Run, Lee-Lee, Run

Yoga in the Park

2012-01-15T17:27:00.000-08:00

I've been going to this yoga class in Tampa's Curtis Hixon Waterfront Park for many months now, and I've often wished I'd taken pictures of the park, the setting sun, and the people. But I never do, because I don't want to disrupt my practice. But this evening I did the unspeakable: I took my phone from my purse just as we were going into Savasana (the shame!) and snapped two quick pics of my view.

This may just look like a square, but it is actually a cutout of the pavilion I was lying under for this evening's practice. When looking straight up, I didn't notice all the people around me, and it felt as if this opening to the sky were just for me. It was my own personal window to nature above that blocked out all visual distractions surrounding me, as if to say, here is your focus. Nothing else matters.

And this is the gorgeous skyline that we get to see--usually from a much better angle--during every Sunday yoga practice in the park. We're very lucky to have this free (donation-based) class in Tampa. As much as I love practicing in a studio, being in this beautiful outdoor setting feels completely right and natural.

Ragnar Relay, Part II: Race Report

2012-01-09T15:14:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about how I would recap my little excursion since the night I rode into Miami. I knew it would be difficult, as so many components make up this relay-race adventure. So in Lee fashion, I present to you a list.

Navigation
I'll say up front that I had very little navigating to do, but navigation--both for drivers and for runners--was a HUGE part of this trip. Driving around Miami is no easy task on an ordinary day, never mind the added pressures of a timed race, rush-hour traffic, and 500 vans in town for the same event. Several group members were talking about how differently the race might have functioned without the aid of smart phones. Van navigation aside, runners also had to navigate their courses based on maps that came in the Ragnar Bible (yes, this exists), and stories of getting lost began ruminating across teams after the first couple of legs. Luckily, I had mostly straightaways; but I think some of the exchange points were confusingly set up for runners, who had to sometimes make a U-turn or wind around a structure to get on course.
Runs
I wasn't entirely sure how to approach these runs. I knew I needed to race, but I wasn't sure if I should give them my all or try to preserve energy for other legs. I pretty much gave my all and ran about three 5Ks in 20 hours. My first leg, a 3.6-miler, was probably the most enjoyable, as it was cold and dark out, and I was almost completely alone along a gravel trail next to a pasture. It felt very adventuresome. On my second run of 2.9 miles, I ran my fastest race ever; although, it's impossible to make comparisons to it because there aren't many 2.9-mile races out there. But I did it in 23:36, and I think that I could have maintained that pace for another .2 miles, which would have been a PR for a 5K distance. But that's all projection. The last run--3.5 miles--was horrid, as it was around 4:00pm in the Keys with the sun blazing on my face with no cloud cover, and my body was just exhausted from the two previous runs and the lack of sleep. I got a little bit of bridge time, though, which made me happy.
Exchanges
I loved these parts of the race. Each exchange between runners was new and exciting for me. Not only was it fun to witness the literal transition of energy among teammates, but knowing that your teammate made it through his or her portion of the race successfully was reassuring, as it was not always a given that he or she would do so. And when it was my to receive the slap bracelet from the preceding runner, I felt pumped full of nerves and energy, while preparing to pass on the bracelet to the next runner brought great relief that I'd finished my leg. Also, the exchanges were where the majority of cheering occurred--not only for our own teammates, but for all of the runners coming through the exchange points. It was a fun race to witness as well as to partake in.
Porta-potties
These things were so much a part of the race that an actual porta-potty culture developed. It's not difficult to imagine the amount of bathroom breaks needed for six runners (per van), each of whom is trying to stay hydrated and each of whom has his or her own unique bodily rhythm, if you will. So every exchange point, for the most part, had a cluster of porta-potties where racers could do their business. But because these toilet closets tended to run out of toilet paper quickly, runners brought their own tp rolls or sheets or sani-wipes to the porta-potty clusters. And because much of the race took place in the dark, runners also wore their head lamps so they knew what they were--or hopefully were not--getting into. And because we were usually far from running water and soap, hand sanitizer was another popular item to carry the clusters. I know many people are squeamish about using porta-potties, but you get over that quickly in this environment. When you gotta go, you must use a porta-potty.
Gear
I don't like running in gear. I don't even like wearing headphones because they constitute gear. However, for safety reasons, each team had to remain in a reflective vest from 4:30pm to 7:30am--regardless of whether we were running or not. And each runner during these hours had to also wear a headlamp and a butt light (usually a small, flashing light that clips onto clothing). I'm not saying these items were not warranted--I'm very thankful that I had mine during my one night run; but maintaining all of the pieces and keeping track of them in the van was sometimes pesky. And we each had to wear our race bib for each leg of the run, and changing clothes for each run made that a bit difficult as well. Neglecting to wear any one of these things could have resulted in a penalty for the team. But we all got through it without incident, except for a couple of broken pieces here and there.
Sleep
Or lack thereof. It's not that we didn't have any opportunity to sleep, but I'm not that person who can fall asleep anywhere under any circumstances. I unfortunately require certain conditions to fall asleep, like room to stretch out my legs, room to roll over from side to side, the ability to rub my feet together without bothering anyone, cool air with a comfortable blanket, peace . . . to name a few things. I wish this weren't the case, but it is. So, during the four-hour block of time we had at night while van 1 was running their second legs, my attempt at sleeping in the cold on a van seat with no room to stretch and commotion from other van activity around me was not successful. I must have fallen asleep at some point, though, because I remember I had a dream (which escapes me now). Once our van started running our legs again around 4:30am, there wouldn't be another chance to sleep until about 10:00am when we were at the next major exchange point (the "major" exchange points were schools and the like with real restrooms and sometimes showers). I tried again there, even after a shower, but sleep escaped me. But I knew to expect this, and it didn't seem to bother me too much until after the race was finished and I became a diva for a moment, demanding food and a shower. Apparently lack of sleep can cause crankiness in some people.
Food
I knew that our access to food would be limited, so I came prepared with plenty of snacks and a couple of meal-type foods, like soup. I'm a snacker by nature, so I didn't mind eating this way. The problem was knowing when or whether to eat after the night of hardly any sleep, aware that I still had two legs to run. The digestive system is not made for this type of activity, and I think several of us suffered from improper digestion or lack of sufficient or the right nutrition. My stomach is temperamental anyway when I run, so adding this odd mix of sleeplessness, anxiousness, and continual races made it all out of whack. But nothing too detrimental happened; after all, we had all of the porta-potties to visit.
Competition, or "kills"
While I call the other teams competition, they really were a great part of the fun. We knew many runners on the other teams from other Tampa running groups, and we made some new friends along the way. A couple of those teams were neck-in-neck with us at the exchanges, so it gave us (or at least me) even more of a reason to want to excel. Okay, I'll admit that there was a cute guy I'd met at a New Year's Eve party who happened to be on one of the Tampa teams, and beating him was enticing. I think we did, in the end. But aside from team competition, apparently it has become custom among Ragnar regulars to keep track of how many runners an individual runner passes on his or leg. These are "kills." I think I had a total of nine, but someone on our team had around 44, if I'm not mistaken. She ran a lot more miles than I did, though :)
Support
Supporting our team's runners came in several forms: cheering them on at exchanges, meeting them halfway through their runs to offer water (and more cheers), and generally watching out for their safety and well-being. Our van was big on the first two forms, as we didn't really have runs through sketchy parts of town like the other van did and therefore didn't have to be as vigilant about safety. And vans were allowed to "leapfrog" their runner if they desired; they just couldn't shadow the runner and follow behind. I think part of the reasoning is that the burden of directions was meant to fall on the runner. I think that for the most part all of our van members went to all 18 exchange points and hailed in one runner while sending off the next with plenty of yelling and whooping. And in the middle of some of the longer runs, we had water or sports drinks ready for our runners, often running along side them so they didn't have to carry the bottle. On one of the later runs, we became more creative and started doing the wave for each runner who passed, while we waited for ours. Some of the runners appreciated it and even partook in it. But it was a way to keep ourselves entertained as well.
Camaraderie
This was what made it all worthwhile. There's no way to avoid growing closer with your van mates in particular, but also with your team. You spend continuous hours with each other in less than comfortable circumstances, and you must all trust, help, and rely on each other to meet a common goal. My team certainly didn't have me in mind when they first registered for this race; in fact, they didn't even know me then. And one of my biggest hesitations before committing to the race was whether I'd be a good fit for the team (as noted in my earlier post). But I'm now incredibly grateful to have had the opportunity to run with these folks, each of whom differs in personality and athleticism. I can honestly say that I had one of the best experiences of my life during this race.

The Ragnar finishing results have been posted, and the Flatwoods Degenerates placed 10th out of 246 teams, with a final time of 27:42:49. Woot-woot!

Ragnar Relay, Part I

2012-01-05T16:53:00.001-08:00

So, never mind that earlier stuff about taking it easy with the running and not worrying about speed. I am currently en route to Miami to run a 199-mile group relay race to Key West.

I was "called in," as I like to think of it, to join some friends' group after one of their members had to back out at the last minute.

After some hours of contemplation, research, and Q&A, I decided to go for it. The physical challenge would not be too demanding; I'd be running no more than 3.6 miles in one leg, and the three legs would be separated by hours in between while the other 11 members ran.

What I was more concerned about was sharing very close quarters for hours on end with running friends I've been slowly getting to know over the past eight months. This would be a fast-forward in our relationship that I wasn't sure I was ready for. I like to control the pace of my relationships, and this trip would surely take some control away from me. In the end, I decided it would be good for me. And now I'm glad I'm doing it.

Now, however, I'm concerned about my running pace. Since the legs I'm running are all short (comparatively), I'll be expected to practically sprint them. This isn't something I'm particularly comfortable with, as speed isn't my forte, nor have I prepared for it, given the day-before notice.

But I will do my best. Knowing that 11 other team members will be waiting for me will help propel me through the runs.

As we near Miami, I look forward to a good night's sleep in a hotel and a morning shower before I spend at least 24 hours in a van with smelly runners and little room to stretch out.

Go Flatwood Degenerates!

(Race report to follow.)

Some Running Resolutions (ha, ha)

2012-01-03T11:06:00.000-08:00

I love making lists and rules for myself, so the fact that I haven't made any formal new year resolutions is baffling to me. But in light of the fact that I do these things for myself year-round, I suppose it makes sense. Nevertheless, here are some running/fitness goals that I would like to accomplish this year:

Run a sub-2:10 half-marathon. This may still be slower than my first and fastest half-marathon (2:08:something), but it would be a decent improvement to the past four halves I've run.
Run stronger. Not to be confused with faster.
Run faster. But only if I can run stronger.
Run in new places. There are many local trails I have yet to experience.
Run with new people. But still cherish the solo runs.
Plan for a fall marathon. I'm thinking Chicago (again) or Marine Corps.
Keep yoga in the mix. It saves me.
Run barefoot. Just because.
Volunteer at a race. It's past time I give back.
Take breaks from running. My body will thank me.

Now that I've shown you mine, you show me yours.

Diversifying

2011-12-29T15:20:00.000-08:00

In an effort to allow my persistent running injuries to heal but not abandon training altogether, I've taken on a couple of new endeavors. The one most outside of my comfort zone is Tampa CrossBoot. This is a type of training that, to quote the website, "embodies the camaraderie and team effort of fitness bootcamps and the strength and conditioning concepts of CrossFit." But since that doesn't tell you much if you're already unfamiliar with those two types of training, here are some highlights from my first class:

I forgot how to jump rope. I paid for this memory lapse with 20 burpees (the penalty for each mess-up was 5 burpees. You do the math). I've since bought a jumprope so I can practice.
Mountain-climbers are not meant for Floridians.
I kind of liked getting dirty. All of our exercises were done outside at a local park. It felt good to not fear the dirt.
I couldn't do everything (or all reps), and that was okay. People really did work at their own pace, but that was no excuse to slack. I still wanted to do my best, even when I was falling apart.
I hate burpees. I must have done 100 that night (although, as the night went on, my form faltered, and applying the term "burpee" to what I was doing became questionable). I really hope they'll grow on me.
The regulars at the class were super intimidating but super nice. They would often encourage my friend and me, who were obvious newbies. That kindness almost made me want to cry. That and the burpees.
I couldn't walk normally for a week. A whole week.
I felt stronger for just going.

I've returned to the class once so far (after my thighs finally stopped aching), and I prepaid for 10 more classes. I knew that was the only way to make myself keep going. This is my commitment to myself to have less fear and to not limit myself physically or mentally.

The second new thing I'm doing is strength training at the gym. I was given a membership to the USF rec center by a coworker who decided she wasn't going to use it for herself but didn't want it to go to waste. Around the same time, a running friend, who actually works for the rec center, was getting back into a strength-training routing after some time off. She invited me to join her twice a week in the morning before work. As I'm prone to overdoing things, I decided that the first time I'd meet with her would be the morning after my first night of CrossBoot. I figured that I wouldn't feel the pain of the previous night's workout quite yet, so my body wouldn't know to hold back (I found out soon enough who won that little game). My friend had a program printed out from her previous trainer, so all we had to do was follow that. We did a cardio warmup, bench presses, assisted pull-ups, overhead squats, lunges, pushups, some horizontal under-the-bar pull-up that I hated, and possibly a couple other things I can't remember. I got to know my way around the gym and learn a lot of the equipment--something I was always afraid to do on my own. My performance was pretty weak, as my body felt tired from the night before and I just wasn't very strong. (To give you an example, I needed my body weight plus 50 lbs. of assistance to do a pull-up. So imagine someone 50 lbs. heavier than me lifting me. Really difficult, huh?) The (only) good thing about starting out with little ability is that I can only get better. I went back twice the next week, and I've even gone back by myself while my friend has been out of town during the holiday break. I can't say I stuck to the same program, but I did do some exploring.

It's fun to do new things. I'm still running a few times per week, but I'm not pushing speed too much, and I'm not doing more than eight miles. I'm also trying to keep yoga in my weekly training, ideally twice per week, but I'm not necessarily looking for the power or strength-based yoga classes like I previously did. I like the milder, more centering classes right now.

It's been easy to fit all of this into my schedule the past couple of weeks, as I've hardly had to go into work due to the holidays. The real challenge will be incorporating it into my daily schedule when I go back to real life next week.

Race Report: Women's Half Marathon

2011-11-23T07:50:00.001-08:00

This past Sunday, I ran for the third consecutive year in the Women's Running Magazine Women's Half Marathon in St. Petersburg, Florida. The Women's Half is the first half-marathon I ever ran, so it is a somewhat sentimental race for me. In the past two years, I'd trained exclusively for this race in the months leading up to it. This year, however, I had trained mainly for the Chicago Marathon, which occurred about six weeks prior to this race. So those six weeks were not terribly focused or dedicated training weeks; they were more like let's-see-what-I-can-pull-out-of-this-body-before-the-race weeks. I did manage to pull out some long runs, and I even improved my pace since the marathon. But having only given my body one week of rest directly after the marathon, I still had some lingering wear and tear that hadn't yet healed. I conversed with a runner-friend about this, and that conversation led me to think that pain is just a fact of running. Something is always going to hurt, and, as my friend said, it just moves around to different places in the body; once one thing heals, something else goes awry.

And this is the mindset in which I entered race day. My shins had been hurting in the past weeks, my left leg and buttock were tight from a piriformis injury, and I had a relatively new pain in my right hamstring. But I did all I could in the previous days, stretching, strengthening, icing, massaging, rolling--the usual. I knew I could run through all of these things and that, most likely, I would not cause further injury; I'd just suffer through the pain. It's what we do, right?

So when I began my 13.1-mile treck, I expected to feel these pains. But I didn't. Instead of feeling any one particular ache, I soon began to feel an overall resistance in my body. Granted, some of this is normal; it is unnatural to run such a distance if not being chased. This is why we must train for three or four months. But what I felt was more than the usual struggle. My body was tired, and it was telling me during each mile that it wanted to stop. Yet I kept telling it to push. We played this tug-of-war, my body and my mind, throughout the now familiar course that took us through the tree-lined streets of downtown St. Pete, along the waterside, around the pier, and finally through the Tropicana Field in the penultimate mile. On approaching the pier, around mile 8, signs were posted every fifty feet or so describing Katherine Switzer's moving story about running the 1967 Boston Marathon. She was the first woman to officially enter a marathon, but race officials still tried to forcibly remove her from the race while her teammates fought off the officials and told her to keep going. Shortly thereafter, women were permitted to run marathons alongside men.

I'd heard this story numerous times before, but upon reading the signs during my race, specifically a women's half-marathon, I got choked up and nearly lost my breath and control. If felt a tremendous sense of gratitude that helped me get through the remaining miles.

I made it through without incident--a few minutes slower than I'd hoped, but still my second fastest half-marathon time (2:13:18, compared to a PR of 2:08 somethin). I had three lovely supporters cheering me through the finish and greeting me afterward--one of whom made a particularly nice finishing trophy:

The race itself was as beautiful and well-organized as usual, and I was thankful to have run it with so many remarkable women--most of whom I didn't know, but I knew this was a fairly new opportunity that had been granted us women and that we'd taken it on with great pride (men are permitted to run, but most opt not to).

I was very happy to be finished, but what I knew for certain after this race was that I needed a break. I pushed aside my still half-grown thoughts of registering for the Miami Marathon and decided I had to heal before I could even think about more training.

Race Report: WHOS Run for 11-11-11

2011-11-12T06:10:00.001-08:00

When one of the founders of the nonprofit Women Helping Others Succeed (WHOS) came to the Four Green Fields Running Club a couple of weeks ago to announce their upcoming 5k race, my interest was immediately piqued. Aside from being sponsored by a women's charitable organization, the race proceeds would benefit athletes with certain limitations who needed special equipment to participate in races and the like. I thought it was a fitting event for Veterans Day, which I never really know how to honor, as many of these athletes were no doubt veterans who had lost limbs or mobility as a result of combat. As an added bonus, the race was to be held in Hyde Park Village, just blocks from where I live.

I hadn't run a 5k race since May, and at that race I'd finished with a personal record (PR) of 27 minutes. That was quite an exciting accomplishment for me, as shorter races (read: fast races) were not my forte. All of my training since then had been for distance races, so I'd hardly worked on speed at all, and in fact my pace had slowed during marathon training. With these factors in mind, I wasn't expecting a stellar performance for the 5k, but I was happy to participate and contribute to the cause anyway.

With one recruit--my trusty last-minute race buddy Shannon--in tow, I headed to the race site on the chilly evening of November 11. A rather sparse crowd meandered around Hyde Park Village's central fountain. We were still over an hour early when we checked in and found my co-worker Deedra and her two daughters volunteering at the registration booth. Because it was so cold (it was around 58 degrees at race time), we ducked into Anthropologie to do some browsing, which mostly consisted of picking out all of the expensive clothes and household goods we dreamed of one day owning.

When it was finally time to gather at the start, we got in line behind maybe fifty or so racers, with not many more than that filing in behind us. The only thing we'd said to each other about racing together was that the other should feel free to go ahead if she wanted. And we both expected the other would do that.

When the starting horn sounded, we took off together with the cold motivating us past runners before us. I typically had the bad habit of going out too quickly, only to struggle through the later part of the race with diminished energy. While I felt like I was doing this very thing in the early part of the race, I wanted to see how long I could keep it up, and I wanted to keep up with Shannon, who typically has the habit of running a a foot or so in front of me, keeping me on the chase. The route was as familiar to me as home; we started out heading south on Rome Avenue and turned west onto Bayshore Boulevard. The majority of my training runs for the past couple of years began this way.

After about a quarter of a mile, we stopped talking (our pace-killer always). While there were others around us, mostly women, mostly running for fun, it seemed, most of what I heard for the duration of the race was our breath patterns. I concentrated on keeping my three-in, two-out pattern, while Shannon's was something quicker, perhaps less practiced. I wondered what mine would have been if I hadn't established the three-two pattern. At the turnaround at Bay to Bay Boulevard, we skipped the water station, which we'd decided beforehand, and pushed on for the final 1.5 miles. These were brutal. I truly think that if it hadn't been for the colder weather, I would have been less motivated to keep pushing. And that's exactly what I told myself when I felt my body try to slow down: keep pushing. I tried to assess what was making me uncomfortable at this point in the race; was it my heart rate? My breathing? Anything hurting? Fatigue? Mostly it was trying to maintain a steady breath while my heart was literally racing. My body was also feeling tired, but not tired enough to give in. Luckily nothing was hurting. I tried to just focus on my breathing and look for landmarks.

Once I could see the flashing police-car lights at Rome, I knew it would just be one big, final push from there. I again felt myself slipping behind after turning onto Rome, which was a slight incline in the route, and I again told myself to push, push, push. Just a few more blocks. I couldn't see the finish line, as it was around a corner, but I pretty much knew by heart how far it was and therefore when to give the final kick of anything that was left in me. Just when I'd decided to do so, Shannon darted further ahead of me, and I tried my best to catch her. I happened to glance at the digital clock over the finish line and saw that it was 25:50 something. I couldn't believe it. I was going to PR. By more than a minute!

When I finally treaded over those glorious blue carpets that covered the timing sensors, I saw Deedra's congratulating smile as she sat with an overturned bucket before her for me to prop my foot upon so she could clip off the timing chip from my shoe. But I didn't feel like I could even lift my foot. I walked in a couple of circles, laboredly trying to catch my breath. I looked at my RunKeeper app on my phone, read the 25:56 time to Shannon, who was also catching her breath, and we both high-fived. While it was a PR for me, it was also a PR for Shannon because it was her first 5k (she began her running endeavors with a measly half-marathon).

The race was a total success for me. But I was left wondering afterward how the race was pulled off; there were only 149 finishers, and yet the organizers had the streets blocked off, police officers on duty, and official timing devices. I knew these things weren't cheap. And then I recalled hearing that all of the race proceeds would go to benefit the organization's efforts to help other athletes, which meant that the money from participants didn't even go toward street blocking, cops, or timing. Apparently there was a lot of philanthropy involved in putting this event together. I was just so glad to be a part of it.

This morning I learned that my official race time was 25:50--a full minute and ten seconds faster than my previous PR! Although stoked by the results, this only means that I have to keep running faster, which consequently means I will probably avoid 5ks for some time to come.

New Kicks

2011-11-09T19:21:00.000-08:00

I did a daring things last week: I switched running shoe brands. I've worn and sworn by Asics since I began seriously running three years ago (which means for me that I've run down three pairs). But something about my last Asics experience didn't sit right with me. Perhaps it was all of the problems I had during marathon training. Or perhaps it was the inserts I used to help one such problem. Or perhaps it was my fault for believing that a more expensive shoe would lead to a better experience. The shoes I bought at the start of training were an upgrade from what I had successfully worn twice before; the kid at the running store did what he was supposed to do--try to upsell--and it worked. (I'm admittedly a sucker for marketing and sales tactics.) But regardless of where the blame lay, my rosy view of Asics was tarnished.

So when I went to my local running store a couple weeks after the marathon--a finishing treat I'd goaded myself with throughout training--I stood and stared at the wall of shoes for about twenty minutes before I could utter the words, "I want to try something different." My salesman (a boy, really) still brought out a pair of Asics but also a pair of Brooks, per my request. At least three runner friends I knew had recently bought Brooks upon recommendations from running store staff, so they seemed a safe bet (either that or Brooks was paying stores to push their brand--it was an almost eerie coincidence). I tried on both pairs. What I mostly noticed was that the Brooks were roomier in the toe box than the Asics. This was a particular concern to me since I'd developed painful blisters on the bottoms of my toes throughout my marathon training, and I wanted badly to avoid getting any more. Since neither shoe was available in the store in a wide for my special-needs feet, the salesman said he'd order a pair of each for me and I could try them both after they came in.

About a week later, the shoes were in. I excitedly went back to the store to try them on. I put the Asics shoe on one foot and the Brooks on the other. The Asics felt cushy like I thought a new shoe should, but it was still snug around the toe box. The Brooks felt a little lower to the ground, not as cushy, but much roomier in the toe box. I also felt a slight rock forward in the palm (or whatever the foot equivalent of a palm is) area of the Brooks foot. This was new, and not unwelcome with all of the hype about forefoot running.

So with little more deliberation, I decided to go with the Brooks Ghost 4:

I've worn the shoes on six runs now--one of them a twelve-miler. I can definitely feel that I'm still adapting to them. My lower legs, particularly my calves and achilles tendons, are working harder. I've had a relapse of shin splints since attempting to improve my pace after the marathon--but I don't think the shoes are contributing to this (it's a nagging problem nonetheless). I have faith that as my lower legs strengthen, the soreness will subside. Otherwise, I'm loving the extra room I have to wiggle my toes. I may be harping on this issue, but it's rare to find running shoes that accommodate my "unique" feet. So overall I'm happy with my purchase and looking forward to the places my Brooks will take me.

Back to the (Power) Yoga Mat

2011-10-17T13:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I did something I hadn't done in many, many months: power yoga. I was once a regular of these classes, but I'd made a decision prior to my marathon training to keep only one yoga class per week, and that was my ashtanga yoga class. While ashtanga is essentially a power practice, it is a set series of poses, and it incorporates more flexibility (much to my liking) than most power classes do.

Since completing my marathon, I've been thinking of ways to improve my training regimen. The last plan got me through, but I feel like it barely got me through. I knew all along that I was not doing enough strength training, but I was so focused on making my running goals that all else fell by the wayside. In retrospect, I think many of my injuries and near injuries could have been prevented or helped if I had just done the dang strength training. Also, in my 20/20 hindsight, I realized that my injuries--while never severe--were all from repetitive movements that created stress on certain areas of my body. I did two things repetitively for four months: I ran (which can cause any number of stress injuries--such as shin splints and piriformis syndrome, both of which I suffered), and I did ashtanga once per week. I didn't do any other forms of cross-training.

The ashtanga form of yoga is really meant to be practiced more than once per week (serious practitioners do the whole series, which can take upwards of 1.5 hrs, daily), and, I would argue, it's not a great accompaniment to running. The many, many vinyasas--transitions in between poses--that are done in ashtanga yoga require a good amount of upper-body strength. Because I was largely relying solely on this once-a-week practice to maintain strength, I was not really building any strength, and therefore I didn't really get any stronger in my practice. Consequently, I felt like I was just tearing my shoulders up and always stressed in the scapula area. This is a pain I felt in my long runs, simply from trying to maintain good running posture.

This time I want to do differently. Not that I've committed to another marathon, but even for the half-marathons I do have planned, and especially for Tough Mudder, I need to be stronger and feel more whole.

So I went to a Power 2/3 course yesterday. I've taken this class before, and it's made me cry. I'm not accustomed to not being able to do many things in yoga, which is partly (and sadly) why I find it so satisfying, but the poses in this class require strength--lots of it. And I simply didn't have it. But man could I feel my muscles the next day or two. I did go back several times, despite my internal breakdown after one of the classes, but when marathon training started, I found I was all too happy to let that class go. So my experience yesterday was somewhat like the time I cried, except I didn't cry. I knew this would be even more challenging than before, since I'd been out of practice for a while. I wasn't able to get myself into a handstand from a forward bend (which I can't normally do anyway), and I wasn't able to move from half-moon pose to dancer pose without first falling out, but I gave everything my honest best effort, and I commended myself for even going, knowing it would be more difficult than usual.

So my plan for this next training cycle is to take two of these power classes per week in addition to my running. The classes vary in their sequences, so my body shouldn't suffer from overuse of any one area, and I'll be strengthening different muscles. At first I thought that a yoga class--even power yoga--wouldn't be an adequate strength-builder; but after yesterday, I fully retract that thought.

Reflections on My First Marathon

2011-10-12T11:30:00.000-07:00

I've been waiting for my feelings to settle before posting, as they seem to be changing each day that passes after the marathon. But I don't want to wait so long that I forget the important things. (The fact that I'm not concise enough to make a top-ten list is bothersome to me, too, but all eleven points felt important enough to include).

Above all, I am proud of myself. I set a goal--a very challenging one--and I met it.
I didn't get injured. While I was hurting in many and varied ways throughout the process, I remained intact and stayed healthy until the very end.
It was difficult. As much as I'd hoped I would feel happy and relaxed during the marathon, I didn't. It was a grueling race, and I struggled through most miles.
I could have pushed harder. This is a tough thing to admit. I did take some walk breaks when pain/stiffness/nausea felt unbearable, and in retrospect, I think I could have pushed past that.
I abused the aid stations. I know this. The race course was so well-lined with aid stations--nearly one every mile--that I began to look forward to each one, because I knew I would walk to drink my water. Also, I probably didn't need as much liquid as I consumed, which may have led to the nausea and the eventual need to stop at a porta-potty, which added minutes to my time. For the less disciplined runner, fewer aid stations would have been of benefit.
I didn't know my pace. My Garmin somehow malfunctioned within the first mile, and both the distance and therefore my pace were clearly off. I tried to fix it while running, but I hardly know how to adjust the settings while standing still, so it was a losing battle, and I had to let it be. Since I also didn't memorize the time I'd spent shuffling to the start line, I couldn't subtract that from my time at each mile marker, which meant I could only run according to how I felt. This is not a bad method in theory, but my training was based on knowing my pace throughout my runs.
The locals were amazing. They supported the runners along the entire course with enthusiastic cheers, amusing and encouraging signs, and even food and drink.
The sun is hot. I'd thought that if I had one advantage going into the race, it was that I trained in the brutal Florida summertime heat. And while I was grateful to be running in Chicago and not Florida, the sun that beamed down on us from a cloudless sky was hot. It was 82 degrees at the hottest, I believe, but because I didn't start running until 8ish, I was running practically until 1pm. I'd gone to great lengths in my training to ensure that my runs were completed either before the sun came up or after it went down, which actually made me less prepared for a daytime run. At least, though, there was very little humidity--no small advantage.
Blisters suck. I knew this from my long training runs, but I think they really slowed me down in those last eight miles or so. The blisters that developed on the bottoms of my pinky toes were larger than my pinky toes. No joke. And today, three days after the race, I'm still hobbling because, while the blisters are gone, the skin is, too. (TMI?) I didn't love my running shoes throughout training, and I think next time I'll make sure I have the right pair earlier on. My shoes may or may not have been the culprit, but for as much time I spend in them, I should not dread putting them on like I often did in many runs leading up to the race.
I will do another. There, I said it. In the hours following the marathon, several people asked me if I'd do it again, and my immediate, unhesitant reply was, "No." But as I gain distance from the pain of the marathon, I think about ways I'd like to improve, and I'm eager to try it again. In fact, I've kept this webpage open in my browser, just in case I am overtaken by the urge to clickety-click my way into another training regimen: ING Miami Marathon.
Friends and family are the best. I said it before, and I believe it even more fully now: I was one of the best-supported runners out there. Everyone from all the different circles of my life--family, friends, running club buddies, coworkers--not only put up with my constant talk, my scheduling needs, and my anxiety for months, but they encouraged me on and celebrated my adventure with me. And in the end, they were the voices that pulled me through. That feeling, more than anything, made every aching moment worthwhile.

Going to Chicago

2011-10-07T07:33:00.001-07:00

I'm en route to Chicago, floating among the puffs of clouds and just a hand reach away from the bright, burning sun. Other runners are on my flight. I know this by their promotional garb, worn proudly, and I realize that I forgot my own t-shirt that my mom and her sisters sent me as a gift of support and encouragement. I kick myself for forgetting the shirt, but I'm soon reminded of the many different people in my life who helped get me here.

There is my running group, who by their mere presence and their own achievements have encouraged and enhanced my training for the past several months; my family, who has offered support and comfort in uncountable ways throughout this process; my coworkers, who have cheered me on for each weekend's long run and cared enough to inquire about my progress along the way; and my friends, who have at times trained with me, commiserated with me, and offered their hospitality during my stay in the Windy City. While I'm going to this race by myself, I am by no means alone. In fact, I just might be one of the best-supported runners out there. And I'm forever grateful.

Drained

2011-09-28T14:20:00.000-07:00

Of energy, of will, of belief . . . you name it, and it's been drained from me. I thought these last two weeks before the marathon would be a breeze. Instead, I've either bailed on or walked through several runs, having felt like my body was revolting against me, unwilling to push forward in the most defiant manner. This makes me concerned. If I can't get through five miles, how will I get through twenty-six? I began thinking that it might not happen--I might have to pull out of the race. I imagined myself getting all the way to Chicago, standing in line among thousands of runners on race morning, only to find that my body would quit on me a couple of miles in. What then? Would I duck out in shame, try to continue on, walking? This isn't a walking race. Everyone would be disappointed. I've made a huge deal about it. For months. I made sure everyone I cared about knew I was doing this. And they'd be expecting great things of me--great things I wouldn't be able to achieve. Or maybe I would get injured after all. Then nobody could blame me for not running. It would be sad, yes, but at least I got through all that training. It would be like last time I trained for a marathon and couldn't go through because of injury. And that would become what I was known for--training for marathons, but not running them. Like taking all of the coursework for a graduate degree, but never writing the thesis. It happens.

These are the thoughts that began to occupy my mind. And then yesterday, while trying to just get back to my starting point at Four Green Fields, I convinced myself I was having panic attacks. Part of my anxiety condition that just began to evince itself in my running. Then I panicked more at the thought of not being able to get out of the supposed panic attacks. I kept getting out of breath each time I tried to run continuously without stopping or walking. I felt like I was starting from scratch. Like I'd never run a day in my life until that evening. I tried to tell myself it was just a leisurely run. It didn't count for anything. I could run as slowly as I wanted. It didn't last. I eventually got myself back to the pub, panting as though I'd just sprinted an elite-runner race.

After I gained my composure, I talked with some running buddies at that club. My friend Robin, who ran her first marathon last year, alleviated my anxieties. She said it was normal to feel worn down during this time. She'd read about it. I refused to read about it, as I knew that would only start the anxiety wheel spinning. So I gladly took her word for it. Like she said, I know I can do twenty miles. I did it twice. I just need to get enough rest during these two--now one and a half--weeks. I liked that someone gave me permission to rest. I think I needed to hear it, to know that I was really allowed to do it. I can't wait to go to bed tonight.

Chicago Marathon Training -- Part 2: Survival

2011-09-22T12:34:00.000-07:00

That's the best way I can describe my current training status for this marathon. I've survived it, or at least most of it. What remains is a roughly two-week tapering down program in which I run shorter distances and rest my body for the big race day.

These past few months were not without several injuries (which were mostly minor, but felt on the verge of becoming major), nor were they without days of utter doubt--physical, mental, and emotional. At different times the sun beat me down, exhaustion got the best of me, and pain overtook my body. But what prevailed throughout this most rigorous challenge I've ever willingly undertaken was an almost overwhelming desire to achieve something big in my life. All around me people were getting married, having babies, and--well, mostly having babies. So I made this experience my baby. I took great care in planning it, I nurtured it, and I tried to be patient with it in difficult times. Perhaps that's as far as I can reasonably stretch the metaphor (I could unreasonably take it much further, but I'll spare the reader--be grateful).

So while I don't have a human child to show for my efforts, I have--or will have, come marathon day--a renewed sense of self and a stronger belief in the human capacity to endure, overcome, and reinvent. I think these are also good contributions to society. In the end, I will have no qualms in saying that I, too, have achieved something great.

Life's a Beach

2011-09-11T13:11:00.000-07:00

At least, it was this morning for about two hours. I decided I needed to take some restorative time out for me. I've worked hard all summer with training, work, and school, and I always lament the fact that I live so close to the beach and rarely visit it. What I actually wanted to do was get up before dawn and arrive at the beach in time for the sun to rise. My Saturday morning pre-dawn run inspired the idea. I had reached my halfway point--right about when the sun was peaking above the horizon--and headed back toward home. Now that I have my Garmin watch, I don't carry my phone with me, so if I see something particularly photo-worthy, I can't take a picture. I was bothered by this on my run as I saw a vibrant rainbow shooting out from behind some condos and disappearing into the clouds. I thought, one morning I should just wake up early and come out to Bayshore with my camera. And then I took it further and decided the beach would be even more picturesque. And then, my friends, I remembered that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and our nearest beaches are on the west coast. I often get confused about this because Bayshore Boulevard is situated along the Hillsborough Bay, which is separated from Tampa Bay by a little finger of land that points south, and I run along the east side of that "finger," so I see the sun rise. This may be highly evident to many Tampa Bay area residents, but it actually took me a long time to figure out--before I looked at a map, that is.

So when I didn't get up in time for sunrise this morning, I knew I was not missing too, too much. By the time I had eaten my two bowls of cereal (a weekend indulgence) and watched some coverage of the 9/11 memorial coverage, I headed out to Pass-a-Grille beach, a fairly quiet and not-too-far beach to visit. By the time I got there, the sun was about here:

I pulled out Flat Stanley--my cousin's fourth-grade class assignment--from my bag and took some pictures of him on the beach:

I tried to lie still for a while, but I'm not great at being idle at the beach. So I decided to go for a walk and take some pictures. The sand at Pass-a-Grille is quite shelly and a bit uncomfortable to walk on, even where the water meets the shore. But I figured it would somehow be good, perhaps strengthening, for my feet (no pain, no gain?), so I went without shoes.

The first things that captured my eye were the birds all around, mostly seagulls, a few pelicans diving in with their basket-beaks to swoop their prey from the shallow water.

I eventually made it down to the jetty, a build-up of large rocks with a concrete pier laid atop for fishers and tourists and the occasional local to walk out on.

I then looked back on the place from where I came:

After climbing up the rocks and onto the pier, I found a few white birds (bird names are not my forte) that were particularly photographic:

And after collecting a single seashell to send back with Flat Stanley, I began to feel the sun's persistent rays and called it a day.

I felt somewhat revived from the fresh smells, the beautiful images, and the freeing feeling of sand, wind, and water. It was a fine morning at the beach.

The Big 2-0

2011-09-07T12:31:00.000-07:00

I did it. For the second time in my life, I completed a 20-mile run. Not only does this number mark the height of many marathon training schedules, but for me it is also significant in that I've been here once before, and I broke down. My body suddenly decided it had been pushed too much and would not finish the training or run the marathon. So here I am in my post-20-miler week, hoping to make it through. After all, it was on an "easy" five-mile run that my injury occurred. And it was on a Thursday--tomorrow. I am admittedly somewhat superstitious, so my real feat will be getting past tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day--until I actually make it to Chicago on race day. In fact, I was talking to a run-club friend last night, who is also running Chicago, about our sudden fear of incurring a non-running injury in our daily lives--falling down some stairs, tripping on curb, or some other injury of klutz--that would prohibit us from making it to race day. I suddenly realized what a tenuous state I was in, and would be in, until October 9.

But I can't really function properly in that mind frame. After all, so many things are out of my control, and my previous injury happened without a single warning. So I must try to push those fears aside and enjoy these last few weeks of tapering down my training. Or not. I have yet to decide if I'll do another 20-miler this weekend. Beginner training plans only include one 20-mile run, but I've been training somewhere between a bronze and silver, or a novice 1 and novice 2, schedule, depending on whose you look at (I looked at four--it seemed wise until my current dilemma, and only then did I begin to appreciate all of the thought and planning that goes into a single training schedule). If I don't do another 20 this weekend, I'm at a loss for what to do. The height of training is supposed to occur three to four weeks prior to the race, and if I call this past weekend the height of my training, that's five weeks before race day. Which must mean that I'm likely to lose some of my endurance and ability with that extra week or two of tapering. I think there is such thing as becoming too rested before a race.

This is nonetheless an important milestone (pun absolutely intended). It's not the ultimate one I hope to achieve, but I can already look back on my arduous summer of training with such pride and gratitude for everything my body and my mind did do. As a symbolic gesture of the real gesture I perform after every difficult run, I pat myself on the back (I'm so beyond caring about how that looks to others after those runs). Good job, Lee.

Rebel with a Cause?

2011-08-31T14:25:00.000-07:00

That was me, last weekend. Or perhaps more accurately, that was my body, rebelling against my will. After coming off of a--dare I say--good 18-miler in the previous weekend, I had only to complete a 12-mile long run. I did my normal Friday night prepping and set four alarms for early Saturday morning. When those alarms went off, I heard them, but I chose to ignore them. I can't tell you what I thought in that moment, except that I wanted to sleep more than I wanted to run. But it's never about wanting to run for me; it's about having the strength and will to do something important for myself. So the fact that I ignored all four alarms that morning was, frankly, alarming to me. But I carried on with my Saturday with a plan to do the run in the evening.

I set out at about 7:45pm, when the sun was nearly set, and I began my journey. I was feeling fine until about 1.5 miles in, when the humidity started to get to me, and my legs started hurting. I had experienced this before--on my 14-miler. I felt like I just wouldn't be able to finish, so I decided to abandon the run and do it early the next morning. After all, it had worked brilliantly for the 14-miler.

So I went to bed early again, set my alarms, and tried to impress upon my brain how important it was for me to respond to those alarms. This would be my last opportunity of the weekend to complete the run. So what did I do when I heard those alarms the next morning? I shut them down! As if to say, take that, alarm clock. And further, take that, long run! Take that, training schedule! And to obligation as a whole, take that! I'm sleeping in.

And so I did not do my long run this past weekend. In fact, I did little more than plan for my long run and go to sleep early for my long run and then sleep in when I wanted to ignore my nagging long run. Of course, my sudden rebellion did not actually make me feel empowered; it only made me feel disappointed and fretful. What if I did the same thing on next weekend's run--the big 20-miler? I didn't think I was capable of this, but apparently I am.

Something occurred to me in the days after my act of resistance: it was at about this point in my last and only marathon training program that I got injured. It was just after the 20-mile run. I wonder if, subconsciously, I'm afraid of moving past this point. Perhaps this connection is too much of a stretch, but I find it interesting nonetheless. I know how psychological running is, and mental barriers are often more powerful than physical ones.

But perhaps, as others have said, my body was telling me it needed to rest. It's difficult for me to not compare myself to others--particularly those in my running group who are checking off multiple 20-mile runs from their training plans and seeming none the wearier for it. But I'm not them, and they're not me. Right now, I feel like I should really just be grateful that I've come this far in what is decidedly an unnatural pursuit. So as long as my body has a different message for me next week, I suppose I won't dwell on this minor setback.

Breaking Me Down

2011-08-14T00:34:00.000-07:00

It's 2:30am. I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep because I decided to do my long run at 8:00pm, which, after all of the several-minute water breaks were factored in, turned into a nearly 3.5-hour run. Two things that I always thought should happen after a long run but still never do: I get hungry, I get tired.

I look at the calorie burn on my RunKeeper app, and I see that I've burned 1,709 calories. That's some people's daily intake of calories. This makes me think I should be hungry. Yet, I'm not. My stomach feels so tight and full from water that food is actually repulsive immediately after a long run. But I eat anyway, for recovery purposes. Tonight I had half of Greek yogurt cup (protein), half of a banana (potassium, carbs), and a large bowl of cereal (just because I love cereal, and I thought it might be good; it was, until my stomach hurt afterward). But I'll rectify this matter by making up the deficiency tomorrow. In case you were worried.

But what's worse--for the moment, anyway--is that I don't get tired after a long run. On the contrary, I feel wired. This is not usually a problem, as my long runs are not typically before bed. They usually take place early in the morning. That was supposed to happen this morning, as well. I did all of my night-before prepping: I ordered my dinner for pick-up at my favorite Thai restaurant (a pre-race meal of tofu, vegetables, and rice that has never failed me), I ate earlier than usual so I could go to bed earlier than usual, I did nothing all night but watch my most recent Netflix DVDs (Dexter--disturbing and a bit gruesome, but captivating nonetheless), and I went to bed around 10:00pm (it's the best I can do). I set four alarms for 4:30, 4:35, 4:40, and--you guessed it--4:45am. I went to sleep easily, which is usually the case. I remember waking up to the first alarm, thinking okay, okay, I'll get up, but after the next alarm. I probably thought that each time a new alarm went off, which led to my eventual awakening at 7:30am. There was no way I would go outside to run 16 miles starting at 7:30am, in summer, in Florida. I'm like a vampire in the sun; it weakens me and destroys me (my last Netflix DVD was True Blood). So I decided I'd just try again on Sunday morning. But I was so bothered by my failure to get up on time that I wanted to fix it even sooner. So I decided I'd try another night run. I had sworn these off after last Friday night's long run, which was "only" 11 miles, but it sucked the life out of me. Somehow, though, it seemed possible again. That's another problem with running: as long as I finish a run relatively unscathed, I forget almost instantly how awful it was, and I talk myself into doing it again. And again. I hear the same thing happens after childbirth.

An evening run would require yet another day of prepping; but mostly just dietary prepping. This, for me, means eating lower-fiber foods, to prevent stomach issues during the run (which has been a longtime affliction of mine). These foods usually consist of white bread or white rice and either tofu or fish. I've learned that I can also eat vegetables, but they have to be cooked--and usually just squash and zucchini (it's limiting, I know). So I had a roasted veggie baguette sandwich with goat cheese from Sophie's for lunch (yum!) and the aforementioned rice/fish/veggies for dinner. I made sure to finish eating at least two hours before my planned departure time of 8:00pm, except for half of a Power Bar (cookies 'n' cream) that I would eat about an hour before the run.

All of my preparation was done, including about a half-hour of rolling out tight IT bands (ouch!), and it was finally time to head out to Bayshore Boulevard. I'd been feeling anxious about this run all day, so I had some good energy to use. The day had been mostly overcast, which took some of the heat out of the atmosphere, and the sun was most of the way down. Everything was going fine, and then about four miles in, someone came up to my left. I turned to see a familiar face from one of my running clubs. He said, "You're Lee, right?" We'd never been introduced, so I was a little surprised he knew my name, but I confirmed that I was indeed Lee. He then said, "You're training for Chicago, right?" That was a little weirder. I'm still not sure how he knew that. But he ran with me for a bit (i.e., slowed down for a bit), and we chatted for a while. He was also training for Chicago and running 16 miles, but he was already 13 miles in. I noticed that I'd picked up my pace quite a bit while running with him, which is a terrible idea for me so early in the run. But I wouldn't let myself slow down. I even told him he should feel free to pick the pace back up and go ahead of me, but he said it didn't matter how fast he ran as long as he completed the mileage. Great. Luckily, though, he eventually needed to cross the street for a water stop, and I didn't. As soon as he left, I could feel the detrimental effects of my brief stint with picking up my own pace (something I rarely do). It took me some time to steady out again and find my regular pace.

I ran to my usual park, Ballast Point, which is where I typically stop for a water break, although aside from the water fountains and the well-populated fishing pier, it was closed because of the time, meaning no lights. I still needed to run several miles past it. But because it was so dark, and late, I started to get scared and cut my distance short, knowing I'd have to make it up closer to home--which I hate doing. In an effort to try to get some more distance in before heading back, I ran down some residential streets that were fairly well-lit, but I got a little turned around, which ended up being kind of good because it added to my mileage. Finally, I had enough mileage to head back toward home. This part of my typical Bayshore long-run route is usually good, because I've gone more than halfway, and all I have to do is get myself home. But this run home consisted of many stops and starts, backtracking for yet more distance, and lots and lots of water. Water down my throat, water on my head, down my back, in my eyes--I even stood in someone's sprinkler in the middle of the yard. Here's one more problem with running in summer: I need water, and often feel like I can't get enough, but if I drink too much too fast, it sits in my stomach and bounces around as I run. I can hear it. But I can also feel it. It's not comfortable, and it usually leads to cramps, or side stitches. Which it did tonight. That slowed me down and even stopped me at times.

But I made it. I pushed and pushed and pushed. I may not have done it straight through--by a longshot; but I made my mileage, damnit.

And here I sit, still wired, yet also hobbling from room to room. I know what would help this sore body of mine: sleep. Oh, right, I can't.

P.S. Now I'm hungry.

A Perfect Stranger

2011-07-25T09:59:00.000-07:00

Friday night I went on a 12-mile training run along Bayshore Boulevard. I had made it through the toughest part--the halfway turnaround--and I was about three-quarters done with the run when some instinctive calling told me to stop and turn around, observe the sky. It was about 8:20 p.m., and an earlier storm had left behind a sky of cloud that veiled the intensity of the summer sun. And even though the sun does not set over this particular bay, the Hillsborough Bay (the shore of which faces east), the muted sun did a couple of magical things that I had to stop and take pictures of.

The first thing it did was cast a golden gleam onto the buildings of downtown Tampa. From the distance at which I stood, the buildings were not so recognizable that they were familiar; instead, the golden speckles made the downtown area look to me like a gilded city, another place entirely.

Still smiling from this encounter, I continued on my run. I was about 8.5 miles in when I decided on a whim to look up at the sky behind me. This is what I saw:

I won't say I was as emotionally overtaken as the notorious double-rainbow guy at Yosemite, but I was touched enough to get the attention of the guy running behind me and to show him the rainbow that was cutting through the clouds in the pink-tinted sky. I said, somewhat in awe, "There's a rainbow." He looked up and said, "Oh, yeah." So maybe he wasn't as moved as I was. But he did thank me before carrying on with his run. The sun went down so quickly after that, that had I not stopped him in that moment, he might not have seen the glory in the sky.

I eventually continued back on my run, now a bit exalted from nature's impromptu slideshow. I looked up ahead and saw the same guy I had stopped, now stopped again on the sidewalk. But he wasn't doing anything--just standing there. Once I caught up to him, he turned to me and asked if he could run with me. I was a little taken aback, but the first thought I had was, maybe he did care about the rainbow! No stranger has ever asked to run with me before, and it was almost dark out, but after a slight hesitation, I told him, "Sure. If you can run as slow as I can." He asked how far I was running, and I told him just a couple more miles. We talked about running, mostly--our backgrounds in it, our goals, etc. He turned out to be a nice, harmless guy. He also alluded to his wife somewhat early on, which made me feel a bit safer. After almost two miles, I told him I was about to go off of Bayshore and onto an upcoming street, hoping that would signal our departure (friendly or not, I didn't quite want him following me home). Then he thanked me for running with him. He said he wouldn't have gone as far if it weren't for me, and that made me feel really good. I thanked him, too, for his company made those last couple miles of a long run much easier to bear. Almost as an afterthought, we exchanged names. He told me he runs a few times a week on Bayshore, and I said I'd keep an eye out for him.

Though I started my run solo, by the end of the run I had felt the warm companionship of both nature and a fellow runner.

Bloody Toes, Blisters, and Bruises, Oh My!

2011-07-23T07:28:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it doesn't exactly conjure images of Dorothy prancing along the yellow-brick road in her pristine ruby slippers, but these are the true signs that I am back in training. In a way, I feel like I never came out of training in the first place. Not since September of last year. But what made it real to me was the blood spot on my sock from one foot and the blister on the fourth toe pad of my other foot after a week of higher-than-usual mileage. Ah, the joys of running. I had forgotten how the feet get battered from the constant pressure and pounding of long runs. Granted, the bloody toe was more a product of my over-grooming habits (i.e., I am a compulsive nail clipper), but there was something almost delightful about the sight of bright red blood on my white sock after I pulled off my running shoe. These are my battle wounds. I've earned them. And while they're uncomfortable, I can handle them.

In fact, I have a bit of a fascination with blisters. I know the common wisdom is to leave them alone, but this sucker was big, and it was on the bottom of my toe, so I couldn't help but aggravate it with every step I took. So at first, I just drained it. Poked a little hole and let the liquid run out. [Delayed disclaimer: this may not be for the faint of heart.] That relieved the pressure. But then there was the matter of this extra skin that was no longer connected to the flesh. It was so tempting for me to cut it off with nail clippers. But what lay underneath was still red and raw, new skin just beginning to grow back. That would not be fun to run on. So I waited a full day until I could no longer ignore the temptation, and I clipped off the blistered skin. There was enough of a new surface that it did not burn when exposed to air, but in hindsight (always in hindsight), I should have left it alone.

As for the bruises, well, those are self-induced. But not because I like to hurt myself; on the contrary, I like to "fix" myself, and I feel I am helping my body by massaging achy muscles and tendons and rolling out tight IT bands. Perhaps too aggressively, though. At a recent runner's gathering, a massage therapist friend looked at my leg and asked what I'd done. When I told her, somewhat proudly, that it was self-massage, she told me very plainly, "You're damaging the tissue." She further explained that the blood in my leg was having to circulate more to that damaged area to help it recover rather than to the initial site of inflammation and pain. So I apparently was not helping myself at all. Lesson learned. Maybe.

My bloody toe is no longer bloody, my blistered toe is close to healed, and my previously bruised shin now resembles the rest of my leg. For the time being, my battle wounds are gone. But I welcome the next ones, as long as they are the result of solid, hard work, and not of injury.

Women Runners Make Strides--in Fashion?

2011-07-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

When I received my August 2011 issue of Runner's World magazine in the mail, I glanced down at the cover and my face fell a bit. The cover image features an obviously athletic female runner decked out in bright pink designer running clothes--skirt included--with a link to the article title "Fastinistas: The Flashy New Gear Culture and the Women Who Love It."

Frankly my feelings are split on this matter of fashionable athletic wear. On the one hand, I believe women (and men) should be able to wear whatever they want when they run. On the other hand, I can't imagine a similar cover story about, say, "MetroMilers: Chic New Running Apparel and the Men Who Dig It" (can you?).

One thing that bothers me about the article is that it focuses on women's desire to stand out and get noticed--but treats this as a positive aspect of women's running, as if bright colors and flattering fits demonstrate pride. And while I can't argue with this viewpoint in theory, I don't quite understand why we must celebrate a form of recognition that, in my opinion, is image-based and undermines the performance value of the sport. One so-called "fastinista" interviewed for the article does not help matters (either for the past decades of women's movements or for the article) by saying that her style is "somewhat naughty Catholic school girl meets running mom," and then finishing with, "If I look good, I feel good." Ugh. Have we regressed back to that? Even in running? So much of what I love about this sport is its freedom from equipment and gear and constrictions--even, and perhaps especially, mental constrictions. I don't want to worry about how I look to other people while I'm hitting the pavement with all my might and sweating out buckets of effort to reach my goal, and I feel like this article subtly suggests that I should. Another woman interviewed for the article says, "Five years ago, when you got dressed for a run, you dressed in what you needed." Isn't that what we're supposed to do? Do I not only have to feel competitive as a runner, but now also as a fashion model? How about the mantra, Notice me because I'm focused, or because I finished a race strong, or because I ran a new PR, or because I never thought I would be a runner and now I'm weeks away from running my first marathon? Where is that mentality endorsed in the article?

I feel like the article perpetuates the stereotype that women are overly concerned about fashion in what can be a very gritty sport, and they have only found a more comfortable place in running in recent years because they have more style options in running apparel. What this further suggests to me is that men, who are less focused on their clothing choices, are more concerned about performance.

Granted, the article does mention that many elite female runners are donning the new digs and making waves--both for their athletic accomplishments and for their wardrobe choices. One woman is quoted in the article as saying, "To show up at the starting line of the Boston Marathon and see women running in skirts is definitely a shift in style"--um, a shift back to the 1950s, perhaps. Personally I don't understand the desire to run in a skirt, and I realize that I simply don't have to run in one if that's my choice. Unless it promotes functionality (and I can't imagine that it wouldn't catch extra air and prevent aerodynamism), I see the running skirt purely as a way to make women look more feminine in the sport--but why is that necessary? This isn't to say that men and women should wear the same running gear; obviously that wouldn't be practical. I like variety and nuance as much as the next person. But my complaint centers on the focus on fashion, and only on fashion for women, in this issue. It feels like a step backward somehow, like a new way to separate the sexes in a male-dominated--and previously women-restricted--sport that women have fought hard to join the ranks of. The guts-and-glory factor of women's running is undermined by the more flippant and aesthetic arena of fashion.

But what I do understand and further gleaned from the article is that women have greatly varying body types--more so than men--and some of the newer lines of athletic wear that are geared toward women accommodate that variety. This is something women appreciate tremendously. I get that. And at the same time that I can lash out against the running skirt, I can also see the other viewpoint. We, as women runners, do not have to wear skirts, nor do we have to wear the same attire as men. We can choose to wear skirts or whatever we want, and that in itself is a freedom.

So I suppose that, in the end, I shouldn't grumble too much about a movement that seems to help motivate women to get out there and get their run on. But please no more pink skirts on the cover, okay, RW?

My First Adventure Race

2011-07-16T15:21:00.000-07:00

At long last, I made it to the local Picnic Island Adventure Run last night, which is actually a series of three adventure races held in Tampa each summer at Picnic Island Park. I had been out of town for the previous two races of the summer, so I was determined to make this one.

Although the race was not set up to be intimidating or particularly brutal (think Tough Mudder), it was the first race I would run that had intentional obstacles--things I typically try to avoid. I knew parts of the race would take place in sand, water, and mud, and that there would be a hurdle to jump over, some tires to run through, and hills to zigzag up and down. For someone who does not typically run on anything but flat pavement, these obstacles caused a bit of concern for me beforehand. But because I was trying to fend off an injury to my right lower leg, I vowed I would not actually race but just run "for fun" (seriously, who really does that?). I've declared this before about previous races, but because my fairly competitive running group is always present at these races in some number, I also feel I must perform my best and push harder than I perhaps need to. (You may be asking, then why sign up for races? My answer is simply, peer pressure--it's alive and well.)

Lucky for me, my friend Shannon decided to sign up for the race as well. I knew it would be easier to avoid competition if I ran with a friend who also did not care to compete. And even luckier for the two of us, on the evening of the race, we met a new friend, Jen, who also did not want to compete. We all just wanted to have a jolly time running a few miles with an obstacle here and there, getting a little dirty in the process.

So on race night while the rest of the running group headed to the front of the race start, we took our place in the back. Just before the race began, the wind picked up and whipped around while the ominous clouds broke temporarily for a spattering of rain. I already felt a sense of adventure.

The race started off on the sandy shore by the bay water, causing the hoards of people in front of us to trudge slowly and funnel through the narrow pathway through the beach grass up ahead. It seemed our goal of not racing was going to be a reality whether we desired it or not. Once we got through the tight pathway, the route opened up a bit and we ran on the grass at a fairly easy pace, chit-chatting along the way. We came to a couple of dirt and rock mounds that were probably my favorite part of the race. It was a little risky jumping from rock to rock, but the random variety and the thrill of leaping childlike in the air delighted me greatly. Soon we came upon the sand pit with a cargo net stretched out on top, which we were to crawl under. I had no strategy but wanted only to go through as quickly as possible, so I dove onto the sand (probably unnecessarily) and army-crawled under the net. Next was the tire run, which was most challenging in that the tires were set up three wide and about six long so that two runners would run through side-by-side, sharing the middle row of tires. I made it through just fine, but it was one of those obstacles I envisioned myself completing more gracefully than I did, for fear of tangling my foot with the other runner's next to me. It had the potential to be truly ugly. Speaking of truly ugly, the next obstacle was a hurdle jump. At least, to jump was the goal. I'd never approached a hurdle before, so when I came up to it I paused and hesitated, then realized I had no momentum, so I ran back a ways to get some distance, then ran up to the hurdle again, then stopped, and gave in and placed my hands on it to help swing my legs over. I know, I whimped out. I'm a planner, and I had no plan for getting over this hurdle. (The symbolism does not escape me.)

Next in the course came the series of water trudging and mud collecting. Through at least four different passages, we made our way through knee-deep water and mangrove mud (the smelliest mud ever!), moving at a snail's pace. The passageways were thick with mosquitoes, and there was no running around the person in front, as the path was two-people wide at most and backed up from further ahead than we could see. We would leave the the water and get back on dry ground, only to be taken back through another murky passage, all the while accumulating swamp mud in our already squishy running shoes.

Once we were finally out of the muck, we were led back the grass (oh, the grass!) and through a zigzag pattern that was slightly uphill. I had heard from other previous race attendees that the zigzag came at the end, so I felt relieved that we were almost done. However, it turns out this was not the only zigzag path. After running about a half a mile more, we came to a much steeper hill with more zigzagging, which felt almost impossible to run through, since I'd expended all of my energy on the previous zigzag, which I thought was the end. I took the hills the only way I knew how--forward leaning and at full pace (I think of driving my old stick-shift VW up a hill, popping into first gear and gassing it for dear life, lest it roll back and cause a scene of disaster down below). After getting over the last hill, we saw a male finisher from our group cheering us on along the sideline. The encouragement was nice until he said we "only" had a half a mile to go (I was thinking at that point, maybe 100 ft.). When I looked up ahead to see what that half mile would entail, I saw more runners in water, but this time it was waist-deep, and the runners were single-file.

At first entrance, the water was cool and refreshing, which quickly turned to lukewarm and inhibiting. By that time, I felt like racing. The whole race had been a series of starting and stopping, and there was little opportunity to run fast until the end (when I admittedly broke my vow to not race--something about the mere knowledge of the clock at the finish line draws me toward it, faster and harder). But I could only drag my legs through so quickly. Once I was on the incline toward shore and the water was closer to knee height, I was able to run a bit more until I was out completely. And this is where I would normally dash with all my might toward that finishing line. But my legs would barely work; the massive effort I had put forth to run in the water tired and confused them, and they would hardly go. But when Jen came into my right peripheral view, I was able to dig in and push a little more for a strong enough finish, although I finished a second behind her, and Shannon just behind me. It was the best time I've had running with friends--racing or not.

After a post-race hosing down, thanks to a rather inattentive race volunteer who hosed out the inside of my ear (which had no mud in it, I might add), I reflected back on the race and thought, that was fun. I'd like to do another. Tough Mudder, here I come?

Chicago Marathon Training -- Part I

2011-07-07T09:43:00.000-07:00

So I started training for my first marathon (again) in June. I had a setback almost immediately, hence the NO RUNNING days. After a fairly busy race season over the past fall and winter (three half-marathons), I should have rested before taking on this new endeavor. But I didn't; instead, I joined a running group and intensified my running because I was a newbie and felt I needed to be competitive to prove myself. The result? Unforgiving shin splints and persistent pain in the muscles surrounding my right shin. Out of fear that the pain might turn into a(nother) stress fracture if I kept running, and upon the unsolicited advice of several friends, I grudgingly decided it would be better to rest early on to prevent an injury than to push through and possibly create an injury that may take me out of training completely.

I'm the first to admit that I'm stubborn about training. To get a personalized training schedule, I looked at several different training schedule put together by actual professionals (Runner's World, Hal Higdon, etc.), and then I took what I wanted from those schedules and plopped them into my own calendar on the days that worked for me, which revolved around my set-in-stone group runs and yoga classes. Again, I'll admit that none of the "real" training schedules included yoga. But I kept these classes in my schedule because 1) I love them; 2) I'm good at them, and I need a confidence boost on days when I feel I suck at running; 3) I don't want to fall out of yoga shape; and 4) the stretching and strengthening can be complementary to my running. What's missing from my training schedule is the different types of runs, like speed, tempo, interval, recovery, easy, long, etc. The reason is simple: I don't do these. I run pretty much the same speed on most of my runs, except in a race, when I push a little harder. I have never done a track workout, and I don't like to run fast if I can help it. I realize this is not a good attitude, and I've become aware (after a mere three years) that I won't get any faster if I don't incorporate these workouts.

My attitude on speed, however, is starting to change, as a result of my inclusion (if you can call it that; see previous post) in a running group. Once I started attending races with these folks, the question beforehand was always, "What's your goal?" to which the answer was not, I learned, "to race well." What they wanted to know was my time goal that I had presumably set for myself. And afterward, "How'd you do?" Again, they did not want to know, "I felt pretty strong in the beginning, began to cramp up halfway through, but I was able to push through for a good finish." They wanted to know my finishing time, and whether I'd met the goal I was supposed to have set. This made me conscious that I needed to set time goals, and, inevitably, that I should try to meet them.

So why am I still not doing speed work? I have a legitimate reason. I'm still feeling pain in my leg, around my shin, that feels particularly intense when I run faster. So when I did the midnight 10-k race this past weekend and told myself (and others) that I wasn't going to race, do you think I did? You betchya. That is, until I couldn't, for various reasons. It was a flop of a race, but I finished it. And I paid for it the next day. But with a lot of ice, ibuprofen, and self-massage (read: bruising), I can get my leg feeling better. I just have to seriously not push it. So that is my goal now. We'll see how I apply it to a 16-mile group run this Sunday.

On Group Running

2011-07-04T08:14:00.000-07:00

Two months ago I joined a local running group through the Meetup.com social organizing website. I knew a couple of the guys in the group from the pub run that I'd been attending for a while, and they invited me to go out to the Monday night runs with this group. I'd rejected a couple of previous invitations because I was intimidated by the idea of imposing myself into an already established--and rather serious--running group. But I also had the Chicago Marathon--a race I'd signed up for a bit spontaneously--looming in October, which meant I'd have to do some heavy training throughout the summer. Based on previous experience, I knew I was not likely to tough out the hell-like heat of summer training on my own, so I thought I'd give the group running a go. I should also add the disclaimer that I had a crush on one of the guys who'd invited me to join. (If you see the potential for disaster already, you are smarter than I was.)

My first meet-up with the group was awkward and humiliating. The group meets in a parking lot next to a huge park with over 11 miles of paved running/biking path. Everyone stands around and socializes--just my luck--until it is 7:00pm and the group leader announces the start. I should also mention that the guy I had a crush on is socially quiet and was of little help to my newbie status. So I introduced myself to some of the folks, finding a friendly but brief welcome here and there. I knew from my crush-friend that the guys and ladies typically run separately because of their running paces, so I tried to get a feel for who I might be running with by asking relevant questions. That didn't lead anywhere, so I did what I still do best when I am an awkward situation among unfamiliar runners--I stretched. I stretched my hamstrings, my quads, my calves, my shoulders, my biceps; I popped my hips, cracked my neck, my ankles, and even my knuckles--a major contributor to a successful run. I can do this forever, and I actually enjoy it. In fact, I'm quite good at it--more so than running. I even pulled out some yoga poses (the ones that look the least like yoga poses), which some of the other runners probably found obnoxious. But I am often still outside of my comfort zone with running--even after nearly three years. Add a group of strangers to the mix, and I cling immediately to the familiar.

Finally, after ten excruciating minutes of social discomfort and achieving a Gumby-like state with my body, it was time to go. I knew pretty well who I'd be pacing with, so I stayed close to those women--but not too close. In the first couple of miles, the women talked among themselves about other runners, about their personal lives, about things known collectively to them. I would chime in every now and then to ask a question about so-and-so (another runner, usually) and to contribute in any way I could to the conversation. My attempts were not exactly encouraged, so I just stopped talking and tried to keep the pace--which was faster than I was used to. Everyone stopped for water at the two-mile water stop--a welcome break--and then one woman asked if I was doing the full six miles (some others turn around after two for a total of four), and without hesitating I said I was. I felt a tremendous need to prove myself.

After turning around at the three-mile point, my biggest running nemesis crept in to plague me. I could feel the cramping start up in my intestines. I knew from there it would continue to move through to my colon and intensify with accumulative mass and pressure until my bowels, and the constant compacting of their contents from each pounce on the pavement, would not hold out. In a moment of pure degradation, I quietly verbalized my sudden need to go to the bathroom, as if seeking permission to depart from the group to perform a basic human function. I said I could just dip into the woods, which surrounded the path on either side (I'd done this before on solo runs, but I'd never had to manage it in a group run). Someone pointed to a spot where I might go, but said to hurry because the guys might be coming back soon. I wouldn't have minded if the other women went on without me at that point, but my digestive calling came right as we were again approaching the two-mile water stop, so they said they'd wait for me up there. I did my deed and met back up at the water stop to then finish up the remaining two miles.

Prior to this run, I had just finished my third half-marathon of the racing season, so this mere six-miler should have been a breeze for me. However, my pace and my ability to push myself had slipped pretty significantly over the past year after an injury and a resulting fear of hard training. So now that the most pressing (pun intended) concern was taken care of, I still had another major issue to deal with--my breathing. I simply wasn't used to the faster pace these women were running, and I couldn't keep an even breath flow. I felt like I was hyperventilating, or at least what I imagined it to be. I knew we were only about a mile to the finish, but I just didn't feel I could keep up any longer, so I had to disgrace myself and tell the others that I had to walk and that they should go ahead. I knew there was probably some group running etiquette that said veteran runners should stay with a new runner, at least in the first run. They tried to encourage me to continue, as we were so close to finishing, and I insisted that I couldn't keep running--"it's my breathing." I figured that would keep them from pushing, and it did. One of the runners reminded me of how to get back to the parking lot and then took off.

I felt pretty defeated at having to walk, especially after my unavoidable pit stop in the woods, and to make matters worse, the guys, who were running eight miles, were beginning to come in behind me. This meant that my crush would see me walking by myself, not having made it in with the other women. He soon passed me and uttered some words of encouragement--you're doing good, or you're almost there--something completely good-inentioned that could be taken as a means of condescension if one were in my current state of mind. After catching my breath, I ran the rest of the way in. I had (barely) survived my first group run.

As if the run had not been enough of a breaking-in experience, I still had to endure more post-run socializing at a nearby bar. But that is a post for another time.

Rehabbing the Soul

2010-02-17T16:22:00.000-08:00

My semester thus far is not turning out the way I had planned (and yes, I still measure time in semesters, even after I've graduated). I entered the new year with the major goal of running a marathon on February 28. This goal was hugely important to me as a testament to my physical and mental capabilities. It was so important, in fact, that running, and more specifically training, began to define me. I lived by my training schedule and centered all other life events around it when possible. I even made a marathon training schedule in Google calendar, printed it out, and crossed off the training days that I had completed; I relished in the visualization of my progress. I bought new running gear, subscribed to Runner's World Magazine, and refused any invitations for social events occurring on the nights before a big run. I felt exuberant having so much focus and dedication, and even success.

I had even managed to work in a social activity as one of my "free" training days. I joined a kickball team with a group of friends from work. I became giddy at practices and game nights (all of which, in total, equal four)--a feeling I missed out on as a kid, and I was happy to not just be a running recluse, which I was in danger of becoming. Things were going according to plan, which is necessary to my daily functioning. But suddenly, in the span of a five-mile "easy" run, plans changed, and I nearly quit functioning.

After an especially high-mileage and high-effort week (including a 20-mile and an eight-mile run, kickball practice and game), I was halfway through a five-miler when I felt a gradual pull in my groin area. I tried to run it off, as I do all minor pains, but the pain only increased until I could no longer run and had to walk the rest of the way home. I chalked it up to a minor muscle pull, sat on some ice for a while, and went to bed so I could wake up anew.

That would not be the case, however. Too debilitated to walk normally, I stayed home from work that day, a Friday, rested over the weekend, stayed home again Monday (though mostly out of sheer depression), and went to a sports medicine doctor on Tuesday. After having cried all morning at my near-certain inability to run the marathon just over a month away, the good doc gave me more hope than I'd expected. With that, and helpful advice on rehab, including a personal electric impulse machine, I was on my way to recovery, full speed ahead.

When I was feeling good (and bold) enough to try a run, I set out for a two-miler and, to my amazement, completed it. Not without significant pain, though, which, in the moment, I put aside in light of my new accomplishment. However, with decreased ability to even walk well the next day, I was feeling doubtful again, and disappointed.

After a weekend of more pain and more rehab, and with only two weeks until marathon day, I decided I had to let go of my blind determination to complete this one race. After all, there would be more marathons, and I still accomplished a lot in training, and I needed time to reflect on my life anyway, etc., etc. So they all said, and so I agreed.

With a heavy heart, I updated my ever-important facebook status with the news of doom, disguised in healthy mentality: "Lee Davidson decided she does not need a comeback story." Yet, she still desperately wanted one.

But pushing those thoughts aside, I looked for a new focus; something to help me reach peace once again. I'd already had yoga in my life; in fact, I'd been practicing it for years longer than I'd been running. So I armed myself with the latest issue of Yoga Magazine and looked up the yoga class schedule at my gym,which I would do in addition to my favorite Rodney Yee DVDs for home practice (okay, I can't stand the way he talks, but I find his programs effective). This was good; I had a new plan. I could function again. I would quell the anxieties of my mind while fulfilling my need for physical challenge. And if I was lucky, I just might find some spirituality. Omkara.

So then what happened? Then I met with my trainer, whom I'd hired specifically to help me train for this marathon. He trained me through my first half-marathon. He'd put me on his training schedule when I started out, as he was training for the same marathon I was. He's been my biggest advocate throughout my injury, advising me through rehab, assuring me through the lost training time, and making me laugh when I didn't think I wanted to. Even though I'd informed him of my plans not to plan on the marathon, he must have had selective hearing that day, as he just encouraged me further and reinforced my rehab strategies (as it turned out, I must have had selective hearing as well, because I'd [incorrectly] been stretching my already-pulled muscle daily since the injury). I left my session with renewed hope--which I hadn't wanted. Or had I?

In the words of Lindsey Vonn, who seriously injured her shin a week before her Olympic downhill ski competition, only to end up winning the gold medal, "Do whatever you can to fight back." Ugh. I guess I still have some fight in me yet.

Pretty Woman, Anyone?

2008-11-15T08:30:00.000-08:00

I was recently given a belated birthday gift by a retired professor in my department. Actually, I wasn't given it--I have to go retrieve it. "It" is a designer top of my choosing from an upscale ladies boutique that I've never heard of, nor have had any reason to know of, as it probably does not cater to my mainstream fashion and discount shopping sensibilities. When he told me of his intended gift while in my office one day, he encouraged me to go to this store, and told me its whereabouts, and pick out a nice top--any top I wanted, regardless of price--and just tell the clerk that he was paying for it. When I tried to refuse such a kind gift, he became very stern and repeated, "please, please." With such mannerly insistence, how could I then decline the offer? So I accepted, and agreed to go to the boutique and pick out a top of my liking regardless of price and tell the salesperson, "it's on Dr. So-and-so." When I pictured myself doing this, I couldn't help but conjure up images of a certain film about a classless prostitute who is made proper by her rich and cultured client, suddenly imbued with a conscience to help the poor girl. So in an effort to fix her up, he sends her on a shopping spree to designer stores she would never have previously patronized, or had the means to patronize. This made me further wonder, what was this professor thinking when he thought of such a gift for me? Did he view me as a hard-working but unfortunate young girl in need of refinement? I began questioning my own self image, which I didn't consider to be terribly tragic or in need of revision. Perhaps, though, his motive was as innocent as wanting to give a nice gift to me, but not wanting to risk picking something out himself. In such an instance, though, as one keen friend pointed out, the modern day gift card might have sufficed.

Walking for a Cause and Walking Away

2008-11-10T06:19:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I participated for the second year in the American Heart Association's Start! Heart Walk 2008-09, Tampa Bay. I joined my department's team of six walkers (three of whom raised money)--pretty measly considering how large the Department of English is at USF. I was able to drag in my friend Taylor to walk and talk with me for three miles on a Saturday morning. We arrived at the Raymond James Stadium with time to spare, so we began a hunt for free coffee, which seemed at first an attainable goal. We went from corporate tent to corporate tent, spotting the big green coffee decanters brought to the event for the sole purpose of caffeinating early morning walkers, but being turned away a couple of times because we were not actually part of that corporation's team, or because we were not VIP heart walkers--whatever that meant. Taylor persisted, though, and after conversing in her friendly and unassuming way with the guard of the VIP line, we were told we could go in the back of the tent if coffee was all we wanted (as opposed to the full breakfast buffet offered to VIP members, as though they were preparing to run a marathon rather than complete a three-mile charity walk). With the coveted coffee in hand, we made our way over to our team of six and chatted before the larger USF team went to stand for the photo--a rather burdensome task, it turned out. The camera man was raised in a crane about twenty feet in the air, and try as he did, he could not effectively communicate to his group below. He seemed to be speaking in his normal inside voice, unhurriedly and unauthoritatively, as though we were standing inside the crane carriage next to him. After several shots were eventually snapped, we dispersed from the bleachers and listened to a strikingly young girl belt out "The Star Spangled Banner" while white carrier pigeons were released into the sky (Taylor learned that the pigeons would actually fly home to their owner afterward--such an inquisitive mind she has). The walk began and Taylor and I wasted no time departing from our group (what is this "team" business anyway?). We buzzed past fellow walkers and talked about family, friends, jobs, and quite appropriately, walking. How it clears the head, strengthens the body, and soothes the soul. Well, maybe we didn't say all that, but I thought about that trinity of wellbeing afterward and I decided to apply it metaphorically to a troubled spot in my life.

***

I had recently been sucked (quite willingly) into a fruitless flirtation with a former romantic interest--to use a term of my mother's--and I was experiencing letdown after letdown from this person, yet still maintaining moderately high expectations for him. Our very history was based on bad timing, ineffective communication, and vague definitions of being (yes, much like that). I allowed this person to affect my happiness, or lack thereof, at his convenience, or--dare I say--whim. When another friend asked why I was attracted to this person who I seemingly had little in common with, all I could say after an unnaturally long pause was that I liked how I felt when I was with him. I felt a strong connection. Could I have been alone in that feeling? Unfortunately, our encounters had been entirely in the hands of randomness, as any attempt to plan something with this person failed miserably. For, as I sat with my friend trying to explain why this person had such a hold on me, he was standing me up--us both up--yet again. So I must walk away from him and his unreliable ways. Chance shopping encounters and birthday kisses will not cut it. If he cannot make an effort to show up in my life, I cannot be even an occasional presence in his.

My Golden Year

2008-11-05T08:02:00.000-08:00

An observant friend told me that this year is my golden year, since it is my 28th year and my birthday is on the 28th day of the month. I can find little reason to believe otherwise, as this has been one of the most special and memorable birthdays to date.

The celebration began with a family dinner at Acropolis Greek Tavern in Ybor City, honoring a trio of birthdays: Dad's, Anna's, and mine. In everyone's thoughts, as well, was Aunt Bonnie, whose birthday was the 24th. As such gatherings have become more infrequent in my adult years, I find that they have come to epitomize the true joys in life. Amidst the belly dancing, the food-igniting, the loud band-playing, and the napkin showers (they literally throw packages of perfectly good napkins all over the restaurant in random celebration), I will remember with fondness the genuine delight in simply sharing each other's company, even (and especially) if it required ineffective cross-talking and awkward seat-hopping in order to visit with everyone.

The next evening my friends from school arranged a celebration at a local and favorite pub, Four Green Fields. In typical graduate student fashion, everyone showed up much later than I did, save for one man I didn't know well or even recognize until he told me his name. That called for an immediate vodka and cranberry. Eventually, people I knew trickled in and and we moved the gathering outside, where I bumped into an old crush. The company and the evening couldn't have been better; I even have a hazy memory of an Irish birthday tribute sung to me by the band. I was holding my own after a couple of mixed drinks, and then the shot came that knocked me on the floor--specifically, on the floor of the bathroom stall I had entered and remained in for long enough to cause concern in my friends. They managed to drag me back out to the party where I managed to sit for a few seconds before standing to hurl over the bushes (lukily I think I'd gotten most of it out in the bathroom, so the bushes probably only received dry heaves). It happens. Jessica and Curt, bless them, drove me home--a fun-filled trip for them, I'm sure, as I was in no condition to give adequate directions or even open my eyes. Once inside, I stumbled onto my bed and awoke the next morning to a note from Jessica that she'd taken my key so she could lock me in. Do friends get any better than this?

As a sort of finale to the birthday celebration, I came into work on Tuesday, the actual day of my birthday, to an office filled with note cards dangling on ribbons from the ceiling. I was soon aware that my coworkers were standing right behind me snapping photos of my reaction--which was a mixture of shock, joy, and general overwhelmedness. Deedra, my supervisor, had secretly requested that everyone employed in the department (about 300+ people) write a birthday message on a card she provided, and then submit them to her in time to string and hang in my office on the big day. After the commotion of opening my office door died down, I took a few moments to read the cards and began quietly sobbing at the amount of kindness and thought that was put into this very memorable surprise. It was the best honor I could have ever dreamed of receiving. To top it off, Deedra and another coworker, Nancy, had baked an apple pie each, which the office staff delightedly devoured later in the day.

From Birthday 2008

Here Comes Fall

2008-09-26T20:39:00.000-07:00

As the summer began with a flourish of outside activity and appreciation for the climate where I live, so it exits and in its place comes fall.

Recently I attended a pool party at a faculty member's house, and as though aware that I would likely not go in a pool for many more months, I remained submerged in the pool and later the hot tub for nearly five hours, floundering in the weightlessness of the water. The truer reason I remained in the pool was because three big friendly dogs occupied the inside of the house and even the outside patio, and I was only safe from them in the water. As typically occurs, the dogs pounced on me as soon as I entered the house, somehow sensing that I was allergic to them, and after about fifteen minutes after my arrival and two attempted tongue baths therein, I made for the protection of the water, hoping the dogs could not swim.

I suppose it is fair to say that I also stayed in for so long out of fear of making an exit. As the only adult in the pool with all other adults gathered around it in their dry, flesh-concealing clothing, I would have felt a spectacle getting out of the pool in a drenched and clingy, probably shifted bathing suit. I mapped out possible scenarios in my head that might allow me to get to the safe covering of my towel, but too many people were between it and me, so I sank back down into the water and floated around on a giant foam noodle.

At the night's end I emerged from the pool with shriveled up skin and scraped feet from dog-pedaling intermittently to stay afloat.

***

Although I live in a region that is notoriously "seasonless," I find that the longer I live here in Tampa the more I am able to appreciate the subtle nuances of the changing weather patterns. This past week, however, the cool air and gusty winds were anything but subtle as they whipped around, announcing the approaching autumn splendor.

Uncertainty

2008-09-24T13:31:00.000-07:00

How quickly life changes. I am now living on my own again and continuing my ongoing quest for the peace and joy that I know this world has to offer. I fear sometimes I am all too content to swim around in a constant sea of uncertainty and unknowing, but I also believe this is an intrinsic part of who I am, and lately I've come to embrace it.

I was recently at a gathering with new acquaintances where one of them asked me if there was anything I decisively opposed. Apparently I had been making arguments against others' declarations of dislike--for art, for people, for poetry. I was hard-pressed to come up with an answer right then, and I sat thinking on the subject for a while, allowing the conversation to go on around me. I eventually came up with a few pet peeves, as was requested, and these included discourteous people in general, people who don't hold doors for the next passer-through, and people who talk loudly on cell phones in public places. While I'm certain I could come up with a much longer list of dislikes, as I often find myself an easily irritated person, my reluctance to do so stems from a deep-rooted effort to keep an open mind and to not judge. These sound like simple, basic principles that most of us embrace, but to truly do so is not an easy accomplishment. So while I may seem unopinionated or indecisive much of the time, I remain firm in my desire evaluate and weigh the merits of a given situation, and in effect, not commit to a position right away. Perhaps I'm too much of a literature student, where we are expected to weigh all sides of a particular text--something for which I'm exceedingly grateful. I can flounder all I want. Until I have to write a paper, that is.

Olympics for the rest of us

2008-08-17T18:26:00.000-07:00

It's easy to imagine the impact the Olympic games have on the athletes (perhaps), but what do they do for the rest of us? As I sit in my living room for the ninth evening in a row and watch the most accomplished athletes in the world display their power, agility, and mental toughness, I find myself inspired to move off of the couch and onto the floor for a round of push-ups, or an attempted headstand. Sure, these are small steps in the direction of legendary greatness, which, perhaps I'll never achieve, but the point is that I've been inspired to move, and surely so have millions of other viewers world-wide. Of course, the contradiction of having to be sedentary in front of a television set in order to receive the inspiration to be active is a bit of irony not lost on me. But when I start off on my meager 2.5 mile run, and I'm feeling less than driven and under-energized, I can at least think of Lolo Jones literally overcoming her hurdles, or Dara Torres swimming past a competitor less than half her age, or Alicia Sacramone, who, despite showing human flaw, pushes forward with grace and resolve. And I make it through my run for that day. I'll call on their inspiration five more times out of the week.

To myspace, or not to myspace?

2008-07-31T08:04:00.000-07:00

I've had this dilemma for over a year now, when I decided I no longer wanted to keep my myspace account due to its time-sucking, vanity-inducing, and voyeuristic qualities. I felt I'd become addicted to viewing public profiles online--of people I both knew and didn't know, and that just felt icky. I also had developed what I considered an unhealthy fixation on maintaining my own personal profile, frequently worrying about how I was presenting myself. To a lesser degree, I also found that I was concerned about the design and layout of my page, as the myspace profile designs have become increasingly elaborate and, dare I say, competitive. As a perfectionist, I felt overwhelmed by my inability to have a perfect profile. Thus, I began my long and irksome quest to cancel my account.

Myspace allows users to cancel accounts with little hassle--that is, unless the user happens to have a nonexistent email account, as did I. When I first signed up for a myspace account, back in the days when a profile took 20 minutes to load, LindyHop411 still hosted a site and discussion forum, and email accounts for the administrators. As group participation and interest feigned, we saw no point in keeping the site and its attachments, so we canceled it, and that email account no longer existed for me--yet, I could still sign into myspace with it. When canceling a myspace account, one must click on a confirmation link that is sent to the email address used to login with. I could never receive the confirmation link for obvious reasons, and so when I attempted to change my email address with myspace, they again sent a confirmation link to the nonexistent email address, making it nearly impossible for me to change my email address or cancel my account.

But they do have solutions! Yes, in order to once again gain control of my own account, I could simply send a mugshot of myself holding a sign with my "friend ID." They call this a salute (I stand by the term mugshot). Over the course of a year, I sent several such salutes, as well as my password (which was requested!), and many a damning email to the myspace customer service team, which I now picture as a couple of tech geeks sitting in a lonely room laughing at the users who send in their passwords and mugshots.

After much ado, I finally got my email address changed, so all I had to do was cancel my account. But I wasn't quite ready. I had been logging into myspace so infrequently that I thought I would take a better look at what all of my "friends" had been up to. A couple of friends who are or were pregnant posted pictures of their babies and growing stomachs, and others posted pictures of their young children. One friend who moved to England had posted pictures of her paintings, and I didn't even know she painted! They were truly amazing pieces. Another old friend from middle school linked from her profile to a new blog she'd begun, and while we haven't really kept in touch since middle school, I was excited to know what was going on in her life, and her blog inspired me to write more in my own (as did Kathy's kind email). And then I realized that I didn't want to miss out on all of that knowledge.

So I've decided to remain a myspacer for the present and the foreseeable future. My profile is set to private, so unless you have an account, you can't really view very much, but here it is: http://myspace.com/leeanned. And if you do have an account and are not on my friend list, please request to add me, so I can then spend countless hours pouring over your profile and pictures, as well as those of your friends :)

Belated Farewell

2008-07-03T17:20:00.000-07:00

I want to express a late farewell to Tim Russert. His death shook me up when I heard about it on TV, as he's really the only political journalist and commentator that I really listened to. And this was by accident. In the days before I had cable (most of my single-living days), I would generally roll out of bed around 10am on lazy Sunday mornings, and as nothing else was on my four television channels of any interest to me, I would watch "Meet the Press." I grew fond of Tim's show and his reporting, and I made it a goal to get out of bed by 10am on Sundays so I could catch the show (not always an easy feat in those days). I found him to be relatively unbiased, or at least if he seemed biased I tended to agree with him. I trusted his reporting, and I looked to him for honest reporting and for finding, or at least searching for, the truth in politics. Perhaps there aren't really any political correspondents who are truly unbiased or who convey the complete truth without favoring their own views, but I respected his approach and his presentation of information. I will miss him.

Out of Hibernation

2008-07-03T17:00:00.000-07:00

I finally finished copyediting my first manuscript, and I've now left it in the trusty(?) hands of the postal service. I had grown very attached to the manuscript, Women, Power, and Justice in English Renaissance Drama. I think I lucked out and got a great one. I happened to be taking a Shakespeare course when I got it, so I was reading plays while also editing new criticism on them. It was pretty cool. I must say, though, it was uncomfortable at first to correct and question the writing of professors who are far more advanced in their schooling than I am; but for this same reason, I found great delight in finding errors. Is that wrong?

I learned more about grammar this past month that I think I learned throughout all of my school years. Ask me anything :) I did spend way more time on the manuscript than I "should" have, though. I could claim a minimum of eight pages per hour (with an hourly pay rate), but I probably more realistically edited six pages per hour, considering all of time I spent pouring over the style manual I had to adhere to (but I, of course, only claimed eight).

I grew so accustomed to looking at words and sentences and to making edit marks, that it was difficult to look at other things without searching for errors or imagining edit marks whenever I wanted to make a correction--and I'm not just talking about words. It's like when you get used to using the "undo" feature in MS Word and Excel, you start to think you can just click "undo" in your daily life (other people do that too, right?).

I set such a rigorous pace for myself that I sort of checked out of society for a month. Now that I have the manuscript off my hands, I feel utterly bored. Hopefully I'll get another one soon!

Where did all the soul go?

2008-06-04T11:04:00.000-07:00

To the UK, apparently. Last year it was Amy Winehouse's deep and brassy voice that entered the musical consciousness of Americans, and made us remember that there ever was such a style as soul. Her album, Back to Black, is largely a throwback to 60's Rhythm and Blues sounds, although some songs, such as "You Know I'm No Good," are "enhanced" with modern pop beats.

I first learned about Winehouse while catching the tail end of a late night talk show one night. The now nauseating, if not still catchy, song "Rehab" was being performed by Winehouse and her male backup singers/dancers. I was instantly drawn to the song and the stage performance, and I soon thereafter purchased her album. It seems that in the next few months, the rest of America was hooked as well, and what became her anthem song, "Rehab," (in which she protests going to rehab) also made her the butt of many a joke, for the formerly stoned diva could not personally receive her FIVE Grammy awards because she was, in fact, unable to leave her new rehab facility.

Later last year, Winehouse's first album, Frank, was released in the US. The images inside the CD program are shockingly different from the Winehouse we see in the later album photos, which is clearly a testament to the sadly addictive lifestyle she plummeted into. In one photo on the Frank album, Winehouse looks nearly pristine, like the girl next door, whereas more recent photos portray a more strung-out, emaciated Winehouse, always sporting her signature black, tattered beehive hairdo.

So what happened? Is this the price of being a phenomenal soul artist?

Perhaps we will see in the coming years with the newest UK breakout star, [Aimee] Duffy. So far her public image is a striking contrast to Winehouse's, save for the mod eye makeup and occasional mini-beehive. It is too easy to compare the two soul songstresses, for they both embrace a similar retro style of music which is complimented by sultry voices full of depth and range.

But Duffy's breakout album, Rockferry, is notably different in its content than either of Winehouse's. While her subject matter does largely include spurned lovers like Winehouse's (what artist's songs don't?), there is an element of self-preservation and refinement that is nowhere to be found in Winehouse's songs. But perhaps it is the very raw and unwholesome nature of Winehouse that people find so intriguing. She continues to publicly crash as her public continues to hope for her recovery. Meanwhile, newbies like Duffy will continue to put out albums that leave the listener feeling less grimy, shamed, and hungover, and more inspired, nostalgic, and even uplifted, as track 10 of Rockferry, "Distant Dreamer" connotes.

I'm an Editor!

2008-05-27T11:10:00.001-07:00

I'm a copy editor, at least. I recently got accepted by Associated University Presses (AUP), based in New Jersey, to copy-edit manuscripts that have been accepted for publication. These are scholarly works that may or may not be interesting--I have yet to see (a list of current and recent publications can be found on the AUP web site). My first manuscript should arrive this week. I had to take an editing test, which consisted of three different parts of manuscripts sent to me in the mail. I had to line-edit them using my knowledge of the Chicago Manual of Style, a 984-page reference source that I had to quickly familiarize myself with. I agonized over these pages and later lied about the amount of time I'd spent editing them (they pay by the hour). After three grueling weeks, I found out that my editing test was "fine" (good enough for me), and that I'd soon get to take on more work. But the great thing is that I can do it totally in my own time, as long as I submit the completed manuscript by the requested deadline.

I'm a little nervous about working everything in--doing my day job, maintaining my two classes per semester, trying to be environmentally conscious, exercising, and staying updated with friends and family. It's a rough life. Luckily, I can do homework and stay updated with friends and family (writing this blog, for example), and even be environmentally conscious all while doing my day job! Sort of.

My Green Efforts

2008-05-27T10:27:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to do my part lately to decrease my "carbon footprint," as they say. Here are some of my recent efforts, which you might find helpful in your own daily lives:

requested a recycling bin at our residence

We've never had one, but I noticed other houses on our street that did. Recyclables are collected alongside garbage collection, and they will pick up such things as newspapers/magazines, glass and plastic bottles/jars, aluminum cans, and more. If you do not already have a recycling bin, Tampa residents can easily request a "blue box" online at http://www.tampagov.net/appl_customer_service_center/form.asp?strServiceID=289.

purchased two "green bags" for grocery shopping

Locally, versions of these bags can be purchased at most grocery stores and natural food stores. I got this one at Village Health Market, on MacDill Ave (south of Bay to Bay Blvd). I have two of them, and the two together can hold all of my weekly groceries. They're bigger than they seem, and quite durable. It is difficult to remember to bring them with you all the time, but it's a culture change--one we're all going to have to make sooner or later, as many stores across the nation are doing away with plastic bags altogether.

cut back on car usage

For small, in-town trips (usually on the weekends), I will ride my bike to the store for food or grocery items. I have a basket on my bike to help carry things.
I walk to Starbucks almost always, but of course, I live within blocks from one, so it's easy for me.
I've begun taking the bus to work! This is by far my biggest effort yet. But the surge in gas prices has played a huge part in my decision to do so. In Tampa, the HART line buses go all over the regional area. I actually drive five minutes to the downtown Marion Transit Center, park in a dollar lot, and pick up the number 5 bus to USF. I do have concerns about leaving my car in a lot downtown, but there are many other, much nicer cars in the same lot, which makes me feel better about leaving mine there. As a USF staff member, my trips are only $0.25 each way (students ride free). Regular bus fare is $1.25, but there are packages that can be purchased at a better rate. The commute is about 45 minutes each way, but I can squeeze in some reading for classes while I sit back and let someone else do the driving. After calculating the cost to park and ride the bus for five days, I'll soon be saving around $35 (so far) per week in gas money.

purchase recycled paper products when feasible

This largely includes paper towels, toilet paper, and tissues. The recycled toilet paper doesn't feel as bad as it used to :)

use mug for morning oatmeal instead of styrofoam

I eat Kashi oatmeal every morning for breakfast at work (it's delicious and has lot of protein!), and our office, unfortunately, keeps styrofoam cups in the break room, which I've been using for years. But I decided that wasn't necessary, and instead I use a mug to heat up my water. This requires washing afterward, which uses water, but I've managed to use a minimal amount of water in cleaning my mug (and just a little bit of paper towel to dry it). Over all, I think the effort is worthwhile and makes a difference.

request paperless bills

Many people have been doing this for years, and I prefer it because I don't like keeping billing information at home, only to pile up and take up space where we frankly don't have it. Also, upon recently purchasing a new cell phone plan, I learned that some companies are now charging customers a fee for paper billing. How brilliant!

That's the bulk of my efforts recently. There are many other things I'd like to do, like purchase compact fluorescent light bulbs, but I'm waiting for a light bulb to go out first.

What are your recent efforts and ideas? I'd love to hear back on this one (in particular).

Softball for Fun

2008-05-26T18:59:00.001-07:00

Joe and I played in an intramural faculty/staff softball game at USF last weekend. We were in the "fun" division, rather than the competitive division, which was the only way I would join. It turns out that in the fun division, there are just as many rules and emotions involved as in competition, but far less skill.

We were fortunate to have experienced players on our team, such as Joe, who compensated for weaker players, such as myself. The rules in this particular softball game were centered around female participation. For example, either the pitcher or the catcher must be female; females must bat in the order 2, 4, 6, 8; a female can opt to take a base walk without hitting if the male hitter preceding her is walked; etc. While my instinct was to be offended (especially at the latter rule), I didn't make any great efforts to stand out as a player. In fact, Joe and I both sat out of the first four innings, until we were then subbed for two other players. I "played" right field, thankfully, where no action occurred, and Joe played left center, where the ball seemed to be magnetically drawn. I was as much a spectator in the dugout as I was in right field, still trying to settle into the game. I struck out my only two times at bat in the first game, feeling mostly clueless as to whether the ball was any good, but fearing I may look foolish if I let it go. We lost that game rather pitifully, so much so that the score wasn't worth remembering.

The second game was far more exciting. I was put in as catcher for our team, which terrified me at first, but I then realized that I didn't actually have to "catch" the balls that the batter didn't hit, as in baseball; I just had to pick them after they dropped to the ground and throw them back to the pitcher (I must say with some amount of shame--I throw like a girl!). I took my catcher duty very seriously and followed the ball's every move. I hustled to it when it ran loose, even if the bases were empty and there was no chance of a play being made. And in one very exciting moment that nearly eluded me, I caught the ball off of the bat and got an out for the other team. It happened so quickly that I didn't realize I'd done a good thing until I looked out and all of my teammates were clapping and yelling positive things to me. I took a slight curtsy and returned to my squatting spot behind the next batter, beaming with pride.

I batted three times in this second game, striking out the first time, hitting the ball but getting out before first base the second time, and then hitting the ball and actually making it to first base the third time. When I hit the ball the first time, that little "ding" that happened when the ball hit the bat was so entirely pleasing that I had a hard time caring about the out I then incurred before reaching first.

Joe, who didn't know any of the other teammates and was only playing as a condition of my playing, was arguably the best player on the team. Perhaps too competitive for the fun division, he had a lot to say about the lack of talent our team possessed. While his observation was incontestably true, it wasn't really in keeping with the spirit of fun. So passionate was he about the game that, in a line drive hit out to left field, where he was positioned, he took a horizontal dive for the ball, missing it by just a hair. His effort did not go unacknowledged, though, as I watched, from behind home plate, the rest of our team applaud his valiant attempt.

Perhaps, though, the most exciting events of the game occurred not in plays, but in battle between the umpire and the coaches. One benefit of being catcher is that I get to witness up close all of the drama that occurs between home plate and the dugouts. Our particular young umpire caused quite a bit of controversy when he called an out on the other team for changing their batting lineup. He persisted with his ruling as the other team argued and rationalized, and the older but sprightly head coach flailed and yelled until he decided it wasn't worth it and took the out. Then, after a woman on the other team ran home, the umpire called her out because he ordered her to slide and she didn't. Old sprite had a field day with this call, and he unleashed all the curse words in the book on the umpire, and right up in his face, too. The umpire wouldn't have it and threw the coach out of the game. The ump also tried to call an out on us when we had male batters as #9 and #10. Our coach nearly got thrown out for arguing with the ump on this call, until much, much deliberation and mediation occurred and we were able to keep our #10 male batter, who proceeded to get an out anyway. All of this in the fun division!

In the end we lost the second game, as well, but it mattered not to me as I still had the ring of my hits in my ears and the vision of the team clapping for my foul tip catch and for Joe's bold midair dive.

Another 5K and Mother's Day

2008-05-19T12:45:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I participated in the Healthy Heart Women's Classic, my second (and probably last) 5K of the season. I had originally registered to run in the Miles for Moffitt 5K at USF with Joe that same day, but he came down with a bad cold soon before the event, and Anna had already planned to participate in the Women's Classic, so I decided to run with her and Gabe, rather than by myself. I had already made my nonrefundable philanthropic contribution to Moffitt, a cancer institute associated with USF, so I figured they certainly wouldn't miss me if I didn't show.

The Women's Classic took place at Al Lopez Park, which is actually quite beautiful and filled with plenty of trees for shade. This run was significantly smaller than the last run I was in--I doubt there were more than 100 participants--and about 99% of the participants were women (way to represent, Gabe). What was most significant about this run, however, was that Anna's organization, The Ophelia Project, was sponsoring a group of girls for their Girls on the Run program, which encourages healthy behaviors, such as running, in pre-teen girls. Some of these girls were not runners, but they had been training somewhat with running coaches in the weeks leading up to the event. Anna asked if I would be a "running buddy" and stick with one of the girls during the run. I hesitated to commit, because in the back of my mind I was thinking I had to beat my last time of 36 minutes. So I just dodged an answer. I'd make that decision at the last minute.

Just as the run began, I felt a surging sense of civic duty to run with one of the girls as much as possible, so I stayed with Anna and two girls in the program, but after about fifty feet the girls lost wind and fell back at a walking pace. I cringed and tried running in place, then backwards, but when that proved impossible, I decided I had to work toward my own personal goal and try to beat my time. I took off and left the girls behind with Anna. I ran most of the race by myself, sometimes falling into pace with other women. I found it difficult to know if I was pacing myself well or pushing myself hard enough. In the end I came in two minutes earlier than my last race time, which is certainly an improvement, but not as much as I'd hoped for.

I found Gabe waiting around in the park after having completed his run in 28 or 29 minutes, and we waited for a while for Anna to come in with one or both of her girls. After 50 minutes, we went looking for her along the running path and finally saw her with one of the girls, briskly walking along and chatting. They were dead last. We joined them, as did the running coaches, and, closer to the finish line, the girl's dad. It was kind of an inspirational moment when we all picked up the pace to run with her across the finish line. I was choked up for sure. Even though she came in at about 57 minutes, which the time caller didn't bother to call out loud, I felt a lot of pride for the girl (Lassandra?) for finishing the race, and for Anna for unselfishly sticking with her the whole way.

*****

Later that day I willingly got in a car with Joe, Anna, and Gabe to drive to Mount Dora for Mother's Day. It's significant to say that I willingly got in the car with them because two of them were sick (Anna and Joe). This made for a rather rough, but spirited weekend trip. We stopped in Orlando to have dinner with Dad, which was a somewhat botched event, since the highly anticipated meal at Bonefish Grille was replaced by a mediocre Italian experience at the restaurant next door that did not have a 60 minute wait.

We settled in at Mom's later that evening and went to sleep so we could get up early to prepare Mother's Day breakfast and then head out to the new pontoon for some lake touring. Breakfast turned out to be delicious, with Gabe on the quiches, Catie preparing the french toast, and me--where else, but at the fruit bowl.

It was a windy morning when we all loaded onto the boat, Adrienne and Grandma now in tow, and Perry whipped us through the rough waters quite speedily until we reached the canal. It was suddenly very serene and scenic maneuvering through the canal, with little turtles bathing on logs, blue herons watching us in stillness, and even a couple of alligators poking their beady eyes above water. We all enjoyed the peace of nature together as other holiday boaters passed us by.

After returning safely to land, we convened at the Frosty Mug for lunch, where Pattie met up with us. We visited over salads, sandwiches, and fish 'n' chips, and then we returned to Mom's house for ice cream sundaes. It was a long and full day, especially for the two sickos, and us kids were ready to head home.

That evening Joe slept for 13 hours straight, and I shifted around the house uncomfortably, sensing some dark viral entity looming over my body, ready to strike as soon as I let my guard down.

Swing Fever

2008-05-07T06:42:00.000-07:00

I don't have it anymore--that feverish need to consume the dance floor at every opportunity, regardless of song, of partner, of venue. I haven't had that drive in years, frankly, and while I know that there is merit in becoming a more selective dancer--in developing my own musical tastes and knowing whom I can connect with on the dance floor--I feel a sort of loss for the mindless, ravenous dancer I once was.

I remember with such fondness the many regular nights at Atlantic Dance Hall in Orlando, starting in the summer of 1999. Even though I knew hardly the first thing about swing dancing, the mere idea of it was surrounded by so much energy and enthusiasm. It's as though everyone who went out to the club simply had to dance, or else they might explode. But hardly anybody in that initial group of Atlantic dancers knew how to dance; perhaps that is what drove us all together. Erik was the exception. He was transplanted from California, where lindy hop had already been re-popularized for some time. There were two, maybe three, women who could dance with him at first, and Anna and I would just watch in awe at their movements and his seriousness. People eventually started catching on, learning from videos, from traveling, and from each other, and within months Atlantic Dance Hall was a full blown lindy hop scene that attracted dancers from Gainesville, Jacksonville, Tampa, and St. Pete.

Anna and I were still living at home, having just graduated high school, and there was little that could keep us from going out nearly every night of the week, arriving when the doors opened and leaving when they kicked us out, but carrying the socializing out to the parking lot, or to a diner, for another hour or two. We both injured our ankles at first from the new and constant floor pounding, but we just wrapped up our stress fractures (self-diagnosed) and continued dancing nightly.

During that summer we were working at a bakery, which we often opened at 6am. Since the dance club closed at 2am, and we usually stayed out until 3am, we would often come home for a quick nap and then drag ourselves out of bed to prepare racks of fresh bread and pastries. Often only one of us was scheduled to open the store, but we'd both go to help the other out. After working until 1 or 2 in the afternoon, we'd come home for a deep sleep before waking in time to go back out to the dance hall and do it all over again. I'll always remember that summer as one of the best of my life.

Today my reaction to swing dancing is drastically changed. There's little that can drag me out to the most regular dance night in Tampa, the beloved Sunday night Zendah Grotto dance. So much as I've ever been able to figure out, Grottoes are members of the masonic lodge, M.O.V.P.E.R., or the Mystic Order of Veiled Prophets of the Enchanted Realm. This has absolutely nothing to do with swing dancing, but I find it interesting and somehow telling of the very strange aura at the Zendah Grotto dances. Where there is no segue from the venue to its Sunday night purpose, there is also no segue from the folks running the dance and DJing (with the exception of Abdel) to the dancers. This strange element has never been lost on us dancers, but with nowhere else to go, we always settled for it and hoped for a better night of DJing than the last.

I went out this past Sunday for the first time in months, which saddens me to think about, and while the scene was more foreign and awkward to me than ever, I did get to experience swing dancing from a beginner's perspective. No, I didn't quite forget everything I'd ever learned, but Joe came out with me and did his step, step, rock-steps with me at least half a dozen times on (and off) the dance floor. He held his own and even seemed to enjoy his accomplishments, which made the evening all the more rewarding for me as well. Next lesson: triple-steps.

Play of Summer

2008-05-04T11:35:00.000-07:00

Even though it is still technically spring time, the summer college semester begins in one week, the weather is consistently sunny and mid-80s, and baseball season is in full bloom. I embrace this time of year as a time to extend my outside activities beyond my nightly walks, to bike rides, benefit runs, beach days, and a newfound interest in softball.

Yesterday Joe and I began the day with a 7:25am 5K run to benefit the Child Abuse Council. One of Tampa's largest and most regular 5Ks, the Gunn Allen Financial May Classic brought out over 1,500 of Tampa's athletes and do-gooders. Since it was a last-minute decision for us to register, we did not have a a chance to train, but we had both been keeping a somewhat regular exercise schedule in the weeks leading up to the run. Our goal was to finish, preferably to finish running. And we did. 36 minutes of concrete pounding, rhythmic breathing, and humanistic awareness, and we had completed our first 5K together, having run the whole way.

Later, we celebrated our small victory with a trip to Pass-a-Grille beach in St. Pete. Having begun our day so early, we arrived at the beach early enough to have a choice spot in the sand with not too many neighbors, and to enjoy the warm and breezy weather without feeling brutalized by the sun's strong rays. We read books and bought a paddle ball set. We played a rather lengthy game of paddle ball (which Joe later referred to as "beach tennis"), a highlight of which was when Joe dove for the ball and not only missed the ball, but also threw his paddle into the air in an awkward attempt to return the hit. The image of all three things in midair (the ball, the paddle, and Joe) weakened me with laughter throughout the remainder of our game.

After leaving the beach and stopping at Wild Oats for snacks--a weekend favorite of mine any time of year--we came home to our sunny and quiet street and Joe napped while I drowsily watched episodes of a guilty favorite, "What Not to Wear."

Later in the afternoon, we decided to practice for a softball game we committed ourselves to participating in at USF. Joe, having grown up playing and being a spectator of baseball, taught me how to throw, catch, and hit. We found a park that looked like it would serve our needs and keep the ball relatively contained if hit with a decent amount of power. The fence we were relying on to contain the softball happened to belong to a private tennis court at a condominium complex. We only discovered this after Joe hit the ball over the fence and we couldn't figure out a way into the court, which was surrounded by 10-foot fencing all around. To our great fortune, there was a lower fence, maybe six feet high, extending from one side of the higher fence that would let us into the yard around the court so we could reach the gate. Joe climbed over the lower fence and made it to the gate, which he discovered was locked. The chain that kept the gate locked allowed about six inches of slack where one could conceivably squeeze through the gate opening and into the court. Joe couldn't quite make it through, so he called for me to come over. My mindset is usually such that I think I can do anything before I've actually tried it, so I began climbing the lower fence as Joe was coming around to help me. Now let me state that this lower fence has sharp points of metal along the top bar, presumably to keep people from climbing it. Since placing my hands on top of the fence was painful, yet I wanted to take my time getting over, I perched myself on top, trying to balance on just my two feet. This worked for several victorious seconds, and then, slowly realizing I was losing my balance, I began to tip backward as Joe screamed out for my life. I instinctively reached backward with my right hand and caught hold of the higher fence, saving myself from a disastrous fall. In the end I managed to get over the fence with Joe's help, and then squeeze through the gate to rescue our $2.99 softball. We decided that Joe shouldn't hit anymore, since his power had been demonstrated, and so I took to the bat, safely hitting my ground balls, and even more safely missing the ball all together. But then we discovered I had a bit of power in me as well, and on a fluke, I hit the beloved ball over the fence and into the tennis court all by myself. We studied the situation for a moment, and then decided practice was over and we would drive around this time to retrieve the ball.

I came away from the incident mostly unscathed with only a couple of scratches and bruises--oh, and a sore chest cavity the next day from when, during the "catch" portion of my training, I failed to react and the ball hit me smack in the middle of the chest. I told Joe after practice that I was compensating for a relatively safe and unadventurous childhood. But as the soreness of the next day set in, and I reflected on what could have happened, I realized I was perhaps too old and aware of consequences to now enjoy the recklessness of chasing cheap balls.