What I Learned from 31 Days of of Running

Several months ago, December 2012 to be specific, I challenged myself to a daily run for the entire month to mark my fourth anniversary of running (see previous post for a chronicle of those days).  On January 2nd of this year I summed up the experience.  It is worth reading again for me whenever I'm feeling low motivation.  Hope others find something in it too. I plan to expand on several of the points in later blog posts.  So here goes:

Some of what I learned during my month of daily running (in no particular order): 

1. Clutter will, if I let it, crowd out what is important. I must focus and be vigilant and protective of my time. 
2. Using time in important ways renews and increases my capacity for everything else.
3. Breath is the root of it all.
4. It takes very little effort (what's a month, really?!) to make enormous changes in body and mind.
5. Even a treadmill can teach me something important if I open my heart and let it.
6. It's 95% in my mind. If I approach life with a negative attitude, then I will continue to be negative about it. If I tell myself I love it--like I did 4 years ago after 25 years of telling myself I hated running--then love it I will.
7. Joy is without bound and can be found in the strangest places.

31 Days of Running: December 2012

To mark four years of running, I ran every day during the month of December and chronicled those runs in Facebook.  Re-reading them now puts a smile on my face, makes me want share them with everyone again through this blog and, inevitably, makes me want to start another streak.  What's missing here are the comments posted by friends.  The dialogue, support, cheering, and two-directional inspiration might very well be the richest part of the experience and I will try to find a way to capture and include everyone's words at some point.  

For now, here is my part of the dialogue:

December 1:  Four mile run. Fast, hard, and every step full of joy. This month is my four year anniversary of running. I am so grateful that I can run and that running brings me such incredible clarity, wisdom and joy

December 3:  This month marks four years of running for me. In running's honor, I decided I will lace up and run every single day of the month. Need strength today to drag myself out onto Brooklyn's streets at 10:30pm after a full day of travel and work in Baltimore.

December 4:  December. Four days, four runs. Resolve is strong and enjoying this simple goal.

December 5:  Interesting to observe all of the complications in normal life that get in the way of running. So easy to just set running aside for another day. Along with normal work and life, today is boiler installation and no hot water for post-run shower and the call from school telling me to pick up my sick kid. Then there is work travel. And deadlines. And...

December. Five days; five runs. May not win the mother-of-the-year award, but got in four miles thanks to Grant Newton who stayed with my sick boy.

December 6:  December. 6 days; 6 runs. Got it in early this morning by running home after dropping my daughter off at school. Complicated by Jonathan's early morning shift at the food coop and a still-sick son. It does indeed take a village: Thanks again Grant Newton for being the adult in the house.

December 7:  December. A full week of daily running completed with an 8-mile run after school drop-off, bringing my total weekly mileage to 32 miles. Today's run finished in a light, cold, glorious rain!

December 8:  If it weren't for Facebook, Kathy Kline and Janet Gottlieb I would be still in my bathrobe and slippers. Jingle jog!

Four mile race on home turf. With bells on.

Third place in age/gender in the Jingle Bell Jog with a time of 29:52. Felt like a good run and it was. My week of running? My home-turf advantage? Not knowing I was going to run until 2 hours before?

December 9:  December. 9 days of running and the muddy running shoes as proof.

December 10:  Squeezed in a short two miles today. Busy and the other child home from school, so ran one mile to the school bus stop and the second mile home with my boy. Love that: 1) a mile is easy for him at 8 years old; and 2) even better, he smiles with joy when he runs, too!

December 11:  My streak continues. Eleven days and running.

December 12:  My mind is telling me to run 12km today; my tired legs are telling me to run 1.2km. Wonder who will win the argument.

12 days of running...

December 13:  Thirteen days, thirteen runs. Sick today but got to believe I would be sicker if my lungs weren't so happy and healthy these days.

December 14:  (The day of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School)
It's like when my eight year old son's emotions are all mixed up and he can't sort them out and screams and cries. Anger, sadness, loss of control. What have we become and how do we get back to where we can live with ourselves.

Oh and I ran again today.  Big friggin deal.

December 15:  Yesterday marked two full weeks of daily running. I'm keeping the mileage low (mostly 4 mile runs with a few shorter and longer ones mixed in), but even with that, I have covered nearly 60 miles of terrain. While it is a challenge to fit the runs into my already full days, once I am out there, all of life's clutter falls away.

Four mile run on day 15 with a stop for hot cider at the Grand Army Plaza farmer's market. I love Brooklyn!

December 16:  Perfect running weather on Day 16--40 degrees and drizzly! The payoff for the first mile of slow, hard effort was five miles of pure endorphin-filled bliss.

December 17:  Four lunchtime miles, again in cool grey drizzle. Found myself looking into the eyes of everyone I passed and smiling. Think I need to see and feel the good in humanity today.

December 18:  Running today is my transition breath from mom sending kids off to school to CEO wrapping up last details before I hop in an airplane.

December 19:  This morning's run. — at Lake Shore Drive.

According to Wikipedia, in most humans (especially females), the abdominal external oblique is not visible, due to subcutaneous fat deposits and the small size of the muscle. Hmmmm.....19 straight days of running, I will never have a waistline, but "hello" obliques, and vastus lateralis, and....

It is Wednesday so this must be Baltimore — at Baltimore - Washington Airport.

December 20:  Snuck in today's run at midnight last night, on the hotel treadmill. Felt like a good way to shake off the long day of meetings and travel. Work travel is my real daily running test and so far so good...

Have been called many things in my lifetime, but my two favorite during this month of running have been "machine" and "recalcitrant." Does that make me a "recalcitrant machine?!"

December 21:  Blurry proof.

Three weeks, 21 days, 85 miles. Today cranked up the hotel treadmill and found my breath floating calm and evenly, separate from my body. An amazing gift at the start of the day.

December 22:  Day 22, five miles in the streets of Brooklyn and around Prospect Park. Great run--strong body and deep, even breaths. But something is blooming out there, my allergies kicked in, and I haven't stopped sneezing since.

December 23:  Day 23, squeezed in my quick four mile route down Eastern Parkway and around the perimeter of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. The tired from the beginning of the month is gone, replaced by a feeling of joy and expansiveness.

December 24:  Dragging myself away from Christmas Eve was a challenge. But did it. Four miles on the 24th of December.

December 25:  Seven perfect miles in the sunshine. The final gift was catching and passing the tall athletic guy 15 or so years younger. Granted, 6:30 min miles looked easier for him than they did for me but I still passed him.

December 26:  Santa knows me so well--new running socks in my stocking. Took them out for a test drive of 4 miles on December 26th.

December 27:  27th day of December; four miles. 40 degrees and drizzling. In my book, perfect running weather. Character flaw? I love bitter green leafy vegetables, strong bitter coffee, and don't like movies or books with happy endings, either.

December 28:  Four weeks of daily running, racking up 115 miles in 28 days. Today squeaked in a very early 2-miles to my 6am co-op shift. Trudging through the cold and dark rather than flying. Still though, I can't stop smiling these days. 28 days of running turned on the endorphin faucet and it now doesn't turn off.

December 29:  Six+ miles in the cold drizzle with darkness setting in during the last two. Astounded by the changes in my body and breath over the past 29 days. Both legs and lungs know what to do without effort. Light and fast and full of that joy.

December 30:  Ten miles on the 30th day of December. Cold and windy out there. Got hit by a huge gust at the top of a hill in the park and actually laughed out loud.

Anyone want to run with me tomorrow? Brooklyn. 4 to 6 miles. Flexible on time.

December 31:  Setting out in a moment on my last run of the year and last (scheduled) run of this month long streak. Woo hoo!

Pre-run me.

Today's 5.5 mile run puts me just under 140 miles for the month. An amazing experience that I am still processing. I am a stronger runner and feel tremendous joy and balance in my life. Not sure what's next but stay tuned. I am grateful for friends and family who listened while i talked incessantly about running, helped me make the time for runs and encouraged and inspired me every day. Grateful is what I am.

How Running is Like Picking Blueberries

I am at my childhood summer home for the four weeks of July. During the time here I spend my days leading my non-profit organization via wireless and cell phone. While much is similar to my day-to-day in Brooklyn, there are some distinct differences, like the bugs crawling across me at as I work at my lakeside desk, a nine-mile drive to get Fedex deliveries, an occasional lunchtime swim to the float to cool off, a snake that crossed my path today while walking toward the dock for a quick break, and frustratingly poor internet and phone reception when I need it the most. The pace is a little slower and I have an opportunity I seldom have in non-summer days to clear out my in-basket, read old emails, and to think.

But mornings and evenings!

Many mornings here begin with an early run through the surrounding hills. The air is humid and filled with the smell of vegetation. The path is either uphill or downhill with nothing in between. Miles and miles of hills. Knowing that the payback for a glorious downhill glide is several miles of grueling uphill doesn't detract from either experience. My body and lungs are stronger in this place than anywhere else. I dodge insects and butterflies and push my grateful body onward. 

This evening I picked blueberries while wading at the water's edge, with rippled sandy bottom under my feet and warm blue skies and setting sun above. I joke that the blueberry picking gene is passed down from generation to generation in our family. I joke, but I believe it to be true. I am a harvester and I have always found tremendous joy and peace in these moments. Tonight my children picked by my side. Then they stopped to dig clay out from the bottom of the lake, talking to each other about finding a ridge of clay and pulling it free from its sandy habitat. 

Four decades of picking berries. Four decades of digging clay. My children's bodies are learning what mine has known for so long:  the softer feeling underfoot that signals clay; the hushed noise of water lapping against lily pads; the pleasure of wave-rippled sand; how to lower a high branch and tell which berries are blue while squinting into the sun; the throaty sound made by a bullfrog in the nearby cove. 

Only four years of running.  I sometimes think I know my running self, but my knowledge of myself as a runner pales in comparison to four decades of knowing the sounds and sensations of this lake.  Real knowing takes years. At times I am sad to have come to running so late in life. I have missed far too many runs. I am a very good beginner, but struggling through training and races, awkwardly uncertain, easily discouraged or distracted. My expectations of my running self have not been realistic and they likely make it harder for me grow as a runner.

Patience? Solitude? Years and years of it? Grasping at the lessons that I know must lie in the blueberries. 

My Name is Rachel and I Love Racing

Tomorrow I am running the Brooklyn Half Marathon. From my vantage point, it seems the entire borough is abuzz with anticipation. 30,000 runners will assemble a half mile from my house and will stream through Prospect Park with a fabulous finish on the Coney Island Boardwalk. 

Deep in my heart I am a runner, and over the past four years I have successfully and successively convinced myself that I love:  1) running, after hating it for 25 years; 2) running on hills; 3) running in the rain, possibly my favorite weather condition; 4) running in the cold; and even 5) running on treadmills on occasion.  

But until today I have been unable to talk myself into a deep love of racing.  I enjoy the excitement at the starting line. I love the feeling of finishing, and knowing I have done well. I am pretty darn competitive and want to run faster both than past race times and the times of others around me that day. But I just haven't liked the experience of being out there on the course. I am easily derailed by faster runners, am discouraged when discomfort or fatigue hits, and find myself, too often, wrestling my reluctant mind into submission. And while I have never quit mid-run, the lure to do so has been strong in more than a few races.

Tomorrow is the day that all of that changes. As of this moment, I love racing. What's different? I have a plan. I have a goal time and tonight will carefully calculate my splits and will write them on my arm in sharpie if required. I know in my heart that there is no pain that my body can dish out tomorrow that it can't handle. I am certain that I am very strong and have much more in me than the world has yet witnessed. And I understand that—like hills and rain, and cold, and running—the only way I will love racing is to tell myself I do, put a big smile on my face, and leap into the thick of it.

So bring it, Brooklyn. Let's fall in love.

Solace in Snow

In Colorado still. I have adjusted to the time zones at night.  Staying up late. But mornings find me, clock set to the mountain time zone, awake at east-coast-mother-of-young-children times. Tired. Made fragile by responsibility and negotiating life. Nerve endings too close to the surface.

So today I again—predictably by now but still always surprising to me—found solace in my running shoes. My Colorado friends have grown tired of snow. But on May 1st, there was joy and peace on a snow covered and slushy trail, the branches white, my running shoes quickly filling with ice water, snow coming down heavy and soaking my hair, stinging my exposed skin as I moved. 

About a mile in I stopped, lifted my face to the sky and breathed for long moments, tears of relief mixing with the snow on my cheeks and making me whole. Running shows me my strength and hands me the courage to trust myself. In its moment, there has never been anything more perfect.

Can I Afford the Effort Required to Run at 5,430 Feet Above Sea Level?

This morning I ran four miles through the trails leading out of the town of Boulder, Colorado. I don't wear a watch very often when I run these days. After four years of running and racing I have a good sense how my effort at any given moment translates into a minutes-per-mile-pace. In Colorado, however, I estimate my speed by knowing how fast I would be running, given my effort, in my sea level streets of Brooklyn and then I add a full minute per mile.

I am in Boulder this week for my organization's bi-annual conference. For days I have very little time to myself and the time I do have is spent honing and practicing my talking points, finding typos in the program that I should have found BEFORE it went to print, and trying desperately to get enough sleep to make it through the long days. Most of the time while here I am the host at my own party. A bookish loner from birth, it is not a role that comes naturally to me.

Many people here know that I run. They are supportive. They also joke fondly. They ask me if I ran this morning. They ask me how far I ran this morning. They ask me what time I had to get up to get in a run.  And for a moment I think, "Wow, maybe I should have slept in instead."

It often takes a lot of effort to get out of bed and run. This is especially true when I know a very full day lies ahead and the night before involved dinner and a glass or two of Cabernet. And here in Colorado, 5,430 above sea level, with air at a premium, where I get breathless just going up a flight of stairs, with a large room full of people counting on me, can I afford the effort required to run?

Then I remember who I am. And I know that my running allows me to bravely face my days. It allows me to come through for others and for myself.

So today I awoke at 5:30am, slipped on my running clothes and shoes, pressed the down button of the elevator, and stepped out of the hotel lobby into the cool morning air. And two hours later—remembering my breath floating gently outside of my swiftly moving body—I smiled and welcomed eighty gathered colleagues.

Mustering Bravery After Boston

I'm in DC, where I have been since the very early morning train brought me here yesterday for two days of meetings and events.

I passed through Penn Station. I rode Amtrak. I met in Federal buildings. I ate in public restaurants. I took a long, fast run. I slept in a hotel and am now sitting in the same hotel's lobby answering emails and finalizing conference planning until my next event. The next event—the last before I head back to New York City and my sleeping family—is an exclusive reception and dinner with non-profit, government, and business leaders. 

I lived through 9/11. And two days ago, the finish line of world's most prestigious running event—an event I participated in three years ago—was bombed, tearing apart people and lives. Today, between meetings, I'm catching snippets of news about poison in letters addressed to our nation's leaders. I'm hearing about pressure cooker lids. And a dead child.

My own phone has been ringing unchecked for three days, calls and texts and emails from worried family and friends, uncertain whether or not I ran Boston. Because of the clock at the finish line I know with some certainty—as much as I can know about my finish time in any 26.2 mile run—that if I had run my pace would have put me there, just through the finish line, medal and mylar blanket in place, heading to baggage. 

I consider myself a resilient person. This week just getting on the southbound 4:40am train the morning after took courage. Not having been in Boston, last night's hard run along the Potomac felt strong. 

Two days later, however, I don't want to drink wine with important people in our nation's capital. I want to pull the quilts over my head. And I am reeling at just how very fucked up a very few people in this world are.

I know I will run marathons again including Boston. I know I will continue, for the foreseeable future, to live in a very large east coast city.  And in a little while I will don my heels and my small black dress and hop in a cab.

But in this moment this day requires more bravery than I feel able to muster.