently an author who wrote novels (?) about running. He caught my eye and looked up hopefully, like a scruffy dog forlornly wagging his tail once at the sight of a new friend. I smiled and nodded as I passed. Poor guy.
I collected my packet and left, walking past the author who was offering someone a bookmark and asking them if they liked fiction. My heart ached for him in that moment. But I had to get on the road, and get to a meeting.
On the way out the door, one of the race volunteers asked me if I'd like to take part in a pie-eating contest. Now, I knew he meant nothing by it. But there was a moment where I was offended. I was thinking, "Dude, I'm fat, i know, but you see the race packet bag in my hands, don't you?!?" So I laughed, and said, "NO!!! Um, thanks anyway!" I saw their booth across the street. The contest was part of pre-raceday activities and fundraising for Sheltering Arms, the senior-citizens charity sponsoring the race. The thing is, non-runner Dave would have been too embarrassed to take part in such a thing. Runner-Dave now has less shame, but more sense. So, no, well-intentioned volunteer; keep your pie to yourself.
===
Contents of the Race-Packet Gift Bag:
--Race T-shirt. White. Good quality. I paid a couple of bucks extra to get a 2XL, which means I'm only slightly more likely to ever fit into it.
--A Myoplex vanilla nutrition shake.
--A Snickers Marathon nutriton bar. (My favorite, I love these!)
--An LED sensor nightlight from TXU energy.
--Flyers for local businesses (race sponsors), upcoming races, and a foot and ankle fitness/rehab center (HA!)
--Race info, race bib, and timing tag.
Not too shabby, Sheltering Arms Turkey Trot 10K.
===
I'm right now watching the Biggest Loser "Where Are They Now" special. Feeling really inspired. Particularly by Matt Hoover, the early-season winner who gained a lot of weight back. He's now working to get rid of it again, and the special followed him as he fought to complete the Kona Ironman. He was clearly the biggest racer out there, but he didn't give up. The heartbreaking thing is he missed the finisher cut-off time by less than four minutes. But he didn't give up. He said, "I know people look at me and think, he shouldn't be out here. But I don't care, I'm not giving up." And he finished the race. And that attitude is exactly how I feel. I know that tomorrow morning, I'll be the biggest person out there (by a buck fifty, minimum), and there will be people who will see me and think, what in the world is this joker doing here?
But you know what? I'm doing it anyway, because not only will it be good for me, but I know there will be that one guy out there, bigger than your typical runner, who will see me and think, "Shoot, if that fattie can do it, I'm gonna do it too, next time."
I run for that guy. For that girl. For myself.
===
Less than ten hours from right now. 6.2 miles. I'm worried. I'm a bit intimidated, to be honest.
But I'm not giving up.
See you on the other side of that finish.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
11 Weeks Away
I mapped out my training schedule, using John Bingham's "Walk-Half" program from Marathoning for Mortals. I'm 11 weeks from Surfside. Holy moses, that's close.
I'm also back on a more restricted meal plan, trying to eat better food and start dropping some weight. Which means I'm really irritable right now.
It's Tuesday. Biggest Loser Day. Inspiration. I need it.
There's your status update. Hungry, sleepy, freaked out, and feeling unprepared.
I have a 10K in 9 days. Maybe. We'll see how I'm feeling.
More in a day or two.
I'm also back on a more restricted meal plan, trying to eat better food and start dropping some weight. Which means I'm really irritable right now.
It's Tuesday. Biggest Loser Day. Inspiration. I need it.
There's your status update. Hungry, sleepy, freaked out, and feeling unprepared.
I have a 10K in 9 days. Maybe. We'll see how I'm feeling.
More in a day or two.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Week... I have no idea. We're gonna call it Week 0.
Hello, WBB. You deserve an explanation. I've only got it in me to post a short one. Here goes.
I haven't sincerely trained since the end of September. A few half-hearted sessions in the gym. I also have not been vigilant about my diet. At all.
I'm feeling guilty and fed up. And I want to change.
===
I've completed two 5K races in the last 16 days. The first, on 10/17, was the Huntsville 5K/Half-Marathon sponsored by Hillcrest Ford and the Seven Hills Running Club. With such sponsor names, you would assume I'd be prepared for how hilly the course was. You'd be wrong. By Mile 0.30, I was sucking wind and hitting the rescue inhaler. The cold air was kicking up my asthma and the bronchial tubes in both lungs went on lockdown almost immediately. Thankfully, I was able to get regular breathing again. I finished the course in 1 hour, 4 minutes, and some seconds. Dead last, but successfully across the finish line without a coronary. (The fastest posted time that morning? 18 minutes flat. Crazy.)
The second 5K was this past Saturday, the Monster Mash 5K at the horse/dog racetrack a few miles away. The course wrapped through the parking lot, then through the side of the facility and an underground tunnel onto the field itself. The final mile was spent mostly on a gravel/dirt/mud walking track inside the oval, and then back through the tunnel and across the front of the grandstand and around the corner to the Winner's Circle. I clocked in at 1 hour 1 minute, and some seconds. I was 324th out of 328, successfully beating four women, one under 14, two in their thirties, and one in her sixties. (The fastest time for this one? A seventeen y-o boy finished in less than 16 minutes, posting a 4:57 minute-mile pace. SICK.)
The second race was fun because almost half of the competitors were in costume of some kind. I saw a Supergirl, a giant banana, a giant peanut, Dr. Seuss' Things 1 &2, and all manner of monsters, cowboys, and convicts.
===
The coolest thing about both races was confirming what i've been reading and hearing for months: the running community is predominantly made up of really cool, really nice people. I've been cheered on by so many runners, super-fit runners, people who look like they would have mocked me in high school. I got so much encouragement from people there that I couldn't help but start cheering on others myself (usually those who were so far ahead of me they had already doubled back around and were running back the way I came).
===
I'm back to it this week. There's a 10K on Thanksgiving; I want to try to participate in that. But while I can slog through a 5K without working for it, I don't think I'll be able to finish a 10K in any kind of useful time without training the whole time between now and then.
I haven't given up. Even during my month or so away, I never gave up, and I always felt the nagging feeling i needed to get back to it. But life interrupts. The best we can do is try to adjust.
I'm adjusting. And I'm back.
I haven't sincerely trained since the end of September. A few half-hearted sessions in the gym. I also have not been vigilant about my diet. At all.
I'm feeling guilty and fed up. And I want to change.
===
I've completed two 5K races in the last 16 days. The first, on 10/17, was the Huntsville 5K/Half-Marathon sponsored by Hillcrest Ford and the Seven Hills Running Club. With such sponsor names, you would assume I'd be prepared for how hilly the course was. You'd be wrong. By Mile 0.30, I was sucking wind and hitting the rescue inhaler. The cold air was kicking up my asthma and the bronchial tubes in both lungs went on lockdown almost immediately. Thankfully, I was able to get regular breathing again. I finished the course in 1 hour, 4 minutes, and some seconds. Dead last, but successfully across the finish line without a coronary. (The fastest posted time that morning? 18 minutes flat. Crazy.)
The second 5K was this past Saturday, the Monster Mash 5K at the horse/dog racetrack a few miles away. The course wrapped through the parking lot, then through the side of the facility and an underground tunnel onto the field itself. The final mile was spent mostly on a gravel/dirt/mud walking track inside the oval, and then back through the tunnel and across the front of the grandstand and around the corner to the Winner's Circle. I clocked in at 1 hour 1 minute, and some seconds. I was 324th out of 328, successfully beating four women, one under 14, two in their thirties, and one in her sixties. (The fastest time for this one? A seventeen y-o boy finished in less than 16 minutes, posting a 4:57 minute-mile pace. SICK.)
The second race was fun because almost half of the competitors were in costume of some kind. I saw a Supergirl, a giant banana, a giant peanut, Dr. Seuss' Things 1 &2, and all manner of monsters, cowboys, and convicts.
===
The coolest thing about both races was confirming what i've been reading and hearing for months: the running community is predominantly made up of really cool, really nice people. I've been cheered on by so many runners, super-fit runners, people who look like they would have mocked me in high school. I got so much encouragement from people there that I couldn't help but start cheering on others myself (usually those who were so far ahead of me they had already doubled back around and were running back the way I came).
===
I'm back to it this week. There's a 10K on Thanksgiving; I want to try to participate in that. But while I can slog through a 5K without working for it, I don't think I'll be able to finish a 10K in any kind of useful time without training the whole time between now and then.
I haven't given up. Even during my month or so away, I never gave up, and I always felt the nagging feeling i needed to get back to it. But life interrupts. The best we can do is try to adjust.
I'm adjusting. And I'm back.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Week...what is this? Six? In which our hero realizes that Dr. Pepper's like bad medicine...
...And not the kind of bad medicine he needs.
Howdy, gang.
Week Six. Well, I'd love to tell you that I'm losing a bunch of weight and able to run considerable distances. But I can't, because I'm not.
The whole fit lifestyle gig is a three-sliced pie, according to the Penguin. Those slices are Activity, Sleep, and Diet. Lately, I've been pretty okay on the activity tip--hitting the gym at least 3 times a week, more often 4, plus the last few weeks I've been adding a fifth day for softball. Sleep--well, let's not discuss that. Suffice to say, I don't get enough.
But the diet. See, here's the thing: I've been eating like a fat guy. Not like an athlete. And the needle on the scale (figuratively speaking--it'll be a year or more before a scale with a needle gauge does me any good), she hasn't moved. I've lost a total of about 5 pounds since starting this, according to the scale. This is frustrating, but there are some explanations.
Part of it is that I'm losing fat but gaining muscle, so it balances out weight-wise. But I'm no fool of a Took, so even I realize this is a very small part.
The real issue is that I have been eating like a horse (Clydesdale)--understandably so, since I'm doing a lot more activity, so I need more fuel. However, I haven't exactly been filling up with Supreme Unleaded with Techron, ya dig? And even after my messy public break-up with McDonalds, we still have been seeing each other on the DL. And I've been hitting up the Dr. on a regular basis--it's like, as soon as i started doing something good for myself, this old vice creeps up again.
If I'm gonna get anywhere with this, or have any chance of distance waggling, I need to lose weight, so I'm carrying less around for thirteen-point-one miles. It's well past time to get militant about the diet.
So this week (two days), I have been on point and on plan, like a good little Weight Watching soldier. Have I already dipped into my extra-points bank? Yes. (Post-softball-revelry is hard on a diet.) But I'm sticking with it. Although, I'm ravenous at the moment.
Hopefully, as this becomes comfortable again, I won't be hungry all the time. It usually takes a week or two to get over that initial "shock" to the system.
It's after five, so I've gotta go. Elliptical machines wait for no man.
Howdy, gang.
Week Six. Well, I'd love to tell you that I'm losing a bunch of weight and able to run considerable distances. But I can't, because I'm not.
The whole fit lifestyle gig is a three-sliced pie, according to the Penguin. Those slices are Activity, Sleep, and Diet. Lately, I've been pretty okay on the activity tip--hitting the gym at least 3 times a week, more often 4, plus the last few weeks I've been adding a fifth day for softball. Sleep--well, let's not discuss that. Suffice to say, I don't get enough.
But the diet. See, here's the thing: I've been eating like a fat guy. Not like an athlete. And the needle on the scale (figuratively speaking--it'll be a year or more before a scale with a needle gauge does me any good), she hasn't moved. I've lost a total of about 5 pounds since starting this, according to the scale. This is frustrating, but there are some explanations.
Part of it is that I'm losing fat but gaining muscle, so it balances out weight-wise. But I'm no fool of a Took, so even I realize this is a very small part.
The real issue is that I have been eating like a horse (Clydesdale)--understandably so, since I'm doing a lot more activity, so I need more fuel. However, I haven't exactly been filling up with Supreme Unleaded with Techron, ya dig? And even after my messy public break-up with McDonalds, we still have been seeing each other on the DL. And I've been hitting up the Dr. on a regular basis--it's like, as soon as i started doing something good for myself, this old vice creeps up again.
If I'm gonna get anywhere with this, or have any chance of distance waggling, I need to lose weight, so I'm carrying less around for thirteen-point-one miles. It's well past time to get militant about the diet.
So this week (two days), I have been on point and on plan, like a good little Weight Watching soldier. Have I already dipped into my extra-points bank? Yes. (Post-softball-revelry is hard on a diet.) But I'm sticking with it. Although, I'm ravenous at the moment.
Hopefully, as this becomes comfortable again, I won't be hungry all the time. It usually takes a week or two to get over that initial "shock" to the system.
It's after five, so I've gotta go. Elliptical machines wait for no man.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
"Dear Ron" Letter
My dearest Micki D,
We've been together for...ever, really. As long as I can remember, you've been a part of my life. When I was a child, I used to beg my parents to let me go to your house, because lunch with you made me happy, and you always shared your toys.
As I grew, my appetite for your companionship grew as well. My love for you was super-sized, and your affect on me multiplied. Sometimes, in high school, my busy schedule with work and sports kept us from seeing each other so often, and the lack of companionship was as plain to see.
But with college, and especially in the early part of my post-college career, our relationship was renewed, and it deepened daily. I'd stop by and see you in the mornings on my way to work, and sometimes immediately after work, on my way home. You welcomed me at your window, and bestowed your paper-wrapped presents on me.
This affection we shared grew to a deep love, freely refilled day by day. And it's been great, Micki. Really. Believe me when I say, I'm lovin' it.
But something has happened to me. I've started making changes in my life. And I have to confess--I just don't think we can see each other anymore.
It's not you. You've been great. I just don't know if our relationship has been healthy for me. I know I'm the only one to blame in this; you never claimed to be anything but what you are, and I loved you for that. And lately, as you have emphasized your particular values, I have to confess that loving you has never been cheaper or easier.
However, in the last few months, sneaking off to see you has left me feeling guilty every time. I try to pretend I'm only an acquaintance, and sometimes even lie about our trysts. I can't do that anymore.
You've been great, Micki. Really. But my life is taking me down new roads. And you can't come with me this time.
I'm really sorry. But we're through. If we cross paths in the future, it's okay to wave, or say hi. But we can never be this close again.
Know that you will always have a quarter-pound of my heart.
Your special sauce,
Dave
P.S. If you see your sister Wendy, tell her I need to talk to her, okay?
We've been together for...ever, really. As long as I can remember, you've been a part of my life. When I was a child, I used to beg my parents to let me go to your house, because lunch with you made me happy, and you always shared your toys.
As I grew, my appetite for your companionship grew as well. My love for you was super-sized, and your affect on me multiplied. Sometimes, in high school, my busy schedule with work and sports kept us from seeing each other so often, and the lack of companionship was as plain to see.
But with college, and especially in the early part of my post-college career, our relationship was renewed, and it deepened daily. I'd stop by and see you in the mornings on my way to work, and sometimes immediately after work, on my way home. You welcomed me at your window, and bestowed your paper-wrapped presents on me.
This affection we shared grew to a deep love, freely refilled day by day. And it's been great, Micki. Really. Believe me when I say, I'm lovin' it.
But something has happened to me. I've started making changes in my life. And I have to confess--I just don't think we can see each other anymore.
It's not you. You've been great. I just don't know if our relationship has been healthy for me. I know I'm the only one to blame in this; you never claimed to be anything but what you are, and I loved you for that. And lately, as you have emphasized your particular values, I have to confess that loving you has never been cheaper or easier.
However, in the last few months, sneaking off to see you has left me feeling guilty every time. I try to pretend I'm only an acquaintance, and sometimes even lie about our trysts. I can't do that anymore.
You've been great, Micki. Really. But my life is taking me down new roads. And you can't come with me this time.
I'm really sorry. But we're through. If we cross paths in the future, it's okay to wave, or say hi. But we can never be this close again.
Know that you will always have a quarter-pound of my heart.
Your special sauce,
Dave
P.S. If you see your sister Wendy, tell her I need to talk to her, okay?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Week 4--in which I start having panicky doubts about this whole process...
It's funny how fragile this whole thing is. As stated, I took Friday off to get ready for the party, and Saturday off to recover from it. Sunday was my usual off-day, and Monday, rather than go work out, I decided to run some errands and get some other things done. By my logic, this would make it easier to get my gym time in.
Yesterday, I actually got home early, and worked from home for a couple of hours. As the clock approached five, I knew I had to get up, get dressed, and go. But I didn't want to.
Then I heard it. That soft voice that pulled at me like a siren's call. The voice of Fat Dave. Quitter Dave. Weak Dave. That voice said, "Stay home. You're too tired. Lie down on the couch and nap. You don't want to go outside in the heat."
I nearly fell for it. I even lay down on the couch for a few moments. I thought, "I'm hungry, I'm sleepy, I'm stressed out. I don't need this. I can stay home and vege out."
But then I heard another voice. A new voice, one I'm still not familiar with. Fit Dave. Finisher Dave. Strong Dave. That voice said, "You need to get up and go. You'll hate yourself if you don't. You've got a goal to reach, and you won't get there by laying around day after day. Get up. You'll feel better afterward."
I still wasn't sure if I could trust that second voice, but I got up and went to the gym. I did another elliptical session, 33 minutes, 2 miles. Felt like a lighter workout somehow. Worked up a good lather, though, so I felt good about that.
Here's the crazy thing. As I stumbled out the doors of the gym, across the parking lot toward my truck, under the fading dusk and the halogen glow, I felt like an athlete. I ignored the reality of my bouncing gut, my wobbly arms, my cankles, my bulbous and fatty knees, my double-wide backside. I was exhausted but I actually felt like I did back in high school, walking off a football field or basketball court. Winded, weary, but satisfied.
Turns out Fit Dave was right. I did feel good.
=====
This week, I've started second-guessing myself. I've started wondering what madness I experienced, signing up for a half-marathon. It seems like my walks are getting shorter, not longer. And I'm not losing any weight, which is frustrating as can be. (I'm pretty sure this has everything to do with diet, and that's an area I'm still really lazy in. I haven't "pointed" anything in a week or two.)
But the doubts are now creeping in. This is usually the time in any new fad of mine where my interest flags and I give up. Actually, for diet and fitness things, this is approaching one of the longest streaks of my post-collegiate life. The best I ever did was six months of militant Weight Watchers adherence, which got me a net loss of 60 pounds (lasting about 6 months after that point).
Don't get nervous, I'm not giving up. I'm in this for the long haul, and I hope by the grace of God to be typing here at this very site, a year from now, two, three even, and rejoice in the fact that I was able to accomplish so much.
I'm just documenting this first wave of self-doubt. Hopefully, in order to get it out of my system and move on.
=====
I'm going to set a doctor appointment soon, to get a quick mid-year check-up before really ramping up the training. Not looking forward to that. See, I promised him that the next time I saw him, I'd have lost 100 pounds, and if I hadn't, we'd seriously talk about weight-loss surgery. I shook on it with him. I don't want to go back, six months later, with only 20 (...16) pounds lost, talking all this noise about half-marathons. I want to be able to show him results. But on the other hand, I know I need to get his sign-off, to make myself feel better if nothing else. That would give me all the reassurance I need to press on into this, to get more intense about training, so that I can reach the very high but not out of reach goals I've set for myself.
=====
I'm starving. Seriously hungry. Time to grab some grub and then hit the track.
Yesterday, I actually got home early, and worked from home for a couple of hours. As the clock approached five, I knew I had to get up, get dressed, and go. But I didn't want to.
Then I heard it. That soft voice that pulled at me like a siren's call. The voice of Fat Dave. Quitter Dave. Weak Dave. That voice said, "Stay home. You're too tired. Lie down on the couch and nap. You don't want to go outside in the heat."
I nearly fell for it. I even lay down on the couch for a few moments. I thought, "I'm hungry, I'm sleepy, I'm stressed out. I don't need this. I can stay home and vege out."
But then I heard another voice. A new voice, one I'm still not familiar with. Fit Dave. Finisher Dave. Strong Dave. That voice said, "You need to get up and go. You'll hate yourself if you don't. You've got a goal to reach, and you won't get there by laying around day after day. Get up. You'll feel better afterward."
I still wasn't sure if I could trust that second voice, but I got up and went to the gym. I did another elliptical session, 33 minutes, 2 miles. Felt like a lighter workout somehow. Worked up a good lather, though, so I felt good about that.
Here's the crazy thing. As I stumbled out the doors of the gym, across the parking lot toward my truck, under the fading dusk and the halogen glow, I felt like an athlete. I ignored the reality of my bouncing gut, my wobbly arms, my cankles, my bulbous and fatty knees, my double-wide backside. I was exhausted but I actually felt like I did back in high school, walking off a football field or basketball court. Winded, weary, but satisfied.
Turns out Fit Dave was right. I did feel good.
=====
This week, I've started second-guessing myself. I've started wondering what madness I experienced, signing up for a half-marathon. It seems like my walks are getting shorter, not longer. And I'm not losing any weight, which is frustrating as can be. (I'm pretty sure this has everything to do with diet, and that's an area I'm still really lazy in. I haven't "pointed" anything in a week or two.)
But the doubts are now creeping in. This is usually the time in any new fad of mine where my interest flags and I give up. Actually, for diet and fitness things, this is approaching one of the longest streaks of my post-collegiate life. The best I ever did was six months of militant Weight Watchers adherence, which got me a net loss of 60 pounds (lasting about 6 months after that point).
Don't get nervous, I'm not giving up. I'm in this for the long haul, and I hope by the grace of God to be typing here at this very site, a year from now, two, three even, and rejoice in the fact that I was able to accomplish so much.
I'm just documenting this first wave of self-doubt. Hopefully, in order to get it out of my system and move on.
=====
I'm going to set a doctor appointment soon, to get a quick mid-year check-up before really ramping up the training. Not looking forward to that. See, I promised him that the next time I saw him, I'd have lost 100 pounds, and if I hadn't, we'd seriously talk about weight-loss surgery. I shook on it with him. I don't want to go back, six months later, with only 20 (...16) pounds lost, talking all this noise about half-marathons. I want to be able to show him results. But on the other hand, I know I need to get his sign-off, to make myself feel better if nothing else. That would give me all the reassurance I need to press on into this, to get more intense about training, so that I can reach the very high but not out of reach goals I've set for myself.
=====
I'm starving. Seriously hungry. Time to grab some grub and then hit the track.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
