JustRunJustLiveJustBe

Last weekend I was visiting with a friend in her front yard, and as we talked I watched the neighborhood kids playing outside. Aside from being thrilled that they could actually be outside without being in danger of frostbite within ten seconds, they were so full of fun and energy I found myself a little jealous. I mean, no one I know has time for anything right now, and as for the energy, well most people I know are walking around a bit like zombies. Mostly zombies ready for the dirty, cold, pitiful end-of-wintertime to head on out the door already.

I found myself a little jealous of the playing kids for another reason, too. They were running around yards, up and down snow drifts, playing with shovels and sticks and brooms, and anything else they could get their hands on. One boy had tied a black trash bag to the hood of his sweatshirt to make a cape. Though he was old enough to know what make-believe is, I have no doubt that if I would have walked up to him at that very moment and asked him if he could fly, he would have said yes. Because at that moment, on that pile of snow, with all the sun and the fun and the screaming (oh my heck, the screaming), he could fly. That’s the feeling I got from all of them; those brooms and sticks and shovels were something else entirely, because that’s what they’d imagined.

As adults with mortgages and oil changes and the responsibility of other lives on our plates, we don’t get to imagine much, if at all. It’s understandable. There are more important things to worry about. There’s no time to argue or decide if they’re really important, because they just are. What I wish we wouldn’t miss, what I wouldn’t miss, is the power we have adults to not only imagine, but to do something about it. After all, the real truth is, we are not lacking in imagination. I, for one, know I imagine things all the time: the house cleaning itself, the article writing itself, the homework being turned in all by itself. There is no shortage of that. It’s just sometimes I miss the message and the value in that message that I can actually do something about it.

Not that I’m motivated by that, even as I type. I probably should stop imagining this toilet-scrubbing fairy that’s going to appear any minute. But then I think, why? Or, more accurately, why not? Why not keep imagining? Why not think about all the things that could be different, or better or more fun? Why not believe in some ways, you actually can fly?

Though I’m not sure where this came from, I have to believe it’s been sitting in my head somewhere over the last week because by all of my own doing, I have been drowning. Work, check. School, check. Family, check. Friends, check. Making plans and/or solving problems with said family and friends, CHECK. But somewhere in this mess, I’ve managed to move some retirement money into an account where it will be gaining double the interest it was*, to lose a few pounds**, and to finish all of this work long enough to leave it all behind this weekend to go run my share of 182 miles. I can’t retire just yet, I still feel like my favorite jeans are a bit too tight, and I have not yet crossed the finish line, but if I really use my imagination, I am getting there.

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*Remind me to rant on someday about how women should really learn to take control of their money. It has got to be one of the best feelings in the world. It’s in my top 3.

**Remind me go on and on someday about how ironic it is to have relatively quick success with a weight loss program you used to roll your eyes at.

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(PRE-) WEEKEND BONUS PICS

(If you’re cold and tired of it, sometimes this helps me.)

One day last week, I think it was Tuesday, the weather here was beautiful. It was a good eight to nine hours of sun and warmth (anything over 30 degrees these days), and I was so happy I almost threw a party. A welcome spring party, I guess. The most important part was that we could actually feel our extremities thawing that day. While I know our winter ice and cold has been nothing compared to many parts of the country, this one warm day was something I needed to save my sanity. It is also possible that it saved my life because if I complained one more time to anyone around me they would have killed me. Probably by locking me in a walk-in freezer, because SHUT UP, GIRL, WE ARE ALL COLD.

In what really was one of the best parts of that sunny, fifty-degree (F) day for me was of course my run. All winter, surprise surprise, I have been struggling. Nothing feels good enough or right enough when it comes to running. I’m either outside and too cold or wearing too many clothes, or inside on the treadmill doing everything I can to not die from the sheer boredom. No, treadmill running isn’t always the worst thing. Fifty days of treadmill running is though. And there I go complaining again.

But not last Tuesday, last Tuesday was the day of hope. The day I walked out of my downtown office some time around 3:30, stepped out of the shadows of the buildings and into the sun, and ran. And ran. And then ran more. Then I walked because how can a girl be expected to pace herself in this kind of heat? I was getting ahead of myself. And now that we’ve had that one great day, I’m out of control. I’m looking for the signs everywhere. They are coming. I know it.

In case you’ve forgotten what we’re looking for, allow me to remind you:

So let’s go over this again. You see these, you call me. Got it?

Also notable signs are robins and people walking around in an amount of clothing too little for any season.

Thanks. Love you. Bye.

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And, just as an aside, go take a look at this post by my friend, JACC. Particularly the video at the end. Not only is it the best winter tribute I’ve seen all year, I dare you to get through that entire thing, even with all that snow flying by, and not feel a little warm and cozy.

So what if there’s this thing you thought you were right about, but then were told you weren’t.  You thought you were right because you saw something a certain way, but then realized that it was something you were doing to keep yourself from seeing it any other way.  And you know you’re prone to doing these things, so you think maybe, just maybe, that could be the case.  After all, you’re not perfect.  You don’t necessarily know how to do everything.  You are smart but no one does everything right all the time.  Maybe you misunderstood.   Then what?

About once a month, I receive questions either in email or comments asking my opinion on some running-related topic. As I’m no expert coach or medical professional, I am much more comfortable with opinions rather than advice. Advice means something. Opinions, it turns out, are not like those, ummm, other things (ahem!). They are more like socks, there are lots of choices. If this applies to nothing else, it applies to running, because though I am hardly a veteran or even close, I’ve learned this much: runners are some researching kind of folk.

It seems, though, that instead of just responding in email it would be even better and more fun to post these questions. That way, we can open up the question to even more advice and opinions, advice and opinions that we’re actually asking for (as opposed to those when we’re not, but we get them anyway. Well-meaning, of course). Great, right?So here we go, the JustRunJustLiveJustBe: Opinions Are Like Socks.

Hi,

I read your blog all the time. It is one of the reasons I want to start running. I have the shoes, and I even bought some clothes but I just don’t know where to start. I have read every book at Barnes and Noble and I’m so overwhelmed! What would you do? Where would you begin? I don’t want to calculate my way through every run, I just want to get out and see the world for miles and miles.

Thanks,

Julie

Hi Julie,

First of all, thanks! And yay! New runner! New blood! Ha. Welcome to the fun!

Second, I will spare you the I-really-think-you-should-like-running-to-get-into-miles-and-miles-because-that-takes-a-lot-of-your-time thing because you sound like you’re already motivated. Woohoo! You newbies are so good about that. I will also save the shoe lecture, because I’m going to assume that by “I have the shoes” you meant I went to a quality running store and had my gait analyzed at least just this once. So the next logical step that comes to mind for me is this: Start. Assuming you are healthy and cleared by your doctor to “participate in rigorous exercise,” get out there and start. I don’t care if you run ten steps and then walk ten, just start. It’s okay if you do laps around the gym, or if you’re on a treadmill set at 3.5. Just start. See what you can do. Put one foot in front of the other and see how that feels. Swing your arms, watch your stride, and run a little. Speed up, slow down, make sure your shoes stay tied, make sure your shorts/pants/tights/underwear/bra won’t ride up or rub or fall down. Basically, get comfortable.

After about a week of that, maybe a bit less, you’ll probably be ready for some kind of structure. I’ll say this now- and probably again—resist the urge to rush! Hear me? Don’t worry about time and miles and speed right now. Don’t even think about it. Set your goals small, there is always room for more. So start by walking one minute, and then go to running one minute, alternating between the two. Do this for maybe twenty or thirty minutes, and pay attention to how you feel. Did you run two blocks and then feel like your lungs were going to freeze, burst, or both (or was that just me on my first run?)? Do your calves burn? Does your back get tense? Pay attention to all of this, and start now. You will need to do this throughout your running career, train yourself to pay attention now. Being in tune with and knowing your body is one of the best tools you can have as a runner.

Since you didn’t mention any goal other than to “run for miles and miles” I’ll assume just that. Again, no need to rush. When you’re comfortable running for a full five minutes, increase it to seven, then eight, then nine… you see where I’m going. Or maybe you like to measure in distance. Don’t worry about miles, measure your run in lamp posts, or blocks. When you can run twenty lamp posts in a row without stopping, or something that was equally impossible before you started all this, then increase your goal. I’m sure you get what I’m saying, small goals. We won’t call them baby steps, ‘cause, baby, this is HUGE, but we can call them small goals. That’s all you need right now.

Before long, the training bug, and then maybe the race bug, will bite. It might just bite once, and it might open its mouth and swallow you whole for the rest of your life, but it will come. Then you’ll be interested in a plan. Two of my choice directions to point new runners that want a plan is to Hal Higdon’s site or the FIRST site. This is not especially because I’ve personally had remarkable experiences with either, but a) because I’ve known so very many runners that have and 2) they have great beginner plans and are free! Free is a good word at this stage in the running game, because (mmwaa! hahahaha!) you thought it was just a matter of buying shoes and hitting the road. Oh, if only. Not that you have to spend your kid’s college fund on the sport, but boy howdy, believe me when I tell you that you sure could. In one store, in one day. Easily. So for now, for someone that just wants “to see the world for miles and miles” go with the free. Heck, test out everything you can. All those books and magazines you pored over before? This is where they will come in handy. Find out what works for you.

Finally, although this is the longest answer ever, I want to say this: enjoy it. I know starting can be difficult, but running will never be like this again. You will never run your first mile without stopping more than once. Take it in. One day you’re going to miss that new feeling. You’ll never be so entertained by all the people that roll their eyes and think you’re crazy than you are right now. This is a big thing you’re doing, choosing to get out and do something for yourself. Choosing to, in your words, “see the world” this way. Our bodies are capable of so much, often more than we ever thought or gave them credit for. Enjoy that. Enjoy the fact that each new distance is cause for celebration. Revel in the fact that you did something today that was better, tougher, or longer than what you did yesterday. Train yourself to run, yes, but train yourself to enjoy it, too.

Anyone else?

(And, if you happen to have a question, go ahead and email it to me. (justrunjustlivejustbe [at] gmail [dot] com) I don’t expect a barrage, but you know, just in case.)

But that doesn’t mean you skip breakfast. And it definitely doesn’t mean you are allowed to forget that it’s breakfast time.

So you set the sugar out.

And slowly, after watching you from the tree, someone is sent up first.

Okay. The sugar is safe.

But still unsure, he’s outta there.

Hmm. Still seems okay.

Let’s get a few more in on this.

(I wish I could bathe in my food sometimes, too.)

Before long, it’s a free-for-all.

Woo hoo!

(I went on the other side of the screen, so as to assure them that I wasn’t planning on a bananaquit breakfast.)

Breakfast should always be this much fun.

When I said I needed to take care of some things, it wasn’t a stretch. I had been avoiding some things I really needed to do, words that needed to be said, because of… oh, I don’t know, convenience? Timing? Because I like to wait things out? Because hope springs eternal? I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that something that’s cloudy, and not altogether real can take a very sharp turn when you least expect it.

I have to back up a little. A little like, say, seven years or so, because seven years ago I was okay with a lot of things. I was okay with paying rent. I was okay with eating tortilla chips and queso dip for dinner every night. I was okay with knowing all kinds of people, some you’re sure will just remain acquaintances, some you might want to be more. I was okay with that. I was okay with meeting people and having some time in limbo. There was always another distraction, right? Sure, my young heart would have liked it better if that guy would have just called that one time, but back then getting over it was a given. Hope didn’t just spring eternal, she got up, went to Ross, bought some new cheap clothes and went out and did it all over again. Hope could care friggin’ less.

Now? Not so much. Though I will admit tortilla chips are still good and sometimes I wish I paid rent instead of a mortgage (hello, broken sump pump), I’m am not really into limbo anymore. I’m okay with meeting you. I’m okay with going to dinner. Heck, I am okay with not hearing from you for several days while you’re on some insane winter expedition in the Canadian Rockies. Seriously, go. And do not be the schmuck that calls me from the top of the mountain—there are other things to worry about up there, like oxygen. The thing that gets me—the thing that will always get me—is a stall. That feeling like when you learned to drive a manual transmission and you’d give it just enough gas to get going but then forget to ease off the clutch, and all that ten feet of momentum you had comes to a lurching halt. Yes, it’s that I cannot do.

I’m okay with a lot of things. There is a lot I don’t need, that would never consider asking for. At this point in my life, though still under a considerable amount of construction, I’m pretty good at me. I’ve learned to take my time, I’ve learned the difference between knowing and feeling. And even with the lump in my throat growing at the thought of how fast these years go, I still can’t say I’m okay with just passing the time.

The three of them shared the two bedroom next door. The couple, and their friend. None of them over the age of twenty-one, all of them convinced they were ready for the world. I’d come home in the afternoon or evening, see them in the front yard, or hear them in the backyard, and wave or put their dog back in the house. The dog that would have died had there not been left over pizza on the back porch five out of seven days of the week. The couple, both in school and working, were typical. They knew all they needed to know, living as adults, butting heads like children.

The friend, The Third Wheel as he sometimes called himself, was a little different. He was in school, but couldn’t quite get into it. I remember the afternoon he rang my doorbell, asking a favor. No need to borrow eggs or a flashlight like normal neighbors, oh no. Apparently, there had been a game of Horse that had gotten a little extreme. No, wait, it was a game of Horse that was about ten train stops and a twelve pack of beer past extreme. The favor, though, was a simple one. Could he, if I wouldn’t mind, stand on the roof of my home and toss a water balloon in through their window next door, in order to make a basket? Oh, I didn’t mention that it was water balloon Horse? Or that it was INDOOR, Nerf basketball? Well who needs details when a twenty-one-year-old kid who shares his Fruit Loops with you wants to stand on your roof?

The Fruit Loops, that’s what it really comes down to. Because this kid and I, when his roommates were out or arguing like only couples in their very early twenties can, we’d sit on my porch. Beer and cold cereal in hand, discussions on life and the world floating by. Heavy, dark situations and decisions, made lighter by neighbors and unlikely friends. The friend, you see, The Third Wheel, had some dreams. He wrote music, even played a little. He was with a couple local bands off and on, and did some work on his own. I never heard him play, I never would go there. (I prefer to keep my boy-on-the-porch-playing-guitar memories in my early twenties, thank you.) But I read the songs, scratched out on notebook paper and napkins. I heard a few demos, recorded on crappy tape with even crappier echoes. And I told him what I thought, reminding him all the time that I was no professional. They were good. Not all of them, but they were good. I told him to keep writing, to keep working.

It was about three weeks ago that I saw him last. I was outside with the dog, he rolled up in his pickup, and walked over. We stood outside, me in my down coat, shivering but trying to be supportive, and drank a beer together. “I’m going to keep at it,” he said. Good, I told him. That’s what he should do. Because if there’s anything I can say about those feelings you get, those feelings like something is crazy or hard but you have to do it anyway, I say go with them. Whether you are twenty-one, or twenty-eight, or forty, or eighty. Go with them. When you’re driven by something that’s inside, something you can’t explain and you see opportunity, go.

He told me thanks that night, just like all the other times we’d talked. I smiled, like I always have, and felt a little proud that I was encouraging someone to go with those gut feelings, some of which I’d ignored. Some of which I still do. It reassures me to know that we’re all working toward something, toward figuring something out. Toward happiness, and maybe some kind of freedom.

Tonight, after arriving home from dinner, I saw the couple in their yard. “John left today,” she said. I asked her again. Yes, he’d gone. He’d paid them next month’s rent, packed his pickup, left two bags of food for the dog—probably it’s first real dog food in a year—and he left. My little brother, off somewhere, probably chasing his dream. Of course, I don’t have a brother, and of course I never will. If I did, though, I’d hope he would save up enough money, spend enough time, find some kind of balance between thinking things through and having faith in his gut feelings, and then go.

It’s now late Friday night, and I’m thinking tomorrow, maybe even over the next few days, there are some things I’m going to take care of, too.