Happy to Serve

Last weekend, a dear friend drove four hours to run a half marathon with me.

We decided that it was in both of our interests to volunteer instead of run the race.

After twenty years of running, I finally gave back.

What took me so long?

Exhorting almost 1000 runners to do their best on the last mile of 13 was too much fun.  I needed tea, my throat was sore, and we actually felt like we'd run a race afterwards.

Three hours of yelling! WOW.  Deserved every bit of that lunch.

Have you registered for a race and just didn't think it was wise to follow through?  Don't hesitate to stop in to the volunteer booth.  They always need help.  We were put in at the last minute, as sentries at two crucial points, because others didn't come.  Ack!  We were needed!!  So cool.

My friend serves for a living, as head of Alabama Rural Ministry, but being based four hours away we rarely get to serve together.  This enabled us 3 hours of slightly interrupted conversation - and awesome quality time.  Plus, we got to razz the police stationed nearby.  Always a good day.

Try volunteering for that race.  You'll be glad you did!  Nice tan, too...

Status Update

Eh, not so good on the homefront nowadays.

If you look at my fitness activity, anyway.

My brain activity on the other hand: watch out!

Looking back on the week, I think I would classify my behavior more muffin than stealth.

I'm a little down: my daughter has an injury that precludes her running a little kids' race this weekend, and that is affecting me something fierce.  More importantly, it precludes her from walking very well.  That is heart-breaking.

My daughter is the one the Disney escort for Tigger asked to calm down around Tigger!  To not jump, to not run, to sit down, put her feet up - it's anti-life to this girl.

Days Gone By?  Or New Days Ahead?

I remember being like that.  I think I want that spirit again in myself.  Seeing it in her has always been a great boon to my own, but now that she can't be that way until she's healed up, I gotta come up with it myself.

I have so much good going on in my brain I have been content sitting this week.  The sitting part is not good.  It's too easy to get out of a routine.  But I have a different kind of fire under my tush and it is taking a lot to extinguish it.

It's like a mud run going on up there in my head - or warrior dash, one of those: fierce, sweaty, and fun.  My brain hasn't been this active in a long time, and I feel like I should let it go crazy and do what it's going to do.

Meanwhile... the muffin stealthily creeps...

In Which the Goodbye Is the Hello

Not all muffin tops are created equal.

You all know that by now.  There are good fats, and there are bad fats.

In my case, my bad fat was my good fat.

My bad fat encouraged me in a good way to get out there and burn some.
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I've enjoyed this "fun run" of personal training.  While financially I will be pursuing other ventures, vocationally I am recommitting myself to my own exercise and health.

Lest you think, "Oh no, another personal trainer becomes self-absorbed," I remind you to read my previous post.  This was always about sharing the joy of endorphins.  I won't stop that now.

I missed my own endorphins.  My children, as a result, missed the real me.  My husband deserves the real me, too...

So - time to reconnect.  After a month, I have finally found the 'phins.  I run after them three times a week.  They don't disappoint.

Since I've focused on getting it back, my brain has worked better, and faster.  It's all part of my inner treadmill.  Brain's gotta keep up with the feet!

My energy has resurfaced.  My eyes feel brighter.  My God is more apparent.

Thanking Him for this season of health, and for renewed energy to share.  Work is to be done.  I must be healthy to do it.  Hello, health.

In Honor of Halloween, the Story of a Joy Filled Cemetery

I encountered a great deal of opportunity in my schools growing up.  There actually wasn’t a lot of it because they were so small, but because I changed schools so often, it felt like it. 

The trouble came once I moved back to the US.  I moved to an area that routinely produced super children, training from age 4 every season in one sport.  So when I tried out for a team and didn’t make it, I was crushed.  A friend invited me to cross country because there were no tryouts and you could not be cut, but I thought that was lame.  Who wanted to be on a team that never had cuts?

A whole year went by.  And while I played on a city team for another sport in the evenings, it wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as that sport had been at my prior school.  The reason, I figured out, was because they were all playing to be noticed for scholarships, rather than fun.  As competitive as I thought I was, I missed fun.

I also missed a closely knit team.  So I caved to Matt's request: at the start of the next school year I went to cross country practice.   I made a group of close friends, finally.  We ran where and when we were supposed to, but usually took detours through the local cemetery.  The highly motivated part of our team used it for fartlek training, which is how we discovered its existence.  But it was too good to be used only for whistle-blown intervals.

It was a beautiful haven, full of rolling beautifully tended hills and creeks, bridges, weeping willows.  Those trees listened to us Fab Five while we took extended stretching breaks and hotly debated Ayn Rand.  The willows probably weren’t weeping, but laughing as we discussed the meaning of life near those who had discovered it already, and had the hyphen to show it.

So while I had been frustrated with the lack of joy in most sports I personally encountered, I finally found my own.  Running empowered me to feel free, even partly rebellious.  We weren’t the best runners, so we were free from the pressure to excel.  We weren’t there to improve our time on other sports, so we were free from looking good.  

In fact I distinctly remember the coach showing everyone a video of what he termed the Olesen Sprint.  It was the 90s version of What Not to Wear, but he could have called it How Not to Run.  He had recorded me at the end of a race plodding along, and then in a split instant, choosing to haul it the last 200 meters.  He said I obviously saved up too much energy! After the howling laughter finished, I laughed, too: yup, I was indeed totally free from looking good.  All we had to do was enjoy the air and each other.  Our health, our friendships, our schooling all took care of themselves.  I happily left the winning to my Somalian classmate!

And here I am, twice the age I was then, and still running (and some will attest I still employ the Olesen Sprint).  I have had some extended “stretching” breaks, to be sure.  My running career (which I will call it, whether or not you know my name!) grew in its diversity of races, new running buddies, students I got to coach, battle buddies I got to encourage along the way.  If you can run one mile, you can run two.  If you can run two miles, you can run three…

It’s proving to be a lifelong sport.  And for that, I am glad I was freed from thinking only one way about sports, or who I am defined by one or the other.  I am glad for the frustration I felt in high school because it allowed me to blow my prejudices to bits. 

Most importantly, this freedom is not to keep for myself.  This life is not about my identity.  I started SLIMnasium to free others from thinking only one way about exercise.  I now enjoy helping my clients see that when we start to take care of our bodies, the rest falls into place.  We have been told to consider this body a gift, and to honor it for the Lord.  While for me that way has been running, biking, swimming and walking, I love finding what clicks for my clients. 

There is freedom in exercising for a joyful purpose!

(For pictures, see this link https://plus.google.com/117496518254678736263/about?gl=US&hl=en-US)

Oh, Old Navy

I read once that Old Navy jeans are gateway jeans to Mom jeans.

Forget that, man!  They are stinkin straight up Mom jeans!  No gate needed.

Yeah, I wore mine all week.  It was chubby week.  I can't explain it, except to say that I have a race next week, and I'm really nervous, aaaaand whenever I am nervous I have a habit that makes me chubby.

Ever do a PT test?  In the Army?  Without fail, the night before a PT test, I engaged in this habit.  It is so self-defeating.  I know it is, and yet...

Ever run the Army Ten Miler?  Oh my.  You'll never guess it, but the nights before that race, I always did this, too.  Except for the one year I stayed at Erin's uncle's house, where there was absolutely NO access to cookies.  Ugh that year was awful.  They are such a disciplined family!  Love them though.

Yup.  Cookies and Mom jeans.

Going to start fresh tomorrow morning, with a run on the track.  Sayonara, Old Navy!  Hello, Miss Me.

The Calf Stalker

            I am not sure what kind of appetite you have right now, but if it’s huge, turn this off and read it another time.  I don’t want to be the cause of its demise.

            I stalk people’s calves.

            It’s a horrid, horrid habit.  I wish I didn’t have it.  But luckily, I only have it during triathlons.  And even more luckily, I only do triathlons 3 times a decade. 

            This latest one was tremendous.  I am going to have to say *SPOILER ALERT*I finished it, and I didn’t break.  But actually, finishing a triathlon where only the last quarter of a mile of the three was in the sun was a great feeling.  Breezy, shading trees by the lake for the first 15/16ths of the run portion!?  Yes please. 

Add in a guy running in crutches with only one leg, and you could even call that last bit inspirational.

            I truly felt a breath of fresh life.

            A race can do that.  I don’t care if you’ve never done one or are afraid of not placing well.  I think everyone deserves a spot out of their comfort zone to zizz up their lives a little.  You truly deserve to do a race.

            There are benefits.  On this race, I made a lot of friends.  It’s true, mostly all we said was, “Passing on the left,” and, “Good job, keep it up,” but in that respect, the friendships I made were simple and uncomplicated.  There’s no threat of any one of them being offended by my stance on guns or babies, for example.  Ahhh, breath of fresh air. 

Breathe, America.  Simplicity is running forward.  Biking forward.  Swimming forward.

            So yes, back to the calves, and me, their stalker.  Everyone has a Sharpie date at the start of a triathlon.  Someone with a Sharpie writes your race number on your shoulder and your lower leg, and your age on the other leg.  I have several theories as to why this is, but only one of them is suitable for printing: it’s to make me go faster.  Not because these numbers are on ME , but because everyone else is advertising now what AGE group they fall under. 

            And I stalk their calves to see if I should pass them or not.  Straining forward in the bike seat, or leaning forward on the run, I must see: are they worth sprinting past?

            Now in some cases, the answer is no.  I mean someone could be in my age group and CLEARLY have me outclassed in either bike status (cost in the thousands? Forget it, you go ‘head!) or body fat. 

            Contrary to how crass this sounds, I am NOT REALLY judging people during a race.  Because I KNOW for a fact that less body fat means that person’s body is more efficient, and so, they most likely will “smoke” me.  Regardless, I am encouraged again… to eat more carrots instead of muffins (MUFFINS! STEALTH ONES!) so that I can BECOME… faster and stronger.

I suppose this would be a good time to mention The Vegetarian Viking.  I am telling you.  There is always one Intimidator in the race.  By this one, I was so scared: had the height, not the bulk, just MADE OF SHEER MUSCLE.  I felt like I should fashion one of those aforementioned carrots into a hammer, like Thor’s, and carry it as defense along the ride.  Bad choice – no carrots around – but I was still scared.  I resolved two things: 1) Avoid the Viking.  2) Become the Viking. 

            To satisfy your belief that I CAN be superficial, though, I will toss you one thought.  I did get really upset when I saw someone passing me in the outfit I had wanted to purchase.  The material is silky smooth, thick enough to be flattering, and some combination of blue and purple.  This is how it went, in my head.

            “Hey, she’s passing me.  HEY!  SHE HAS ON MY OUTFIT!!!!!!!!!!  GRRR, MUST PASS.”

For these and other reasons, my competitive edge, lately happily softened out by beautiful cozy cuddling children, was sparked anew.  I can thank people’s calves for that.  The stalking never stopped, the whole hour and 15 minutes.  I was constantly evaluating what place I’d be in.  I even printed out this year’s age group results, for what I call Frameable Motivation.  I’m taking a poll: should it go on the fridge or bathroom mirror?

I am certain no one was afraid of me this year.  I came out of that lake a hot mess.  I wiped my face and my hands turned brown.  I fancied calling myself the LakeMess Monster while I biked those 9 miles through town.  I am pretty sure the guys with the six-pack trying to cross the road that Saturday morning (WHAT?!  – it’s NOT beer thirty!) weren’t smiling but laughing at me as I yelled, “Good morning!” but who cares.  At least my teeth looked whiter: swimming in a lake saves you $269 of Zoom treatments!  Who knew!

Looking back, at least the water was nice and warm… in 80 degree air.  And at least on the top two inches the water was clear… yellow.   And I couldn’t see much below me but I did hope I would have the energy to wave at the rescue boat if I should succumb to my panic…. From leaches?  Snakes?  WHAT is scraping me (another swimmer trying to get by, phew!)?!  Ewww, what did I just SCRAPE (someone’s unshaven legs, oh thank heaven I shaved this morning)!?!?

            Yeah, the swim sucked.  The bike was okay – far fewer people passed me than on my last triathlon (primarily because I had the right kind of bike this time AND I trained on it more).  The run was glorious because it was the end.  Many mentioned that it felt like time had slowed down on those last three miles, but my goal was to finish, and I did, and so I can’t complain.

            Not even about the Vikings and leaches and snakes, oh my! 

                                             Flexing my calves for YOUR benefit,
                                                                                #139, Age 36

Silver Spin

One of the classes I took recently would have been fun to do with my mom.

The music was from the 50s.

But it was a spin class.

I loved it!

It was only 30 minutes – TOTALLY doable, and yet still difficult.  The atmosphere was TOTALLY different from the intense techo scene with grunting giants clenching their teeth and flicking their forehead sweat on your handlebars, outclassing your ability to up resistance and keep up with the robo-machine instructor who’s YELLING at you to CLIMB, gosh darn it, CLIMB!!! - -

Oh, can you tell I have NOT enjoyed spin classes in the past?

In fact it is hard to meet someone who does.  During my intakes, I ask what my clients enjoy and what they do not.  Quite a few have tried a spin class and nearly all say – and I paraphrase liberally here - “It’s for the birds.”

Now, to avoid coloring their view, I keep quiet and just take note that their plans will NOT involve spin, but inside I am thinking, “For real.  That scene needs a makeover.” 

Well, at least for some people.  I know it is very popular… in California.  I appreciate that.  I appreciate them, out there.  Out there.

I also know I have NEVER, not once, had the urge to become a spin instructor. 

Still, I had to stop and think…. If it were me, teaching, would I have reworked it to include 50s music?

 I honestly don’t know that that idea would have popped into my head; however, I will tell you that it was the oddest feeling: while I was biking, I felt like I had on a poodle skirt headed for the ice cream parlour (yes, with a “u”!). 

It was a blast!  YES!  To the ice cream parlour we go!  Why did I not blend exercise with ice cream earlier?  Wait, don’t answer that.

Totally going back to this class.  And for the record, it USED to be called Silver Spin, because it was a modified spin class for the older crowd. 

Now they just call it Spin 101.  Which I could do, because attending made me feel smart… rather than halfway to 72. 

Always a bonus.