Races Like a Girl

Oy yoy yoy. I have been up to my eyeballs in work lately. As a freelancer, this is a beautiful thing. Because now I can afford some fancy new running duds. But as a human being with outside interests — like, um, running — it sucks!

Miraculously, despite the 12+ hour days (including weekends), I have managed to stick to my training schedule most of the time. I think my next race is a 10-miler in Nyack on September 10. But that depends. On. How much work. I get done. Before. Then.

Since I last posted, we had a horrific heat wave. I believe it topped 106 on one day. Whee! The good news is I’ve finally become acclimated to running outside in the summer here. So much so, that on days with reasonably low humidity, I am flying down the road like the road runner now, even in the heat. Now I’m wondering how fast I’ll be once the fall arrives and it’s actually pleasantly cool outside.

I’ve also lost just over 7 pounds since early July, which must help with the speed as well. The other day at Costco I hefted a “twin chicken” package — around 8 pounds — and realized that I’ve been running around with the equivalent of two chickens on my back (or thighs and rear end is more like it; “Hey, chicken ass!”). It’s great to have those damned chickens off my back.

Since I’m running faster and beginning to see glimpses of muscle under the blubber, I’m inspired to remain on the Bunny Food Diet: wall to wall salad and no wine allowed on weekdays. Again — whee!

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In the last installment, My running history: Part 1, we learned what drew me into regular running in the first place, after a few false starts.

That was in the spring of 1999. So, you ask, what happened after I started running?

Well, for one thing, I was totally out of shape. I couldn’t walk up the stairs in our house without getting slightly winded. So, I strapped on the shoes I’d bought in one of my previous abortive attempts to become fit and headed down to the local park. There, I discovered just how unfit I really was.

At 34, I should have been in my prime, right? Sadly, I was not. I could run, very slowly, for about 200 feet. Then I’d have to stop because I was so out of breath. So, for the first few weeks, I’d just run little distances, then walk for a bit, then run for a few more hundred feet, then walk, etc. I would do this over a distance of under a mile.

Eventually, I was able to run more and walk less, and after about a month and a half, I could actually run the entire mile. I wasn’t keeping records, but I guesstimate that I was running about a 12-13 minute mile at that point.

Then I started adding distance. I wish I could say that I didn’t worry about speed, but I was always trying to go faster. Looking back, I realize now that this was a mistake. I could have become comfortable running over longer distance much, much earlier had I just concentrated on distance and not speed.

Here’s the really sad part. I ran like this for several years: Running too fast, getting winded because I had to stop, and never really reaching the point of being aerobically conditioned. I know this because I would get terrible headaches if I tried to run farther than 5 miles. It never ocurred to me that there was a better way. “Training” wasn’t even anything I could conceive of. I was just trying to run.

Finally, around 2003, through sheer force of will I got to the point where I could run seven miles at a decent pace (perhaps around 10.5 minute mile average). But I wasn’t happy about this because running seven miles was still very difficult — lots of heavy breathing and aching legs — and I couldn’t conceive of ever being able to run farther than that; I also wasn’t losing any weight, which had been a goal.

I recognize now that part of the problem was my inability to tolerate running in extreme weather. Since I wasn’t fit in the first place, running in the heat/humidity of NY summers was impossible. Where I could tolerate running when the weather was comfortable, that went out the window when weather was bad. As a result, my regular running would drop off dramatically in June and not pick up again until September. In that time, I’d lose what little conditioning I had gained in the spring. Then, when the snow and ice appeared, and the amount of daylight decreased dramatically, my running would drop off again January through early March and whatever I’d gained in the fall would be lost. So I was constantly slipping backwards rather than moving forwards.

In early 2004, I decided to become more committed to my running. I bought a treadmill in order to allow me to run year round, no matter what the weather or daylight was outside. And, unlike most people, I actually used the treadmill (and still do today) for running rather than as a clothes rack.

That’s it for Part 2 of my saga. In Part 3, we’ll learn what happened between 2004 and today, including my discovery of the concept of “training” — and the birth of my racing career (cough cough).

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Like lots of people, I have a checkered running past. Here’s the first installment.

I was not a runner as a kid. In fact, I hated taking track and field in high school. It seemed like a form of torture, with a never ending selection of activities that seemed designed not to be interesting or fun, but merely to cause physical pain and spiritual misery. Jumping over hurdles, running 100 yards so fast you wanted to puke, leaping over a bar with a huge, bent pole. What was the point?

So, I rejected running as a youth.

It’s odd that I did this, considering that my father took up running in the early 70s, when I was around eight years old, and through the 70s and 80s ran seriously, completing several marathons. Did I ever bother to ask him about his running? Of course not. I just thought my dad was crazy. What kid doesn’t?

During the late 80s, I was reasonably athletic, mostly owing to the fact that I had no money and no car and usually lived far from where I worked and from the public transportation required to get me there. So I did a lot of walking. I also bought a bike and tooled around on that sometimes. But I was basically a clueless blob. But I was thin (see the “no money” part above), if not healthy.

At the dawn of the 90s, I fell in love and, as so many people do, became fat, happy and “settled” over the subsequent years. I was no stranger to large bags of Doritos (Cool Ranch Flavor), Boston Creme Donuts and mashed potatoes. Like a lot of people who gain weight slowly, I wasn’t really aware of how I looked most of the time. But I’d see myself in a photo and think, “Sweet Jesus, I’ve gotten fat!” — at which time I would resolve to do something about it.

And I would try. I bought some running shoes and tried to run. But my knees would hurt and I’d give up after not seeing dramatic weight loss after 6 weeks (never mind that I’d not bothered to change any of my eating habits). I did this two or three times over the years.

Then a confluence of events that served to change my attitude happened. I ran into a few people I’d not seen in a while who had previously been fat and who had since gotten into shape. I was impressed and saw the possiblities. I also had taken up hiking, which was enjoyable, but often very difficult given how out of shape I was. I wanted to be a better hiker. And on my birthday in 1999, some visiting family members bought me a big honkin’ chocolate Easter bunny. The giant bunny was the last straw and psychological turning point. I decided that after I ate the bunny, I would commit to becoming fitter. And so, my running career was born in the spring of 1999, just after my 34th birthday.

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Okay, this is a pet peeve of mine.

I run along similar streets and paths nearly every day. I see lots of the same people several times per week — people I’ve been seeing for years. 95% of them acknowledge my friendly wave, head nod or spoken “hi”.

But there’s a small minority who don’t engage in any way whatsoever. After a few tries, I finally gave up, and when I pass them, I return their stony, robotic silence, since saying hello seems pointless.

I have admiration for anyone who laces up a pair of shoes and goes out walking or running and, as such, I’ve always felt there’s a natural camaraderie amongst us all. Besides, it’s generally accepted that you acknowledge people you see constantly, no matter how tangential or insignificant the relationship.

One pattern I’ve noticed (or maybe it’s just a coincidence) is that a lot of the “don’t say hello” people look like serious runners. They have special wraparound sunglasses on, 4% body fat, impressive running gear. So maybe their attitude is that they’re so busy concentrating on their run, they can’t be bothered saying hello. I can sort of understand that. When you’re doing something like intervals, where you need to focus on speed and distance, you can’t worry about socializing. But I always see these people when they’re just running along, doing what looks like an easy or tempo run — something that doesn’t require a tremendous amount of concentration.

So, I’ve concluded that the people who don’t say hello are one of these:

• Nuts
• Extremely shy
• Miserable gits
• Blind

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