I love to run. I’m not fast. I don’t look like a runner. But I miss it if I’ve gone a few days without a run. I started running track in high school and I was dreadful. They always had me run the 3000 meter, because so few people ran it, that you got points for the team if you just finished. I always finished. At the end of my senior year, we had a track awards luncheon and in the program, the coach gave me an “A+ for effort”. That would make a lovely epitaph on a headstone.
Running in the Army, sometimes in full gear, sometimes in the creepy, creeping gym shorts we were forced to wear, was not enjoyable. I was motivated only by the fact that I didn’t want to fail a PT test and that there was usually some florid-faced sergeant bellowing behind me. The only thing that ever changed was the scenery and the weather – red, dusty heat in North Carolina, dry, windy afternoons in Texas, cold, foggy mornings in California, and diesel scented morning runs in Germany.
The joy of running hit me when I was in college, juggling jobs and too poor to do anything except add to my credit debt and run. My run always started with a miserable, long hill and I never modified my route. About a mile in, I’d feel a tempo and I’d stop thinking. By the two mile mark, I was thinking again. I had to start having that conversation with myself “just make it two more blocks and you can stop” and I would have to repeat that conversation with myself every two blocks, until I got back home in the 4th mile. As I would round the corner and see my apartment building on the straightaway, I’d really start cussing myself out. “Move it! Screw you! Faster, you’re near the finish line! Bite me!” I was an angry finisher, but I was committed.
It’s hard to tap into that angry motivation these days. Life is a little easier and it’s hard to get worked up on a treadmill at the Y during the winter. I have to manufacture the angry drill sergeant within to push through the discomfort and get to the good stuff – that magical runner’s high. It still fizzes out around mile two and I have to push myself, but I have a friend in Eminem. That man is angry, but his poetry is powerful. Every time the intro to “Till I Collapse” begins, my pace picks up, I square my stride and pound through the next mile. As a workout philosophy, it explains the rather frequent injuries I get, but for pure adrenalin, it does the trick.
Tae Kwon Do means the way of the hand and the foot, but on some days not MY hands or feet. I am preparing to test for my red belt in June and my expectations about what I should be able to do at this level are a mite different than the reality. Like many people, I assumed that the closer I got to black belt status, the higher I could kick, the faster I could spar, the more boards I could break with crazy flying kicks. My kicks are a smidge higher and I’m a little faster at sparring and I’ve done some good board breaks, but I still have a long way to go.
Depending on the dojang (school), a black belt can have a lot of different meanings. My favorite meaning is that you are starting to train in advanced techniques and can teach beginners. It is not an end unto itself, but another beginning – an ongoing learning process. Whatever belt level you’re at, you will always be learning, always challenging yourself to be better.
When preparing for an effective move in sparring, you sometimes start with a softening technique, just to throw your partner a little off balance and move in with that great kick or strike that would score points in a tournament. It’s a mental technique as well. Forcing myself to wear white, surrounded by fluorescent lighting and mirrors and teenage classmates, while people watch, has changed me. It’s softened my attitude about who I am and what I am capable of. It’s challenged the hard coding in my head that said “I cannot do that”. I am more willing to be uncomfortable, to look foolish, to try new activities. What’s the worst that can happen? And could it be any worse than trying nothing at all?
I have friends who do yoga even though their legs won’t bend “that way” or who have left old jobs for new ones where their expertise is appreciated or started businesses in their homes, surrounded by boisterous children. There are so many ways to throw yourself just enough off balance that you discover something new and exciting. It’s rewarding to challenge those beliefs about who you are and knock them on their ass. I’m still working on “you don’t look good in white, even before Labor Day”, but it’s not an obstacle to landing an awesome kick.
The flu still hangs about, but now it is disconsolate and whiny. It knows that it is on the way out. I intend to finish it off with a walk on a sunny, mild day. In Minnesota. In January. The end must be near.
Walking seems to be a cure for many things, not the least of which is the malaise that hits in the dead of winter. We’ve had such an odd winter here in Minnesota – just look at what we’re wearing. Fall wear hasn’t gone out of style and random bright colors mean some people have just said “screw it” and decided it was spring. I bought snow pants in the fall, determined to add more outdoor winter activities to my repertoire. They still have the new snow pants smell.
Since I work from home, I often feel overwhelmed by my “to do” list. There’s no real down time. If I’m not working, I’m playing the “I should” game in my head while watching reruns on Netflix. It’s a nervous form of relaxation. Which is to say, it’s doing nothing and it’s not at all relaxing. Walking outside of my home without headphones and a heart rate monitor or a shopping list feels wasteful initially. There’s so much I could be doing. The reality, of course, is that I’m not doing those things. I’m edgy, jumping from text to email to Google with an alacrity that would have given Evelyn Wood seizures.
Stepping outside my back door for the first foray of the day causes a strange sensation, like getting off roller skates and having to learn how to walk again. It’s a reintegration into the physical world – I’m no longer just eyeballs twitching between software applications. Before I had a “busy schedule”, I walked everywhere. Now it’s a rare thing to see someone out on the street just walking for the sake of it. My neighborhood of classic 1950s starter homes was designed, like many suburbs, with no sidewalks.
I’ve walked endlessly many times in my life, marched miles in the Army, walked from a broken down car on the interstate, walked to a 4am job in the dead of winter. I’ve been chased by dogs, pooped on by birds, splattered by speeding car tires. Mostly though, I just walked. I was in motion and whenever I landed back at my starting point, I had a different perspective. It seemed just a little bit easier to dig in or let go of whatever had me stuck in the first place.
We’re in for a mild week and it’s a great opportunity to put some mileage on my walking shoes. They’ll look fabulous with my parka and shorts.
Shortly after I silently declared that I must write or die, I got the flu. Since the mental barriers were not successful in keeping me off the keyboard, my body jumped into the fray. My body has a point. I’ve put off writing anything for a long time. It’s worked like a charm – an editor’s voice isn’t in my head saying “that sounds pretentious” and anxiety attacks have been rare. Until this week. I was in a rock climbing class, halfway up a wall and I froze. My heart pounded so hard that I could hear nothing else. Taking short, shallow breaths, I desperately tried to remember what I was supposed to say to my belay partner on the ground. My first thought was “get out of the way – I’m coming down!”
My fellow classmates were reassuring – they assumed that I had a fear of heights. A fear of heights seems like a human, rational response to being high off the ground and not having wings or a jet pack. I smiled weakly and nodded in acceptance. I am not pathologically afraid of heights. I’m just not fond of them. I am, however, terrified of making mistakes. I was paralyzed by the fear that I could not find the next foothold. In a class that contained mostly, I think, petite spider monkeys, I was intimidated by their agility and boldness. No one has ever described me as bold or agile. I am slow and persistent and in the world of fables, I’d win the race.
Rock climbing is the latest physical venture I’ve undertaken. When I was 43, I started training in Taekwondo. Any time I try something new, I do the research. I read online, I check out books from the library and download to my Kindle. I research a task from every angle. I have a library of Taekwondo books so I can read about how to improve various stances, punches and kicks. Rock climbing, however, is a lot like writing, it’s do or die. No amount of studying can prepare you psychologically for the physical and mental demands or your body’s responses to those demands.
Every article I read on writing speaks to the difficulty, the awkwardness, the sheer torture of approaching a clean piece of paper or screen. This should be my bailiwick. If I can make my unwieldy body do a high front kick or climb, even halfway up a rock wall, I should be up to the challenge of sitting down to write. Like rock climbing, writing requires a level of trust. I have to trust that I can get through it, that I won’t die, that people won’t stand and point and laugh at me. And I have to trust if there is pointing and laughing, I’ll live on to type another day.
I’m going back to that wall to finish the climb – slowly and persistently. And so, another blogger is born.