K is such a difficult letter. Kilometer. Knowledge. Kundalini

KI’ve been struggling with what to write for K, which, technically, should have been done yesterday. Tying a K word to my running theme is proving difficult. I suppose the obvious K is Kilometer, as in 5K, 8K, 10K, etc. I could go down that road, metaphorically, I suppose, but I’m not feeling inspired.

My favorite race seems to be the 10K, or 6.2 miles, roughly a quarter of a marathon, a little less than half of a half marathon, which is 13.1 miles or 21.08241 kilometers. Most days I run 5 miles or a bit over 8K.

When I started running and using my Nike app, I got a little verbal acknowledgement from the voice in the app when I hit each kilometer along my run. I found the information frustrating as it meant I spent the next kilometer futilely doing math in my head, trying to figure out what my pace was in miles per hour. Eventually I switched the app to alert me at each mile which makes much more sense.

I remember a concerted effort by the powers that be to educate us on the metric system when I was in middle school—7th grade if I remember correctly. The metric system is coming, they warned. Best to brush up on this vexing system of 10s. Nearly forty years have come and gone since then, and we still prefer the random foot, yard, mile system here in these United States. We don’t seem any worse off for not making the switch.

See, that’s all I have to say about kilometers. Not very inspiring or useful, really. I took a look back at last April to see what I wrote about on the K is for day then and that was not helpful either. A year ago, I was as stuck as I am now.

I considered a K blog on Knowledge as well, a pretty big topic. As a student, I find myself awash in the acquisition of knowledge. I struggled to tie Knowledge to the running theme, though. I suppose we could approach it via data—data is information, and information, once absorbed, becomes knowledge. Knowledge is power. Once I know my stats, I have information and then knowledge about my running. I can then fine-tune my runs. Meh. Maybe if I were interested in taking my running to the next level, but I’m not. I’m content with the status quo.

Two more possibilities arose as I pondered K words, one of which has nothing obvious to do with running: Kundalini. Kundalini is the energy that rests at the base of the spine (according to yogic tradition), which, once awakened can result in deep bliss (among other things). Interestingly enough, to those who know me, I attended a church service this past weekend where the topic was Kundalini Mayhem, or what happens when the kundalini rises in the unprepared. (It’s a long story, but fascinating. One I may have to explore in more depth in a later blog post.)

The kundalini rises along the spine’s chakras, which brings me to my new tattoo (I know, a very circuitous route—I just can’t wait until T to write about my tattoo): a choku rei symbol. The choku rei symbolizes power. It means, basically, “place all the power of the universe here.” The symbol is said to represent the chakras, in the places where the coils intersect with the staff.

I put the tattoo on my right shoulder for two reasons. First, it will look all sorts of badass when I run in a racer back tank top. And second, because I’ve had a strange sensation under my right scapula for the past two years. Recently I discovered the discomfort is the result of degenerative disk disease, something called radiculopathy (basically, nerve pain).

The Choku Rei symbol is used in Reiki to draw power to the parts of the body on which it is drawn. I figured my right shoulder and the radiculopathy could use some assistance. That, and it looks sweet. (Hopefully by the time T is for Tattoo rolls around, I’ll have a better picture).

tattoo

Rise with me–spiral
Up. Let us float heavenward
Toward hope and bliss

 

J is for Just Do It!

JI’m not a particularly big Nike fan (beyond their running app, which I live by), but I do like their “Just Do It” motto—I think that we’d all be better off sometimes if we stopped hemming and hawing, quit analyzing and crunching the data, gave our information-saturated brains a break, sucked it up and jumped in, feet first.

Do you want to start running? Are you unsure about where and how to begin? Do you have mysterious aches and pains? Do you worry you don’t have enough energy or the right clothes? Are you afraid of the rain, the cold, the sun, the heat?nike 1

Take the leap. There’s never going to be the perfect time, the perfect weight, the perfect weather, the perfect outfit, or the ideal body. We all have to start somewhere, with what we have. It doesn’t matter if we are waiting to write a book or begin an exercise regimen. If we wait until we have time or an office, the right shoes, or smaller love handles, well, we might never get started.

Begin at the beginning. Start where you are. I have a friend who wouldn’t start running because her shoulder hurt. And then her knee hurt. She chose to stay on the couch with an ice pack on instead of getting out there and moving. Until she didn’t. Until she got up and just went for it. The aches and pains vanished over time. She lost weight. Her mood improved. She joined a running group. Eventually she ran races and bought cool shoes.

2012 nike app
My runs, 2012

That’s the paradox. When we use our muscles, they feel better (or they hurt so good) because they were meant to move. When we write, we improve. With each mile we put on the pedometer (or Nike app, or FitBit or RunKeeper), with each sentence we get down, each paragraph we complete, our muscles get stronger, our prose improves, our ideas coalesce.

So, go for it. Just do it. You’ll be glad you did, and everything will fall into place, including those love handles.

My runs, 2015
My runs, 2015

Some places to start:
Fit School
Couch to 5K
Fitbit
Runkeeper
Nikeplus

I is for Inspiration

IApril is an inspirational month for runners. Just check out these two anniversaries I happened upon recently.

Terry Fox. I ran across this article today on Facebook. Terry Fox began his epic run across Canada 35 years ago. That number feels impossible. Can it be that long ago that this 22-year-old kid took off on one good leg and one prosthetic leg on his Marathon of Hope? He covered about 16 miles a day, day after day for 143 days, over 3339 miles in all. Amazing. Inspirational. Seemingly impossible, even for someone with two good legs.

Check out his foundation’s website here.

Katherine Switzer. In 1967 Katherine became the first woman to run the Boston Marathon. You can read her story here, on her website. Forty-eight years later, it’s difficult to believe that women were ever not allowed to run marathons. Inconceivable, in fact. In spite of being physically attacked on the course, (by the race co-director!) Switzer completed the marathon in four hours and 20 minutes. In 1975 she finished in two hours and 50 minutes. She’s run the marathon 8 times.

That’s a lot of inspiration for one day, folks. May we all find the motivation to get up off the couch and move. Perhaps we will even inspire someone.

 

H is for Hills (and F should have been for Falling)

HEveryone hates running hills, and I am no exception. Hills hurt. Even going downhill, which seems like it might be far easier and more rewarding than running uphill, carries its own perils and pains. My daily running route of late has not been very hilly (because I’ve come down with a bad case of lazy)—but over the past year, my usual loop included a lot of ups and downs, none very long or terribly extreme, but with enough variety to keep me in pretty good hill shape. Or so I thought.

In February, I ran my first (and possibly only) trail half marathon with my pal Cami who has done a lot of marathons. I wanted to sign up for the 10k, but she talked me into doing the half . . . “It’ll be fun,” she said. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be that much fun, but I acquiesced, not wanting to appear wimpish. How bad could it be?ft ebey 1

Bad. I’d never run a trail race before—not a single-track race where five hundred people share a mere two-foot wide path, a hilly, winding, steep up, steep down, muddy trail. In all the time I’d been running up to that date, I had not ever fallen down while running. Not once. Yet I fell twice during that trail half marathon—once while running up one of the bazillion hills, and once while running on the flat.

The first fall surprised me early in the race when I still had a fair amount of energy. I took a muddy uphill switchback too fast and my foot slipped. My face landed in the muddy trail in front of me, but I jumped up quickly, brushed myself off, and moved on. The second fall came sometime after mile eight, by which point I felt exhausted. I could barely pick up my feet and that’s what caused the fall. I hit a root and went down hard. I did not bounce back up quickly.

I slogged on through the final five miles, up and down, down and up. Relentless. With less than a mile and a half to go, the course opened up along a bluff overlooking Puget Sound, and just when the going looked easier (and breathtakingly beautiful), we came to one final uphill: a foot wide, completely vertical sandy path that wound endlessly skyward.

I could see the finish line over my left shoulder—I could stop here, skip this final hill, and call it quits. Or, I could complete the climb and follow the rest of the runners back into the woods and finish the race.

Quit or forge ahead? I’d come this far, I told myself, so I dug in. I could climb this final (I hoped) hill. I channeled The Little Engine That Could. I visualized all the hills I normally ran every day and strung them together in my mind, and I got to the top of that damn cliff.

ft ebey 3Climbing the hills makes us stronger and gives us stamina for the long flat stretches. We can always catch our breath on the backside, on the way back down.

What awaits us at
The top is unimportant.
‘Tis the climb that counts.

G is for Gratitude (a day late)

GIn spite of the fact that I’ve pretty much spent the past year and a half getting out of bed and running 5 miles or so every morning by 9, the getting up and at ‘em doesn’t ever seem to get any easier. Neither do the miles, either, though some days are better than others.

In the past few months or so, whenever I find myself grumpy or getting cranky about, oh, any number of things—weather, aches and pains, time, lack of sleep, pick one—I try to remember to be grateful for the fact that I CAN run, that a number of forces in my life have conspired to bring me to this place where my mornings are mostly free, where I have my health, a place to live, friends with whom to run, no snakes, crocs, gators, or other poisonous or scary creatures with which to deal.

In short, life is pretty damn sweet and instead of grumbling about the minor details or petty annoyances, I need to just put one foot in front of the other and get on with my run. When it rains, I try to be grateful that we didn’t have 18 feet of snow this winter; when it’s hot, I’m grateful that it rarely gets above 75. When it snows, I’m grateful that we have so much water here in the PNW that I can have a long hot shower after my runs (present winter excluded—water rationing may be coming our way this summer).

If, on some morning I don’t feel like getting up and out there, I remind myself that for today, for this moment, I have legs and lungs and feet that all work. I have the ability to run a few miles and how much would it suck to miss my last opportunity to go for a great run? None of us know what tomorrow might bring or the next hour.

All I have to do is surf the interwebs for a few minutes to realize that life is precious and short and very difficult for so many people around the world. In some countries women can’t even run, let alone put on shorts and a tank top and drive themselves to a favorite trail. I am grateful I live in a place where I can occasionally take my freedoms for granted.

I have so much for which to be grateful—reciting my list to myself usually takes a mile or so and by then I’ve forgotten that I didn’t want to get up and out there. I’ve found my rhythm and my pace, and I’m glad to be there.

 

F is for Fast Feet

FI hadn’t been running very long the first time someone told me I took lots of fast, tiny steps. It’s funny that there are always two ways to be seen in the world—the way we see ourselves, and the way others see us. Rarely do these two disparate views align. I guess I’d always envisioned my running strides as just that, strides. Long, lengthy leg reaches. You know, all gazelle-like and shit. But I don’t have long legs, so that image was less reality based, more delusional.

Still, hearing that I took tiny steps was a bit of a blow to my self-image. I tried to brush of the initial comment as uninformed, but when I became less of a lone wolf runner and started running with other people, they too commented on my style and asked me where I’d learned to run like I did.

I honestly don’t know. I had never (at that point) had a running coach. I simply went out and ran, letting my body do whatever felt right, remembering only a few pointers I’d gleaned somewhere along the way—keep the elbows in, head up (like Usain Bolt), run a little pigeon-toed, use the arms to pump and gain momentum, but for god’s sake don’t flail about.

Third in my age group at the Tulip Run on Saturday. Fast fleet feet.
Third in my age group at the Tulip Run on Saturday. Fast fleet feet.

Then Nancy signed up for Fit School where Coach Carol Frazey’s (so many F words!) mantra seemed to be “quick steps, quick steps!” Huh, I thought. Maybe I’m on to something here. Eventually, I started winning ribbons and medals in races, placing in my age group, Feeling Fast.

I may never be a Flo-Jo with legs up to my armpits or fifteen foot strides, but my fast little feet serve me well, thank you very much.

How will I finish
this race? On my own two feet,
and speedy, my pace.

D is for Data

DI wrote this haiku last year after my massage therapist suggested I might enjoy hearing the birds during my runs:

If I run without
My Nike app or Fitbit
Will the miles still count?

Well, of course they will still count, but towards what, exactly? Yeah, yeah, my overall health and well-being, toward my general fitness level, and in the grand cosmic scheme of things. But what would I know about my run? Did I do better than the day before? Did I run more miles or fewer? Most importantly, perhaps, how many miles did I put on which pair of shoes?

My running buddy April (she of A is for Accountability), calls me Rain Man—a nod to my semi-obsession with my statistics. If pressed, I can’t really come up with a stellar explanation about why I’m so enamored of stats. I guess it just comes down to the fact that I enjoy looking back over time and tracking my progress. I love that I can scroll back through the months and see how far I ran and how fast on any given day, in any given race.

Karen, Moi, April at today's Tulip Run. Photo by April Eaton
Karen, Moi, April at today’s Tulip Run. Photo by April Eaton

The very first year I started running—2012—I averaged a mile per day (not per run, but per day)—365 miles run over the course of the year. When I realized in late December that I could reach that milestone with a little bit of effort, I got excited and added more miles to my daily runs.

When December 31 dawned, I still had seven miles to go to reach my goal. I had never gone that far in one day, but, determined to make 365, I laced up my sneakers and set out. I finished that run on the middle school track near my house and called Nancy to pick me up because I couldn’t take another step. I finished. And it was exactly seven miles from my front door to the door of the Jeep in the parking lot. I have the data to prove it.

Sometime during that year I realized that I always hit mile two around the beginning of the same song, Florence and the Machine’s Dog Days of Summer. I began measuring my runs in songs instead of minutes and knew exactly where I should be, mileage-wise, depending on who I heard in my earbuds.

Last year in about October I noticed that if I pushed myself I could make 1500 miles for the year. I didn’t quite make the miles I needed—I wasn’t willing to kill myself to reach that goal—sometimes life intervenes and other things take precedence over running. But I came close, within 50 miles or less, and I am happy with that achievement.

I have a new playlist now, the third or fourth one in as many years. If I hear Cher before mile three, I know I’m doing very well. If I hear Rhianna, I know I’m smoking it. I don’t need to see the stats, but I’m happy to know that I can if I want to.

C is for Compassion

COn my run this morning, I spent most of the time pondering what to write today, what C word I wanted to focus on. Running brings to mind many things that start with C: competition, clothes, chafing, character, courses, Carol Frazey (Fit School Guru, coach), Cami Ostman (inspiration, writer, runner of marathons, friend). Circles (as in my favorite running route, which is essentially a circle).

Between thoughts of what to write about, I discovered I was chastising myself rather relentlessly. And that’s when my topic for today came to me: Compassion. For myself and for others.

I saw a headline on Facebook the other day that said something like “imagine if we talked to other people the way we talk to ourselves.” I thought about that for a moment (I didn’t click through to the article, but I could imagine well enough how it went). I don’t think I’d have many friends if I talked to others the way I talk to myself.

Imagine if I said these things to my running buddies: “Come on you lazy ass—get out of bed already. You can sleep when you die.” “Ugh, you really need some new running clothes. These are so unflattering.” “Jesus, pick up the pace already.” “Don’t breathe so loud! You’re scaring the other runners.” “How can you still be so slow after a whole year of this?” “I HATE running. Why do I torture myself?” “You should be better at this by now.”

Then, I considered not just what I say silently to myself, but what I think about other people as I run. I make up all kinds of crazy stories and confer relentless judgments on people I see on my routes, especially if they impede me in some way. Like groups that take up the entire width of the trail, or folks that smoke as they walk, or parents with children (in strollers, on bicycles, or running free range), or those that don’t keep their dogs on leashes. Never mind the people that don’t pick up after their dogs.

I have HUGE judgments and my internal monologues about them can be just as brutal as the ones I have about myself. This is not an easy admission—in fact I feel a great deal of shame as I even write it. And once I had this epiphany this morning, I immediately started practicing compassion. I don’t know what is going on in anyone’s life but my own, so it’s time I started cutting everyone some slack. What would it hurt me to give folks the benefit of the doubt? To show a little love to my fellow travelers and cut down on the snark and self-absorption?

I know for a fact that I’ll feel better. I’ve written a lot about running happy and how running does in fact make me happy. But maybe it’s time I start spreading some joy while I’m out there. Smiling instead of grimacing.

I have made a few friends on the trail in the past year—there’s the lady with Buddy the Dog who walks nearly every morning. And Diane, who stopped me one day last summer to tell me how great I looked. We talk now and then. And John, who is out there religiously. There are the women with the stroller, one of whom wears bright orange shoes and a skort. We wave and smile and warn one another if we see something suspicious.

I feel a little bit like the soft drink commercial—the one where the bottle of soda gets passed around to whomever is in the most distress. As sappy as that ad is, it still makes me misty. Something magical happens when ease up and spread a little love.

Compassion falters,
and then I remember: We’re
in this together.

B is for Brooks, or How is it I Have SO Many Pairs of Running Shoes?

BA few months ago on one of my frequent forays through our local running store, I was lamenting having to buy yet another pair of shoes. I’d only been running seriously for a few months then, so I was likely only one or two pair into what has become a recurring event. The sales guy (I believe it was Steve G.) laughed. He of course has been running for a very long time. “You should see the mound of shoes I have!” He made a sweeping gesture. “My wife won’t let me keep them in the house anymore. They’re all in the garage.”

I guess the upside of needing a new pair of running shoes means I’ve been putting on the miles. I generally start to feel that familiar twinge in the bottom of my foot that signals it’s time to break out the wallet at around mile 300. Last year, I ran very nearly 1500 miles, which meant I ran through five pairs of shoes. One of the reasons I started running, instead of going to the gym, was that in theory running should be less expensive. Very little equipment needed, no membership fees. Yeah right.

Glycerin_2
Brooks Glycerin running the Turkey Trot

Running is not inexpensive. Not if you don’t want your body to break down. Not if you care about your feet, calves, shins, knees, and back. Not if you run on a variety of surfaces or in all kinds of weather. I currently rotate through three different pairs of shoes, all Brooks. Fun fact about Brooks running shoes: they are made just down the freeway from Bellingham in Bothell.The Brooks Glycerins, the cushiest of the trio, are great for flat surfaces, pavement, and going fast. Runners World Magazine listed them in its Fall Shoe Preview as perfect for the heavier runner—a description I took some exception to, but they are super comfy. So, whatever. The first time I wore a pair in a race, I came in as the first woman overall. Go figure.

My Cascadias are Brooks’ trail shoes—awesome for running over roots and rocks and uneven surfaces. I wasn’t sure I would like the Cascadias, so I bought an older model online for about half the original resale price. Now I love them and am looking forward to racking up the miles on them so I can get a new pair of the latest model.

cascadias
Brooks Cascadia 8. No pics of these in action.

Rounding out my current collection are the Ghost GTX, the Gortex-lined wonders that keep my piggies dry in this rainiest of climes. I am on my second pair of Ghost GTX—I wore my most recent pair the first time when I ran the Mt. Vernon High School Band Aid 10K. The skies opened up, and I ended up running through a thunderstorm, complete with lightning, massive amounts of rain, and rivers and rivers of cow, uhm, waste, one of the bonuses of running rurally.

The downside of a Gortex-lined shoe? They keep the water out, yes, but if it somehow comes over the top of the shoe, it also stays in. By the time I finished the Band Aid run, each shoe must have weighed five pounds and my feet were soaked and shriveled. Usually though, I avoid deep rivers of cow waste, and the GTX keep my feet nice and dry.

Ghost GTX
Brooks Ghost GTX, post Band Aid 10K. These are some wet dogs.

These days, I’m working on my own mound o’shoes which currently resides by the front door. I am not ready to relocate the mound to the garage because whenever I look at it, I’m reminded of just how far I’ve come.

No barefoot running
for me. These feet are well-clad.
My spoiled, pampered dogs

I’m Baaack! For NaPoWriMo and the 2015 A-to-Z Challenge

I know, I know. It’s been far too long since I last posted. But I’m back, at least for the month of April, to once again participate in the A-to-Z Daily Blog Challenge. If you remember, I did this last year as well, writing a blog a day for 30 days throughout the month of April.

I’m also planning to participate in NaPoWriMo to celebrate National Poetry Month—which is also in April—by writing a poem a day for the month. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be posting a haiku that ties into whatever the daily theme is for my blog.

I haven’t yet decided if I will blog on a theme for the month or leave it open to my daily whims. Some themes I’ve been pondering:

  • Running
  • Writing
  • Menopause

If I go with Running as a theme, here are possible topics for my first few days:

  • A is for April (my running buddy, not the month)
  • B is for Brooks (how is it I can identify the make and model of so many running shoes?)
  • C is for Clothing or Why Does My Closet Smell Like That?
  • D is for Data (How far? How fast? How many calories? Don’t make me run without my Nike app)
  • E is for Eating Everything

If I go with, oh, say, Menopause instead, I could write about these topics:

  • A is for Hot Flashes
  • B is for Black Cohosh Smells and Tastes Terrible
  • C is for Cold Compresses
  • D is for Don’t Touch Me! (I’m too hot)
  • E is for Estrogen, Please (don’t make me grovel)
  • F is for Fire (as in I’m on Fire, again)
  • G is for Get Away From Me (it’s too hot to be this close)
  • H is for Heat (is it HOT in here or is it me?)
  • I is for Igloo (or yes, I DO keep my house that cold)

Or I may just write about whatever pleases me in the moment. Tune in later this week to find out what I’ve decided.

Writing and running
Finding inspiration through
My perspiration