There's no way to break this gently - not only did I buy a pair of Nike Frees, I also bought a Nike+ sportband. I'm not crazy about being so branded, but I can't deny Nike had products I wanted. I needed a better way to pace myself during runs, and to track my runs and be accountable. I nixed the newest Garmin for only showing average pace. And I nixed the older ones for being not only overkill for my purposes, but also too huge for my little bird wrists.
So yesterday morning I woke up super early, put the transmitter in my shoe and the band on my wrist, pushed the button and... nothing happened. Popped the transmitter out of my shoe, pressed the button again, and, as commanded by The Band, started walking. And nothing happened. Popped it out, pushed buttons, walked in circles in the driveway like a madwoman, and still, nothing. So I took off, just me and the road as usual.
I did a little over a mile, in somewhere between 10 and 12 minutes. I felt good. Every time I get up early to run, I wonder why I don't do it more often.
So this morning, I did it again. Pushed some buttons, got an "OK," pushed another button, and the clock started ticking. Success!!
I ran a measured route, and did it in a suprisingly fast (for me) time. It was fun to look down and see my pace - it wasn't super accurate, but gave me confirmation that yes, I slow down going up the big hill and speed up going down. It's a much improved tool compared to the watches I've had in the past. Which is good, since Max has now claimed my watch as his own. He can't yet tell time, even on a digital, but he delights in telling me the time - usually it's in the neighborhood of twenty-seven thirteen or forty-two eight.
The jury is still out on the shoes, but I think I really love them. I'm an overpronator, and have always had very stable shoes. So it is a truly different experience. I'm trying to concentrate on using my toes more - in my regular shoes, I tend to clench my feet, and let the shoe do all the work. In these, I have to let my foot do the work. I'm still pronating, but I'm trying to work with it rather than against it. I LOVE how light they are. It is a breath of fresh air not to be spending so much energy hauling my shoes around.
But more than that, my mind is a little more in the game. And that has nothing to do with Nike.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
in which I don't even think about crying
I got a new watch a while back. I pretty much hate it. I like the idea of it, but I can't seem to do any more with it than I could with my old, cheapo watch. Basically, I use it for a stopwatch. I occasionally hit the lap button, but then can't retrieve my info, plus it doesn't calculate averages the way I'd like. I keep old runs on there, thinking that some day I will sit down (in all my spare time, of course) and parse the data and somehow be granted the keys to the kingdom.
I put the kids to bed tonight, and after the Supportive Husband got home, headed out for an evening run. The sun was setting. A fast and furious thunderstorm had rolled through, cooling things off just a touch. Knowing that the light was waning, I pulled out the first white shirt I laid my hands on - my old "Distance is my game" shirt. And headed for the door.
At the last second, I turned around and grabbed my watch off the bathroom counter. After Saturday's disaster, I had no desire to measure myself against anything concrete. I just needed to make the effort to go run a couple of miles. But I decided that good or bad, I needed to be accountable for what I did out there on the pavement.
I opened the front door, and put my watch into stopwatch mode, and there, staring deep into my soul, was the undeniably shitty time from Saturday's run. For shame. I know I'm slow, but even I have standards, goals, and yes, just a little bit of pride. I'll never win. I can't even run with some of my favorite people because I'm just too slow. And this has never bothered me. But the type-A, hyper-competitive part of me wouldn't run if I weren't faster than somebody. I'd much rather be a DNF or DNS than DFL. And I do want to improve my times. I get sloppy about tracking my workouts, but I never, ever miss putting a race into my log and comparing it with years past.
So seeing Saturday's time, the time that isn't going in my training log, and definitely isn't getting posted for the whole Internet to see, almost deflated me completely, and I very nearly turned back around and bagged my run. It's too hot. It's too humid. I just ate. The kids might wake up and need me. The laundry's not folded.
Instead, I held down the reset button, and after a couple of seconds was rewarded with a metallic chirp and 00:00.00.
Slate clean, I hit start and ran. And ran and ran. And kept running. And ran faster when I felt tired. Saturday was gone with the push of a button. I didn't need to leave my baggage on the pavement, I just needed to clear it out of my watch.
And then I got back to my front porch, two miles and just 20:40 later. I measured on two different sites, and yes, it was a whole 2.0 miles. Maybe even a skosh more. For two miles, I ran 10:20 pace, and didn't walk a step. This is HUGE for me. Huge. People, I was happy with 12 minute miles at the 10 miler. I don't think I've run this fast in the past 3 years, at least.
It's a start. Goodbye, Saturday, and good riddance. Chirp!
I put the kids to bed tonight, and after the Supportive Husband got home, headed out for an evening run. The sun was setting. A fast and furious thunderstorm had rolled through, cooling things off just a touch. Knowing that the light was waning, I pulled out the first white shirt I laid my hands on - my old "Distance is my game" shirt. And headed for the door.
At the last second, I turned around and grabbed my watch off the bathroom counter. After Saturday's disaster, I had no desire to measure myself against anything concrete. I just needed to make the effort to go run a couple of miles. But I decided that good or bad, I needed to be accountable for what I did out there on the pavement.
I opened the front door, and put my watch into stopwatch mode, and there, staring deep into my soul, was the undeniably shitty time from Saturday's run. For shame. I know I'm slow, but even I have standards, goals, and yes, just a little bit of pride. I'll never win. I can't even run with some of my favorite people because I'm just too slow. And this has never bothered me. But the type-A, hyper-competitive part of me wouldn't run if I weren't faster than somebody. I'd much rather be a DNF or DNS than DFL. And I do want to improve my times. I get sloppy about tracking my workouts, but I never, ever miss putting a race into my log and comparing it with years past.
So seeing Saturday's time, the time that isn't going in my training log, and definitely isn't getting posted for the whole Internet to see, almost deflated me completely, and I very nearly turned back around and bagged my run. It's too hot. It's too humid. I just ate. The kids might wake up and need me. The laundry's not folded.
Instead, I held down the reset button, and after a couple of seconds was rewarded with a metallic chirp and 00:00.00.
Slate clean, I hit start and ran. And ran and ran. And kept running. And ran faster when I felt tired. Saturday was gone with the push of a button. I didn't need to leave my baggage on the pavement, I just needed to clear it out of my watch.
And then I got back to my front porch, two miles and just 20:40 later. I measured on two different sites, and yes, it was a whole 2.0 miles. Maybe even a skosh more. For two miles, I ran 10:20 pace, and didn't walk a step. This is HUGE for me. Huge. People, I was happy with 12 minute miles at the 10 miler. I don't think I've run this fast in the past 3 years, at least.
It's a start. Goodbye, Saturday, and good riddance. Chirp!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
run or cry
Do you ever have one of those runs that is so bad that it simply has to be the start of something better because it couldn't get any worse? One of those "perfect storm" runs, where everything in your life that interferes with your running is presented to you, all at once, like a mythological test of will and character?
It's been a hot summer - running any time after 8am is uncomfortable, running after noon is just dangerous. And with my sacrifice of my Saturday morning runs to the Husband's work schedule, finding time to get in runs on a regular basis has been nearly impossible. Sure, I'll pound out a mile on the treadmill at lunchtime, and I've been swimming a lot at the neighborhood pool, but I am not race ready.
This morning was a rare Saturday where the husband didn't have a gig. I claimed dibs, and told him he was in charge of the kids till 9am. Like an idiot, I set my alarm for 6:35, which is about 10 minutes before Max is usually up for the day. Next thing I know, I'm putting on my sneakers and I have company. The Husband was still asleep.
I made Max breakfast, feeling my morning run ticking away with every Cheerio. Then I attempted to gently remind the Husband that he was in charge. As I tried to slip out, with the Husband still snoozing and Max groggy and clingy, it met with some resistance. The next thing I know, I'm putting the buggy in the back of the car and telling a tear-streaked Max he can come with me as long as he doesn't slow me down.
Loyal readers (hi Mo and Robine) probably know that I enjoy the solitude of running, so you can imagine that I was, to put it mildly, peeved to suddenly have an unwanted running buddy. I love him, but he weighs 42 pounds, and needs snacks and potty breaks.
Of course, 5 minutes in to our drive, he freaked out about not being at home, so I turned around. I walked him up to the front door and opened it, where I heard Sami squeal "Mama!!" from the kitchen. I shoved Max inside ahead of me, and closed the door before she could see me. Yeah, great parenting, I know.
45 minutes behind schedule, I left the driveway again. The temperature was already 77 degrees, and I almost bagged the run entirely. The mountain of mom guilt I felt for leaving my babies was huge. Almost as big as the grudge I was holding against the Husband for not snapping to when duty called.
I ran the Monticello trail, one of my favorite runs. And yet, I was peeved about that, too. I really wanted to be running some of my old training grounds that I don't feel comfortable running without the safety of a group or at least a running partner. Ridge Road, I'm talking about you!! And Dick Woods, god bless you, maybe even you, too, just a little.
With tears in my eyes, I kept my sunglasses on and my hat pulled low and started off.
The first half mile was pretty good. Each step shook off a little more of the angst, guilt, and anger. But I wasn't ready to make eye contact with any fellow trailgoers; I kept my eyes averted.
I don't know if it was the heat, the humidity, or my growing hunger and need to pee, but I started falling apart. I almost turned around a mile up the two mile path, but figured that I could stop at the visitor's center up top and use the bathroom, and maybe even get an iced coffee at the cafe.
No such luck. I reached the gates to the grounds and an elderly rent-a-cop, clearly drunk with power, roundly chastised me for attempting to run through before the official opening time. He was overly rude to someone who clearly wasn't out to vandalize or wreak any havoc, and it took a lot of willpower not to just drop trou right on Mr. Jefferson's Little Mountain and take care of my potty break right there at that picturesque wayside.
I begrudgingly turned around and headed back down the hill. Despite being wooded, there are precious few areas appropriate for answering a call of nature, so I pressed on.
Usually I let my legs unwind on the long downhill, but I just didn't have any rhythm left. Any baggage I had dropped on the way up, I was picking right back up and then some on the way down. And it was so humid I felt like I needed gills to breathe. I took walk breaks for my lungs. I took walk breaks for my legs. I took walk breaks for my psyche. I ran only when I needed to keep from crying, because I was so worn out that it was really one or the other at that point. If I have to pick between running and crying, there is no fucking way I am picking crying.
How did I get here? How did I get from being a marathoning superwoman to a frazzled mom who can't run downhill? Hip injury, bad winter, illness, hot summer, kid illness, business trips, workaholic husband, needy kids, blah blah blah. I can only chalk it all up to excuses at this point, and resolve to do better tomorrow. I thought for a long time that running was getting in the way of things I wanted to do with my life. But today I learned that running is one of the things on a very short list that I do want, no, NEED, to do with my life. I need to get a plan, get a program, pick a race, find a group, find some time, change my schedule, buy new bras. But mostly, I just need to pick running.
It's been a hot summer - running any time after 8am is uncomfortable, running after noon is just dangerous. And with my sacrifice of my Saturday morning runs to the Husband's work schedule, finding time to get in runs on a regular basis has been nearly impossible. Sure, I'll pound out a mile on the treadmill at lunchtime, and I've been swimming a lot at the neighborhood pool, but I am not race ready.
This morning was a rare Saturday where the husband didn't have a gig. I claimed dibs, and told him he was in charge of the kids till 9am. Like an idiot, I set my alarm for 6:35, which is about 10 minutes before Max is usually up for the day. Next thing I know, I'm putting on my sneakers and I have company. The Husband was still asleep.
I made Max breakfast, feeling my morning run ticking away with every Cheerio. Then I attempted to gently remind the Husband that he was in charge. As I tried to slip out, with the Husband still snoozing and Max groggy and clingy, it met with some resistance. The next thing I know, I'm putting the buggy in the back of the car and telling a tear-streaked Max he can come with me as long as he doesn't slow me down.
Loyal readers (hi Mo and Robine) probably know that I enjoy the solitude of running, so you can imagine that I was, to put it mildly, peeved to suddenly have an unwanted running buddy. I love him, but he weighs 42 pounds, and needs snacks and potty breaks.
Of course, 5 minutes in to our drive, he freaked out about not being at home, so I turned around. I walked him up to the front door and opened it, where I heard Sami squeal "Mama!!" from the kitchen. I shoved Max inside ahead of me, and closed the door before she could see me. Yeah, great parenting, I know.
45 minutes behind schedule, I left the driveway again. The temperature was already 77 degrees, and I almost bagged the run entirely. The mountain of mom guilt I felt for leaving my babies was huge. Almost as big as the grudge I was holding against the Husband for not snapping to when duty called.
I ran the Monticello trail, one of my favorite runs. And yet, I was peeved about that, too. I really wanted to be running some of my old training grounds that I don't feel comfortable running without the safety of a group or at least a running partner. Ridge Road, I'm talking about you!! And Dick Woods, god bless you, maybe even you, too, just a little.
With tears in my eyes, I kept my sunglasses on and my hat pulled low and started off.
The first half mile was pretty good. Each step shook off a little more of the angst, guilt, and anger. But I wasn't ready to make eye contact with any fellow trailgoers; I kept my eyes averted.
I don't know if it was the heat, the humidity, or my growing hunger and need to pee, but I started falling apart. I almost turned around a mile up the two mile path, but figured that I could stop at the visitor's center up top and use the bathroom, and maybe even get an iced coffee at the cafe.
No such luck. I reached the gates to the grounds and an elderly rent-a-cop, clearly drunk with power, roundly chastised me for attempting to run through before the official opening time. He was overly rude to someone who clearly wasn't out to vandalize or wreak any havoc, and it took a lot of willpower not to just drop trou right on Mr. Jefferson's Little Mountain and take care of my potty break right there at that picturesque wayside.
I begrudgingly turned around and headed back down the hill. Despite being wooded, there are precious few areas appropriate for answering a call of nature, so I pressed on.
Usually I let my legs unwind on the long downhill, but I just didn't have any rhythm left. Any baggage I had dropped on the way up, I was picking right back up and then some on the way down. And it was so humid I felt like I needed gills to breathe. I took walk breaks for my lungs. I took walk breaks for my legs. I took walk breaks for my psyche. I ran only when I needed to keep from crying, because I was so worn out that it was really one or the other at that point. If I have to pick between running and crying, there is no fucking way I am picking crying.
How did I get here? How did I get from being a marathoning superwoman to a frazzled mom who can't run downhill? Hip injury, bad winter, illness, hot summer, kid illness, business trips, workaholic husband, needy kids, blah blah blah. I can only chalk it all up to excuses at this point, and resolve to do better tomorrow. I thought for a long time that running was getting in the way of things I wanted to do with my life. But today I learned that running is one of the things on a very short list that I do want, no, NEED, to do with my life. I need to get a plan, get a program, pick a race, find a group, find some time, change my schedule, buy new bras. But mostly, I just need to pick running.
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