Myriad Excuses for Not Racing Well

I have two half marathons coming up this spring, one in less than three weeks. Yesterday I received my bib number and wave/corral information for the NYC Half. For those of you who are reading this who are NOT running obsessed, waves and corrals are assigned by estimated pace so that similarly-paced runners are grouped together. For everyone, it avoids the stumbling and tripping that would inevitably otherwise occur and gives each runner a chance at his or her own best race.

NYC Half is a glorious race. I ran it once before, about three years ago. It is a single loop around Central Park. And then the huge mass of runners—about 25K, I'm guessing—break out of the tree-shaded park into the open air of Times Square and down along the Hudson River to lower Manhattan. There are lots of bands playing and spectators cheering. Last time I ran it, grateful tears welled up as I hit the carless streets of Manhattan, free and flying south. An added perk is the proximity of Chinatown and dim sum post-race.

So yesterday, my bib and wave notification put me in the 3rd wave, 8th corral back. It was amazing the devastation—and sense of failure—I felt. Despite the fact that I qualified for this race with my most recent marathon time, it seemed confirmation of my eternal "newbie" runner status. The day before I had been thinking that, while I've been running well recently, I had not raced, had not carefully tracked my training or developed a training plan for spring races, and had not yet gotten my head around the fact that I was racing soon, let alone formulating a race day strategy. Hell, I haven't even looked at a calendar to see when my taper begins. 

THIS is how my race day jitters manifest. The unworthiness. The excuses so easily created for a race not well run.

Today's post is really, then, another "I love racing" post. I have learned over the years that my brain can be corralled into believing anything I force it to believe. So, here goes. I was assured by NYRR this morning that my bib issue would be resolved and a new wave assigned. I will run this evening and calm my running-starved brain. On a calendar I will plot my runs and taper. I will check the weather and think about what I will wear. I will sit quietly this evening and chunk the course into manageable bits that make sense for the six miles of rolling hills followed by seven miles of flat. 

And I will remind myself every time doubt creeps in that that I am no longer a beginner and I am tough, fearless, and love racing.

Finding Joy

On Sunday morning I took a walk with my family on a trail beside the San Francisco Bay. We had arrived the night before after a tiring journey from Brooklyn. As my kids climbed trees and played along the trail, I had the opportunity to observe the runners.

My take-away from those moments of observation was that there was a disturbing lack of joy in that small sample of the running community. In fact, only a young boy, probably ten or eleven years old, looked comfortable and happy as his running self.

I used to hate running and I'm sure that hatred was obvious. Somehow five years ago a switch flipped and I figured out that: 1) I had to love it if I wanted to stick to it; and 2) my mind was capable of convincing my body that I did love it. I am really not entirely clear how all of that transpired. It just was the right time for me to figure it out. Then, about four years ago I started running on occasion with teams, my own and another team closer to my home. What I was most struck by was the boundless energy and genuine joy of these runners. I remember likening them to puppies in my mind. I was in awe of their love of every stride.

Now, because of the example of others and my own mind over matter experience, as I run I am easy and ageless and full of bliss. I have tough runs aplenty, but joy abounds.

And so why the lack of joy in a glorious San Francisco winter day? The sun was out. The air was warm. The bay sparkled. They had no east coast snow. Their bodies could move and breathe, not confined to offices and desk chairs for the next 18 hours.

Here you can substitute yoga or golf or tennis or cycling or (fill in the blank) for running as it best suits you. And you can argue with me but I'm pretty stubborn about this:  I don't think there is anything different about the bodies or abilities of those who find a joyful home in running and those who don't. If your knees and your heart and your other more vulnerable body parts are forgiving enough to allow you to put on the miles in the first place, then I truly believe the rest is all in your mind. And if you want to love running, all you have to do is tell yourself you do and then love it you will.

So go love it. Or find what you do love. Running is good for you only if you can make it a lifetime habit. And if you don't love it, not only will you not run consistently, but where is the fun in that?

Remembering to Breathe

This morning I helped my son finish his math homework while supplying adverbs and exclamations for my daughter's Mad Libs and simultaneously packing lunch, making coffee, and trying to stuff enough breakfast into them to carry them through their busy school morning.

Last night I arrived home late after two days of work in Baltimore to ice and snow everywhere, the news that my sometimes mean cat had scratched the heroic woman who cleans my house twice a month, and an enormous meltdown and then tears and a big conversation with my son who hadn't done his math homework, wanted to play Minecraft with his friends, and is feeling the pressure of a big school project, the upcoming 4th grade musical, and a friendship that has taken a wrong turn. 

My children are nine and seven. And it wasn't until two years ago that I realized that somewhere in their early childhood years I had forgotten how to breathe. 

So with homework finished we were running late and we all dashed upstairs to dress and brush our teeth. I chose to dress in my running gear. All the paper on my desk from two days away was calling to me. But I nodded to it and acknowledged that 40 pre-8am minutes would be better spent in a run than slogging through email. That the 40 minutes I "lost" during my run would be made up, and then some, in efficiency later on.

This morning, and the choice I made in a hectic moment, reminded me of all of the perfect moments in life that I would miss if I didn't run. Prospect Park was quiet. The air crisp and cold but my body warmed quickly with the exertion. The brilliant morning sunlight sparkled on the snow-covered lake and the rolling hills of the Park's meadows. Hundreds of footprints made winter patterns. The few fellow runners out nodded and exchanged smiles. Sweatered dogs everywhere, pulling their owners across snowbanks. The Park's grand trees, snow on their branches, towering over and witnessing it all. Sounds muffled by winter. No music. And my breath, steady and even in the quiet.