For years I have struggled to pick up running. I can remember trying a few times when I lived at home. I definitely remember jogging a bit with my friend Bruce my sophomore year of college. Here he was, a six foot plus, super slender guy trying to run beside my 5’3″ 165 pound form. I could have rolled faster than I jogged. I feel so bad for him, to run with me was like running in place. So, that failed fast. This pattern repeated itself every few years, sometimes I would try outdoors, sometimes on a treadmill, sometimes with a partner, sometimes alone. The reasons I gave up each time are too fuzzy to recall, but I do have strong memories of feeling so heavy when jogging – like i was struggling through mud. I admire Athenas/Clydesdales, heavy runners. The extra weight pulls at you – like taffy – only not as tasty. In fact, not tasty at all because you aren’t supposed to eat your own body fat. Of course, it also pulls at you emotionally. I don’t know how other people feel, but I was certain that everyone was staring and thinking that I should just give up and go home, look at the fat girl trying to run, etc. With physical and emotional strikes against you when you’re already doing something you don’t really want to be doing pretty much nails in a coffin for my attempts.
But a few things were different when I decided to try again earlier this year.
Just over a year ago I installed an app on my phone called, Moves. It’s one of hundreds of activity apps. Some count your steps, some track your GPS, some rely upon your own data entry or the use of a device like the FitBit. I had tried and tossed several because they rarely captured cycling. I spend a lot of time on the bicycle, so having one that could record that time semi-accurately was important to me. Moves tracks by GPS and does a reasonable job of distinguishing between different types of movement based upon the rate, but if it can’t tell, it notes the transportation in a generic form until you clarify the mode. It does all of this by keeping a storyline of your day. It integrates with a map, so that you can see what the transportation route looks like between Work and Fourbarrel Coffee.
You can change the mode from Walk to Running or Cycling or other activities. It uses FourSquare data to provide the library of locations, but you can always enter your own custom location.
Above the storyline it tallies your various modes of movement, giving you the option to see how far, how many calories, how long, how many steps, etc.
Almost immediately I loved this application. Not only did it decently log my activities, the storyline became a diary of what I had done any given day. For someone with my memory, this was a profound addition. I could go back to a day and see step by step where I had been, what I had done.
I know some would find that creepy. Definitely not for someone living a clandestine life.
For months, I clocked kilometers walking and cycling. The blue (cycling) and green (walking) dots competing in size.
Then one day I cheated and got a pink dot by walking really fast. I didn’t run, but seeing the pink dot felt surprisingly good and made me think. Well, maybe I could run.
My work friends, Patty and Natalie, both runners, insisted I could totally do it. I already walked faster than some people jogged. So on our family vacation I decided to pull out my old running shoes to just see.
And I ran three days that week. Of course, the dots looked far more impressive at a high level than the actual day’s storyline where I’m mostly walking.
But still, I was running. And two things were different about it.
- I felt light. I had already lost all of the excess weight with the pancreatitis. I felt positively bouncy.
- I ran. Actually, those first couple of days there I really just jogged. But one of the final days of the vacation, one of my nephews challenged me to a beach race. I thought, sure, no problem. Ok, I’m 45, but he’s 7. Seven, folks. Not a big kid. Wow. He could move. I found myself sprinting to keep up with him. And it felt astonishingly good.
Of course, getting back from vacation and trying to incorporate running into a life that already included cycling and/or walking to work and Pilates twice a week was difficult. Especially when I was clearly sinking into the murk of depression. It wasn’t until the end of August into early September that I realized how much I needed it. I have to credit Ted with that. He recommended regular, very strenuous exercises as a form of therapy – but like medication, it needs to be dosed regularly. So Sandy and I set about finding help afterschool picking up the boys, so I could get out daily after work. Which we did, and I would have great weeks like this.
And I cannot tell you how good it feels. The sprint – the run – not just a little jog – that’s when I feel alive. Not happy. Not sad. Just deeply alive and completely in my body. I had grown completely addicted to running. And I should clarify, I might go out for 90minutes and accomplish 10K. Most of it was walking sprinkled with runs. But still, to me, I was running.
But I also kept hurting myself. I tweaked my knee and was in a brace for a week, then it was my ankle, then it was my other foot. I alternated between hobbling and running. I would rest for a few days, then drag myself out again. Many days I barely managed a job. I tried multiple pairs of shoes. I strengthened my ankles. And with every new injury, I would sheepishly tell my Pilates teacher and schedule a visit with my chiropractor. About ten days ago, I went for a longer run with my co-worker, Patty, and my left Achilles got angry at me. I knew I overdid it, but the next couple of days, I still went out. Just walks, but l clocked multiple kilometers. That is until I could barely walk. Bicycling was even painful. So last week looked like this.
And that blue dot in the lower left where I obtained a “record,” that’s for stretching. I know my mood was dropping last week because I wasn’t getting out and getting exercise, but I was completely unprepared for what happened during and after my Pilates session.
My Pilates session is not like a normal class. It’s more like a 3 person training session with a trainer who is more physical therapist than pilates instructor. She is incredibly attentive to your specific physical needs. I could never do a Pilates class otherwise. Not with my neck, shoulder, hand, and pelvic floor issues. I adore the strength she has given me.
But, she is can be didactic about high-impact or over-stretch activities that can have long-term orthopedic consequences. She has a brother who is an orthopedist and has heard too many horror stories from him and her own clients.
For the past months, she has been discouraging me from running, checking in each week to see my current issues. I love her concern, but for some reason that day, she persisted in telling me how much damage I will do if I keep running. Then she asked pointedly, why do I need to run, why can’t I do bicycling, swimming, or other low-impact activities?
At first, I responded circumspectly, but then after more probing, I said it was for my mental health. This resulted in more suggestions, to which I felt compelled to respond: No, I can’t do a low-impact class, because I cannot be around people; No I cannot swim, because I can’t get into a swimming suit in public; No, I cannot spin because everyday I haul around kids on a bicycle everyday.
So she asks, why running specifically and not walking, and I tell her it’s the rush when I am actually running that I cannot walk fast enough to get. And she exclaims, Oh, it’s the endorphins! And I’m like, “Yeah.”
But she doesn’t stop there, instead, she asks, why do you need the rush?
And there I am in front of two other people I barely know, feeling completely cornered, and I tell her that I need the endorphins, otherwise I’m going to have to change my medication.
Finally, she gets it and lets up, but by that point I was barely holding on. I made it back to the office, started tearing in the bathroom while changing and snuck into my office before breaking down bawling. I sobbed for a solid ten minutes.
Normally, I don’t mind admitting to people that I have a mental illness or even that I am medicated. It made no sense for me to be that distraught by the situation.
I talked with my therapist about it, and she suggested that it might be less having exposed myself, and more about the instructor not acknowledging my feelings or even asking about them. While it was under the guise of being concerned for me, it was as much about trying to convince me to her point of view and to some extent, being right, rather than seeing what I needed was someone to acknowledge my feelings and to see how she could help. Madeline compared that conversation to arguments that Sandy and I had had. I didn’t care about being right. I just wanted to be heard and not dismissed.
She is probably right that the style of the argument was a trigger. But I think it goes deeper than that. The idea that running is not something I can do scares the shit out of me. Running is one of the few things that I do that actually makes me feel life is worth living for that short window of time. Running is more effective than my children. My children make me laugh and warm my heart, but it is about them. Running is about me. With every injury, I have to question, is my body not going to be capable of this? If I am lucky, these are growing pains that my body is learning how to run. What frightens me is that maybe my body is incapable of it.
The year 2014 I learned a painful lesson. There are some things your body never regains or recovers from. Some things are irreparable and completely life-altering.
If I cannot run, this may be another one of those things.