Jules, over at Biggirlbombshell asked me to do a guest post! When your fairy godmother calls…you listen!
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And I am an addict (Hi Tara) It’s been five days since I last weighed myself and it is freaking me out. I’m always thinking about how much I weigh and wondering if it’s changed much since the last time I stepped on the scale. I’m constantly pulling my rings on and off as a way of double checking to make sure everything is still okay. If I’m standing around you will pretty much find me with my hand on my stomach to make sure it feels the same today as it did yesterday as it did the day before… Five days doesn’t seem like long. But when you’re longing to pull into your local Target and sneak into the bath department to find some relief of the anxiety inside your body by stepping on a scale, five days can seem like a very long time. If my scale was at home I would have weighed myself probably no less than 70 times in the last five days. Hello my name is Tara And I am an addict (Hello Tara) I’m ashamed of the behavior much like I was ashamed when I decided to get clean and realized the power the drugs had over me. I’m ashamed of the behavior much like I was ashamed when I decided to end my World of Warcraft account and realized the power the video game had over me. I’m not afraid to admit being ashamed. This is not a behavior that is conducive to a healthy lifestyle. This is not a behavior that is conducive to being a role model to those coming behind me, trying to take control of their own lives. This is not a behavior conducive to who I am destined to be. Hello my name is Tara. And I am an addict. (Hello Tara) I’m back to getting my eating under control. I got pretty deep into some dangerous behaviors. A week later I can see a difference in my face (much less gaunt). I’ve had to take this in small steps (first focus: 5 meals a day / each with a protein) and the reward system is some what childish in nature (think stickers) but it’s what is working for me right now. I’m scared about moving on from this first focus. This was difficult (difficult) and I’m only a few days into it. I’ve cried my way through more than my fair share of small meals that shouldn’t be causing me so much angst but they are. The foods that I used to love eating are now taken in the smallest amounts I can stand but in the end all my stickers are earned!
Hello my name is Tara And it’s okay to admit I’m an addict. (I love you Tara) is tough. I’m not sure if I’m ready to talk about what I’ve been going through the last couple of weeks. I’m still trying to figure out where my mind was going with some of the decisions I was making. What I can tell you (because this is about being honest right) is that I had stopped making healthy choices in the food I was consuming (and simultaneously working out too much). I don’t mean I was binging on foods full of calories with ingredients I can’t pronounce. I mean I stopped eating. Literally. I was getting calories in but in unhealthy amounts. At the end of March I weighed 157 pounds. Less than three weeks later I weighed 150 pounds. (I would have kept going) I don’t know why I started to push food away. I do know that there are certain behaviors that were fueling my desire to not eat food. One of them being challenging myself to go longer durations before eating. First it was an hour after I left gym, then it was challenging myself to go two hours after leaving the gym before eating. Three hours followed close behind until I was trying to go up to four hours. It was to keep my panic in check. It was a good plan to work through the panic but it was poorly planned and executed. Another behavior was throwing food away. In the beginning the #100daychipquest challenge was set forth to help me understand that no matter where I was I had access to food. Throwing it away was like telling the panic it didn’t have a place in my life anymore and over the past 29 days it was doing exactly what I was hoping…dissapating the panic. It was also taking away necessary calories. As time went on, the amount of food I was packing for the day was getting smaller. But the food I was throwing away was staying the same. The final behavior is my relationship with the scale. It is unhealthy. I weigh myself multiple times a day…when I say multiple I mean double-digit amounts. Upwards to 15 a day. I don’t know why. A fear of gaining: maybe. A desire to keep losing: maybe. Habit: maybe…whatever the reason, it’s not a good enough one to justify what I was doing… Not eating enough over the last couple of weeks has left my body weak. I don’t look healthy. I don’t feel healthy. I am not healthy. I can’t complete a workout without getting light-headed. I’ve had to stop doing whatever activity I was doing multiple times because I’m on the verge of passing out. My heart rate is up. My stomach hurts all the time. Eating is painful (emotionally). I don’t want to chew. I don’t want to swallow. I don’t want eat. Period. The reason I am writing this post is because over the course of the last couple of days, someone in my life came forward and called me on my shit. At some point in our conversations she asked me the following question: “If I was told I had to eat more in order to keep working out would I?”…I answered honestly: No. Red Flag She told me I had two choices – I could either go down the road to living healthy in all aspects of my life or I could go down the road of not living healthy. That I needed to choose. You’d think the choice would be easy but again let me be absolutely honest: I didn’t know at that moment of being asked where I wanted to go. I was thinking like an addict and if you’ve ever been one you know we don’t make the best choices…Before I could answer she sent the following text: “I’m only going to hold your hand and walk with you down the road to strength and health. I can’t stand by you if you choose the other direction“ Being on the receiving end of tough love is hard. (Difficult Difficult) But it’s all I needed. I’m giving up the #100daychipquest as soon as this posts to my blog. I thought about just giving up the throwing away food portion of the challenge but decided that right now I shouldn’t be involved with any challenges. I have other things I need to focus on in order to get my mind right and more importantly get my body back to being healthy. I need to eat. I need to eat often.
Not only did my friend call me out on my shit and make boundaries for her own emotional well being, so did Godfather. He said if I continued down this unhealthy path, then the trainings would discontinue. To have two of the most important people in my life draw that line and stand firmly on one side waiting for me to decide which path I was choosing made the decision pretty easy… I don’t want to be on this side of unhealthy. Alone. I want to be on their side of healthy. Together. So that’s where I am today. Figuring out how I got here and figuring out how to not stay here. Loving myself enough to know that while eating right now is difficult it is necessary. Standing in the place where once my scale was and trying through wishful thinking to make it reappear knowing it won’t. Crying and laughing, then quickly going back to crying. Then taking a deep breath and moving on to the best of my ability. With my friend by my side. (Thank you)
It’s 2:30a I would much rather be sleeping than sitting on the couch in the dark (so as not to wake my husband) typing out this post. But the truth of the matter is, this sleep thing has been eluding me for some time now. I could lie to you and come up with a plethora of reasons why I’m not sleeping but since this journey is about being honest with myself that means sometimes what I put down on these virtual pages hurts me more than it hurts the passengers (you). The last 16 months my life has been micro managed. Every bite of food going into my mouth was either counted and logged, subtracted from a net calorie goal or at least mindfully placed on my tongue for a reason: To not be morbidly obese. Every drop of sweat had a purpose: To not be morbidly obese. For 16 months I fought tooth and nail (and blood and sweat) to finally get out of that morbidly obese category and out of the prison of my depression… And I did. Both. The pendulum was finally swinging in a direction I was happy with. Life changed. I changed. Anxiety and fear no longer controlled what I was doing (or lack of doing). Depression no longer had a hold of my heart and spirit and for the first time in my Then something funny happened. The pendulum continued to swing. I began to exercise too much. I was still micro managing everything going into my mouth. Every drop of sweat still had a purpose. I wanted to see 100 pounds lost…then 110…115 was where I thought I wanted to stop. The scale kept moving and I didn’t want to do anything about stopping it from reaching the 120 pound loss. Everyone congratulated me, but inside I’m screaming “THIS WAS NOT PART OF THE PLAN”. This is not part of the plan. This journey Life has gotten extremely raw for me in the present moment. Having to admit that going from morbidly obese to underweight is a real possibility was never my intention. But much like when I was using meth, I never thought I’d become a drug addict. Much like playing World of Warcraft, I never thought I’d become a video game addict. I always thought I’d be in control: Until I wasn’t. I am not. I’m actively working on changing yet another portion of this journey. This never ending journey of finding balance. This never ending journey of finding peace in my mind, my heart, and my soul. This never ending journey of finding a balance between the food I place in my body and the sweat I leave on the floor. This never ending journey… For the first time since starting this blog, I’m turning off the comments to a post. Instead of leaving me words of encouragement and letting me know how much you are thinking about me (because trust me I feel that love each and every second I continue to move forward), take a few moments and think about where you are on your journey. Those words of encouragement and love that you would place here, place in your heart. Go to the mirror and look deep into the eyes that are looking back and tell yourself that above all else: You are worth saving… It’s what I’m doing right now.
Hahahahaha… I bet that got your attention! Now that you’re here might as well stick around and read the rest of this post (you pervert!).
Today I ran without my garmin. Without a heart rate monitor. Without a route. Without a mileage goal. Without a time goal. I just ran. Today starts the idea of #watchlessmonday. Picking a time during the week where a run takes place without the constraints of what many of us are bogged down with…our gadgets. It was a little nerve-wracking at first to leave without the comforting compressed feeling of a chest strap around my body. I’ve become very attached to knowing exactly how fast I’m running, how far I’ve run, what my heart rate is and how many calories I’ve burned. As I left the house I was scheming ways of figuring all those things out without the need of any gadgets. I thought about running a direct route, one that would be easy to remember so that I could come home and google map it. I thought about running a route I was familiar with and already knew the mileage. I thought about running for a specific amount of time so that I could estimate distance… Then I thought to challenge myself. You know I love a good challenge right? I purposefully ran a route that would be impossible to map. I purposefully ran a route I’ve never run before. I purposefully ran a route in which timing couldn’t be a factor (we’re talking hills baby!). It was just what I needed. I’m back to tracking food for nutritional purposes, which means I’m back to wearing a HRM when I’m at the gym to calculate how many calories I’m burning. I’ve been bogged down by my gadgets and today was liberating (Thanks Sharla). And just like most things in my life right now… There was a message to be learned. As I started my run I was trying to memorize the route. I didn’t want to, but my own thoughts of having something to prove kicked in. What if it’s not far enough? What if it’s not fast enough. I have a half marathon coming up and how can this count towards training if I have no idea how far I’ve gone? As I rounded a corner I came to a set of long stairs that would have completely thrown me off course. I ran by them. Then I turned around and ran down them. It was important for me to let go of the constraints of what I think I should be doing and just enjoy what I was doing. Halfway down there was a landing. There was someone there, alone, throwing a ball against the door of the building. Time slowed down for me in that instance. That person looked bored. As if there was nothing better to do in the world but stand there and toss the ball back and forth. It reminded me of when I was a kid. Socially awkward. Not yet diagnosed with Aspergers. Labeled a loner. Teachers just let me be. No intervention. A tennis ball and brick wall… That’s just Tara. As I ran past them I looked inward to who I am and began to give thanks to the GOD that has brought me to where I am today. I tried not to cry, but couldn’t help myself as I remembered what it was like to be that person standing on the landing (both as a child and as an adult). By the time I hit the bottom of the stairs I didn’t care about my gadgets. I didn’t care about how fast I was running. I didn’t care about whether I was going to run 2 miles or 12 miles… I just ran. I didn’t need my garmin to tell me I have endurance. The hills I ran without stopping (and if you know Tacoma, you know there are some serious hills in the downtown area) showed me I have endurance. I didn’t need the garmin to tell me I can run fast. I just had to feel the strength in my legs as I pushed harder to know I was running faster. I didn’t need the garmin to tell me how far I was running. I just needed the exhaustion of both my lungs and my body to tell me I ran far enough… I didn’t need the validation of a gadget. I just needed me. Just Tara.
Holy crapballs am I excited to post this little gem of goodness. As many of you know, after building a friendship with Meegan (RedStar5) over the course of the last 15 months of our LCJ(s) our paths finally crossed in the physical sense when she came to Vancouver a few weekends ago. We had been planning and counting down the days for nearly four months before Val and I got to finally a chance to wrap our arms around Meegan…we will never be the same again. In fact, I know I will never be the same again. I am I am I am blessed to call her my friend… ….. ….. …..  Valerie Tara and Meegan Sometimes your path crosses with someone who changes your life and you don’t see it coming. When it happens that you get to meet people who know you understand a chapter in your life like no one else it’s magical. The trick is being smart enough to recognize the magic when you find it. Just over a year ago I started a blog. Right around the same time, so did a couple of other dynamic and incredible women. Somehow we found each other and the magic happened. We all read about the connections you can make through blogging. The process not only allows you to tell your story but to make the most amazing connections. Tara and I have known each other in blog land from the beginning of our LCJ – Life Changing Journey. Tara was one of the very first commenters on my blog and we supported each other along the way. To me Tara was like a blog land super hero. I’ve watched her transformation from across the continent in awe of her strength, cheering her through each milestone and she returned the favour. I’ve watched her blog grow into a space where she not only puts her heart on her sleeve and honestly hashes through the tough stuff for us all to read, she also puts herself out there to help the rest of US out on this journey. Her heart is as big as anyone’s I’ve known.
I never dreamt in a million years we would have opportunity to meet. See, Tara lives in Tacoma, WA – that’s a whole continent away from my home in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. That’s around 2700 miles apart and somehow we were meant to come together. Fortunately, back in the fall of last year I found out I was headed out west for a conference in Vancouver in April and we made a plan. Tara would drive the four hours up from Seattle and hang out with me in my Vancouver hotel for a few days before the conference. From there Val (Seattle Runner Girl) and Sharla (A Journey of 26.2 Miles Begins With a Blog) got on board too. We were all going to come together and have a Festival of Love in Vancouver. And a twitter hash tag was born – #FoL We counted down the days for months. First it was months, then weeks and finally we were counting single digit days like kids waiting for Christmas morning. Unfortunately as we got closer to April 1st, Sharla’s mom duties meant she wasn’t able to join us, but she was sure there in spirit and we sure did miss her. That first day of April I landed in Vancouver in the afternoon just before 1pm local time. Val and Tara made it to Vancouver around 6:30pm that evening. I was waiting in the lobby (getting ETA text updates from Val) to see Tara’s orange Dusty-mobile pull up and was literally jumping up and down in front of the door men. People of Fitbloggin – you need to know this: Tara gives the best hug I have ever had the pleasure of receiving – be prepared for hugging goodness! (No offense Val – your hugging skills are a close second!) For #FoL our biggest plan was just to hang out together. We didn’t have anything scheduled. We just took our minutes as they came and enjoyed getting to hang out in the same physical space instead of just the same web space. There isn’t anything quite like getting to talk to people who understand the journey you’ve undertaken and get the issues that come hand in hand with massive transformation. – “Hey T – I have saggy boobies and loose skin too!” We did the following totally normal things that became amazing because we did them together:
 Cupcakes, painted toenails and chin ups Oh My! There was lots of action, but some of my favourite moments from our FoL were honestly the quietest ones. With the time zone difference for me and Tara’s whack-a-doodle sleeping habits we both got up around 4am on Saturday and Sunday. Rather than waste our waking hours tossing and turning and keeping pregnant Val up – who needed her rest – we headed out and wondered the quiet streets of Vancouver before the sun came up and found a 24 hour coffee shop and swapped tales of our journey. Before we parted ways Tara and Val and I found a custom T-shirt shop in Vancouver and had some shirts made to commemorate our weekend #FoL. The only thing missing from our photo is Sharla – but there’s enough love to bust up the camera lens.
 http://2.bp.blogspot.com I’ve been wanting to write this for some time. This is one of those posts where I make myself as small as physically possible with laptop in tow, a box of kleenex close by and a heavy heart because I know that what I’m about to write is going to bring me to a place of sadness. It’s what I do here. Some blogs are weaved with humor in their stories. Some are weaved with meal plans and product placements. Others are weaved with daily pictures of food consumption and calories burned for the day. Mine is weaved with story after story of how I came to be who I was and how I’m fighting to become all that I am meant to be. I spend a lot of time in self reflection about how my actions as an adult stem from situations that happened as a child. While doing something completely mundane (like eating or tying my shoes) I can be instantly propelled back to a certain event in my life that I can see so clearly I could probably tell you the color of my socks I happen to be wearing at that particular moment. Sometimes an event will replay over and over again… And do so for 30+ years. The memory comes and goes as easily as me taking a breath in and out. It doesn’t have to linger for it to have the same effect on me each and every time. It’s like a jab to my side: Quick and Painful. One that throbs when executed to perfection and trust me, it’s been perfected. When my mother owned her bar a bank bag would be dropped off every morning. I would wake up really early knowing that it would be waiting for my little hands to zip it open and take out a $10 or $20 dollar bill. I would take that money and as I walked in the direction of my school I would think about all the candy I would buy for that day. I wasn’t very good at maintaining relationships in school. Remember I was the kid that threw a tennis ball against the brick wall for most of my elementary school experience. But candy? Now that was the way to any friendship. My friends knew I could be relied on to provide our daily dose of bottle caps, gobstoppers, dubble bubble and Nik-L-Nips. On one particular day I left my house late. I qualified for free breakfast at school before classes started so being late leaving the house meant being late getting to the store and that meant late getting to school and not having time to eat breakfast. It didn’t dawn on me (cause when your 8 you’re not really thinking in terms of how to make a situation easier right?) to just buy a doughnut or something breakfast like at the 7-11. Instead on this particular morning I sort of ran to the store in order to get to school on time. I remember being panicked about not getting my cereal for the morning. I remember thinking: maybe this is the day I just go straight to school. I can always buy candy tomorrow. They’ll still be my friends. right? By the time the 7-11 was in my sights I may have been crying. Part of me didn’t want to be headed towards the store anymore. Part of me wanted to be sitting at a cafeteria table with the other early morning latchkey kids, my little box of cornflakes and my pint of milk. Part of me wished I was like all the other kids whose moms were probably making them breakfast inside the houses I was passing. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Or what I was doing. I jumped over a cement parking divider. The kind that are painted bright yellow. I wasn’t looking down. I was looking at the glass door to the 7-11. I just wanted to get in, get out and get on to my breakfast. I jumped and landed on a small baby bird. I heard it before I felt what had happened. Even today, almost 35 years later I can still hear the pain that came from that poor little thing as my awkward feet came crashing down. I looked down and the image of what I had done was forever burned into my heart. The original title to this post was “I don’t deserve food” That early morning I started down a long and treacherous path of self hatred. I find comfort in eating the same foods for a variety of reasons (oh so many blog posts and oh so much time to write them). One of them is that I prefer bland, cheaper type foods because inside I In that one instance I began to use words that cut me down emotionally. I’m bad. GOD won’t love me. I’m a thief. I’ve killed something. I’ve continued to do that well into my adulthood. Even today as I begin to break away from that “I don’t deserve” to eat what I want and slowly turn towards “Tara, you’re a good person and you deserve everything that life has to offer” my mind quickly goes back to that early morning. Back to the tears and the wanting to be comforted like any kid deserves. Back to the yellow divider and ultimately back to that poor baby bird. I’ve only ever told this story to two people and both times were very recent. I’ve carried that story with me day in and day out but kept it to myself. I was 8. I was just a kid. It took me a long time to make the emotional connection between what happened outside the 7-11 and the choices I make as an adult. I don’t know why I’ve decided to put this story out for the world to see (or at least those who read this). I’m not looking for some deep emotional release. I’m sort of hoping that by finally letting this out to the universe eating foods that I want to eat will be easier. But if that doesn’t happen At least I don’t have to carry this around with me. I’m sorry I stole the money. I’m sorry I stepped on the bird. I’m sorry I never told anyone this story.
Come on over and see what I’m saying!!!
I can’t tell you how many times this happened to me. What I can tell you is how many times, before this LCJ took a hold of me, I actually succeeded at doing something about the direction of my life. ZERO I made many attempts at losing weight. Some of them I did okay. Atkins was probably the biggest weight loss I’d seen after almost 50 pounds came off of my body. Of course this was while clogging my arteries and finding a million ways to eat meat stuffed with meat and wrapped in more meat. Once I was sick of meat and the call of bread smothered in delicious butter was too much to handle, the weight came back with a vengeance. It always did. The problem? I had the mathematical equation wrong. You see, I thought that if I got rid of the weight my life would be normal and all my problems would go away. My depression would melt away just like the pounds. My anxiety would dissipate with every meal turned away. My self loathing would turn to self loving with each lower number on the scale and for a while it would work. I would be elated to see 10 pounds gone, then 20 pounds and sometimes I would even make it to 30 pounds but then something would happen: LIFE WENT BACK TO BEING THE SAME. My depression would creep back into the pores of my body and following close behind would come the anxiety. Short bursts of the “Love” I felt for myself became long drawn out episodes of “how much do I really hate myself” on one channel and “You’re such a fucking failure” on the other. The numbers on the scale would tick back up and each time it would go a little higher than the last weight gain. Weight loss =/= Happiness By the time my 40th birthday rolled around I was a hot mess of absolute nothingness. When you looked into my eyes there was no life. I had no direction. My whole was broken. Look I have the picture to prove it…
This was taken a few weeks after my 40th birthday. This was hours before I embarked on what I would come to term as my Life Changing Journey. It was taken hours after I came to the following decision (for the umpteenth time): This is not who I’m supposed to be. Look at my eyes. There’s nothing there. No life. No love. My face is bloated. Whatever semblance of a smile that seems to be there is forced. It’s hard to believe that this is the shell of the body I used to live in… Not living in: Occupying. I was still in that “losing weight will take my problems away” mentality but that was short lived (just like every single time before). I lost a little weight and was riding the “this is it, this is for real” high portion of the diet wave. I was pushing away donuts and fast food bags like it was no one’s business. I was gagging on water despite my almost over powering withdrawals from diet soda. This. Time. It. Would. Be. Different!!!! Then my friend Depression came back and brought along his sidekick Anxiety. Anxiety also brought a few friends: Frustration, Anger and Oh Just Fuck Off. Weight loss =/= Happiness I got lucky though. Something about this time around was actually different. I recognized those old behaviors creeping up on me. I didn’t want this to be another short lived “success” story. I kept thinking about that mathematical equation. Every time I’ve gone into this I was convinced when the weight came off I would be happy. I would be whole. Each and every time I was wrong. So I made a small change to the equation… Being Whole = Happiness. There were so many parts to my soul missing and I thought that if I lost the weight all those missing parts would some how miraculously be filled. My emotional being would become whole. My mental being would become whole. My spiritual being would become whole…and at the end of the road all the weight loss would eventually bring those missing parts of my soul together and I would BE WHOLE. When I changed the equation I understood that the weight was a secondary symptom of my primary problem: I was not whole. It’s been a long sixteen month journey. My friend Depression tried to stick around for the party but left after I started to make my emotional being whole. Anxiety tried to hang out a little longer but when my mental being was coming together real nicely, they left and took their friend Anger. Oh Just Fuck Off? They were around the longest it seems. Never really wanting to leave even after it was apparent that the journey was different this time around. I had the physical, the mental, the emotional aspects down. It wasn’t perfect and it’s an ever evolving journey to make those parts of me whole. The last part? The spiritual part? It’s been the hardest but also the most rewarding. When I surrendered myself to the idea that being whole also meant coming to understand that I did indeed wanted (and so badly needed) the spiritual part of me to come alive, that’s when Oh Just Fuck Off left the building…
That is when I knew deep down in my soul I It hasn’t been easy. In fact it has been down right painful. Staying in the moment. Living through all the emotions as I fight to become who I was meant to be. As I fight to become whole. As I fight to let go of the old me and embrace the woman that stands here today. But as the pieces of this puzzle come together and empty spaces are filled with Understanding, Patience and above all Love the pain lessens. It becomes easier to stand firm even when I feel like I’m going to fall. Stop looking at your “diet” equation. That weight loss equation that you think “This is what’s going to change the direction of my life” is not the equation that you need. What does your life equation looks like? What’s missing from your whole. Don’t be afraid to change what isn’t working for you anymore. Don’t be afraid of finding those missing pieces. Stop pounding your head against that wall, hoping that this time…this time will be different. Know it will be different. Change it. Be it. Whole. A while back I put out a call on twitter to see if anyone was interested in doing a guest post for me. I was a If you’re interested in swapping blogs for the day and writing a guest post for me or vice versa shoot me an email and let’s plan a “Blog-over!” (see what I did there?!!?) __________________________________________________________________________ Sharla who blogs over at “A Journey of 26.2 Miles Begins With A Blog” is not only a kick ass person in the “Blogiverse” and on twitter (@262milejourney), she’s also a kick ass friend in my real life. I got real lucky in finding this one just up the next city from me. We run together. We coffee together. We plan 187 mile relay races together. I Without further ado… …….. …….. ……..
My first trail run
A long time ago I had a dream about running on a trail and coming around a bend only to be staring at a mountain lion. It got down into a low crouch and started stalking toward me. I was frozen at the absurdity of the situation, simultaneously knowing I needed to do something to avoid being mauled and marveling at the complete absence of fear despite knowing the average male mountain lion outweighs me. Not by much mind you, but they’ve got to be 85% muscle and 10% teeth/claws (5% miscellaneous) and my ratios are very different. As it launched itself at me, I kicked it in the jaw and screamed “Bad kitty!” It sort of meow-squeaked, and then hit the trail completely unconscious. I finished my run in peace. I did stop to let the park ranger know that there was a cougar up the mountain that most likely had a dislocated jaw and probably needed medical attention. Then I flew home. It’s a lot like snorkeling, in case you’re curious. In my dreams I’m so much more of a badass than I am in real life. Thankfully, I did not have to test that dream theory of self-defense on my first trail run/race. I don’t think there are any bad kitties that live in the park where my race was held, and I’m grateful for that. The first 0.8 mile was totally insane. It had to have been 6-8” of mud. I don’t know if trail runners have terms for different sorts of mud, but this stuff was the shculck kind. That’s the sound it made with each step I took, as I fought the mud for possession of my shoes. I totally won the war, but there were a few close calls. I was barely a mile into the run before quitting crossed my mind. The old demon voices that start-up telling you that you really have no place amongst all these ‘real’ runners. If you’re so out of breath after a single mile then there is no way you’ll ever meet your distance goals. And on and on and on. Actually, those thoughts didn’t get very far with me today. I’m guessing that it was because I was so out of breath that the oxygen just wasn’t getting to my brain. After that first 0.8 mile we moved onto a single track. It was infinity times better to run on, despite roots, rocks, and tree branches at exactly eye-height. I settled in to some sort of trance pace and ran in (mental) silence for the next mile or so. I remember glancing down at my Garmin and noticing that I was a little over half way. On the streets when I hit my halfway point I like to tell myself that “it’s all downhill from here”, metaphorically speaking. I did not find that thought to be comforting at all this morning. Possibly because I was facing another steep (but short) climb. Eventually the pack thinned out. I feel like I can take partial credit for this by letting everyone else pass me. 😉 That was probably the highlight of the run for me – occasionally seeing flashes of brightly colored running gear though the trees, but for all intents and purposes being totally alone. Then the joy of the single track came to an end. I made a new friend at the start and we high-fived as she passed by in the other direction, back on the main trail (aka shoe-eating mess). I made it to the turn around/aid station and then faced my last mile. It was maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was a steep, long hill in the schluck mud. Every time I thought I was at the last bend, the trail appeared to stretch on forever. And then, all of a sudden, I was done. It was so amazing. I’m finding it extremely difficult to express how much fun this was, how at home I felt running in the woods and with this group of people.
I can’t think of a better way to break in a new pair of shoes. |
