Fartlekker

I just need to make an announcement here. I've come a long way in six months and I'm damned proud of myself.

Allow me to paint a picture. You're walking across the LA Fitness main floor and you look up at the staircase that gives access to the treadmills, elliptical trainers, and cycles. Coming down those stairs is a decent-looking 39-year-old woman. She's holding the railing as if she's a debutante being introduced to high society, but there's no glittering cloud of chiffon surrounding her. Instead, she's wearing yellow Adidas Supernova running shoes, black pants, a dark purple short-sleeved, sweat-stained shirt, and a black running cap. She's carrying a bottle of water and an iPod and wiping her extremely sweaty, red face with a purple towel. She looks whipped as she moves to the stretching mats, sucking on the water bottle as if her life depends on it. What you do see is her fatigue, but what you don't see is her inner satisfaction.

That picture? That was me this morning after completing my first fartlek (Swedish for "speed play") workout. What did I do during said workout? Well, I ran for 10 minutes, sprinted for three minutes with a one-minute slower run rest (do that six times), then cool-down run/jog for 10 minutes. I am here to tell you that it kicked my rear, but I did it. Six months ago, I couldn't even run one mile and this morning, I ran 4 miles for 45 minutes with interval sprints mixed in.

Yep, I'm here. I'm finally here. Now, excuse me while I go collapse into a boneless heap and curse those damned Swedes.

Pounding

Stop callin' stop callin' I don't wanna think anymore!/I left my head and my heart on the dance floor!

I'm running. There's no treadmill, no news channel on mute with closed captioning streaming on the screen. There are no muscle-bound freaks walking in and out of my field of vision, pumping iron for the gratification of the mirror and everyone around them. There's only me, my music, my feet pounding the pavement, multiple hills looming in front of me, and the sound of my labored breathing in the crisp, morning air.

Rise up and take the power back/It's time the fat cats had a heart attack/You know their time's comin' to an end we have to unify and watch our flag ascend!

I have to take down Halloween decorations and this makes me sad. It's my favorite holiday, my favorite month, my favorite season of the year. Maybe I'll leave it all up. It makes me happy and probably pisses off the neighbors, but like I've ever done anything for the gratification of anyone living in this corner of Georgia. I could just leave the skeleton there through Christmas and put a Santa hat on him. Yeah, that's it!

You're so gorgeous, I'll do anything/I'll kiss you from your feet to where your head begins/You're so perfect, you're so right as rain/You make me, make me, make me, make me hungry again!

Can I do this hill? It's so long! I HAVE to do this hill. But it's only my second run through the streets. I need to cut myself some slack. I'm giving myself until April to conquer this route. I have six months. I can do this. I have to do this NOW or I'm a failure. I can do it. I can make it. I see the top. I'm done. I have to walk.

I don't know what's worth fighting for or why I have to scream/I don't know why I instigate and say what I don't mean/I don't know how I got this way I know it's not alright/So I'm breaking the habit, I'm breaking the habit tonight.

The house is a wreck. Am I a hoarder? There are too many toys. We need to give a bunch away. I need to teach my kids about giving and not receiving. That's what it's all about, right? How do I impart that to idea to little kids when I'm not even sure of how to explain it to adults? I just feel like I'm living under stuff and not above it. Time to tidy up.

Take my hand/Tonight/Go ahead/Tonight/Play my game/Tonight/Keep your head/Tonight

I AM A RUNNER! I'M DOING THIS! IN AUGUST I COULDN'T EVEN RUN A MILE! NOW I'M DOING THREE! KICK ASS BABY!

Cause you're hot then you're cold/You're yes then you're no/You're in then you're out/You're up then you're down/You're wrong when it's right/It's black and it's white/We fight we break up/We kiss we make up

Oh, I'm so not a runner. I'm a shuffler. I'm not running. I'm shuffling. This is pitiful. I'm probably going to die, right here on this sidewalk. The crows will pick at my eyeballs until animal control comes and shovels what's left onto the back of the truck. S'ry Mr. Ty-man! We done ground her up inter cattle feed! Here's yer bill.

We can't afford to be innocent/Stand up and face the enemy/It's a do or die situation/We will be invincible!

OK I'm in my neighborhood. Can't let any of these fuckers see me panting or dying. Must. Run. Up. This. Hill. No walking. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. I can do this. There's my house. My house with water. Coffee. Shower. TV. Toys everywhere. Dirty laundry. My house. Run. Run. Run. I ran. I'm done. See you on Wednesday you nasty-ass hills.

Heather's running playlist courtesy of:
Lady Gaga and Beyoncé - Telephone
Muse - Uprising
The Cure - Why Can't I Be You?
Linkin Park - Breaking the Habit
Yuksek - Tonight
Katy Perry - Hot N Cold
Pat Benatar - Invincible

Running. Cheaper Than Therapy.

Many, many... MANY years ago (OK, maybe just six.) I was a runner. I replaced my running shoes every 300 miles, I ran various 5 and 10K races, I read Runner's World cover-to-cover (and took notes), and I even tracked my mileage in an Excel spreadsheet. People, I ran 1,882 miles in a five-year time span.

Yeah.

Not only did I run to get into and stay in some sort of decent physical shape, I ran to calm my inner freak show. My favorite t-shirt from way back in those running days of yore expressed the title of this blog post. I wore it quite often. I was proud of the fact that my Adidas Supernovae played therapist while the pavement took my anger, angst, and sadness with nary a whimper or protest. I would use that 30 minutes/3 miles each morning to think through problems, go over to do lists, or just empty my mind. I remember one morning, in particular, after I had failed yet another pregnancy test, when I broke down. I started sobbing and quite literally fell down to the ground and railed at the concrete sidewalk over my hate for God, my ovaries, pink/blue bows on mailboxes, and Pampers commercials. When I had finished my pity party, I got up and ran. Hard.

And then, I stopped. I stopped because even though I eventually found myself pregnant with my hard-won, fertility-drugged twins, I wanted to stay in shape. Six weeks into my first pregnancy, I speed-walked my favorite 3-mile route and discovered I was bleeding. Needless to say, I gave it up. Have you ever tried to run three miles, with hills, while pushing 20 pounds of twins encased in a 30-something pound double jogging stroller? No? Well, I have and I can tell you that's not therapy, that's torture. So, I gave up.

Once the kids started school this year, I dusted off my running shoes, sniffed the armpits of my old Nike running shirts, and purchased my very own copy of Couch to 5k. After seven weeks of the C25K nine-week program, I can proudly tell you that yesterday morning I ran three miles at a 10-minutes-per-mile pace. For the first time in over six years.

I'm back, dear pavement. I'm back. I hope you're ready for some long, drawn-out therapy sessions because HOO-DOGGIES do I have some issues to work through!

Yeah, that picture up there is me with fellow marathoner George Takei. He also played some guy on some sci-fi show back in the 60s. Oh, and Ty-man is in the picture, too.

Making the "Giving Birth" Face

Now that all three kids are in school at least four hours a day, five days a week, I'm finally making use of our gym membership that the Ty-man purchased many, many, many moons ago.

Yeah, call me Chandler.

For nearly three weeks, I've been running on the treadmills and, are you ready, lifting/pushing/pulling weights.

Me. The Weakling of Woodstock, the one who rolls her eyes at the muscle-bound men and women who sweat and puff out their cheeks while watching their muscles bulge in the mirrors, is right there alongside them, making my "giving birth" face.

What, do you ask, is the "giving birth" face?

Well, it's a grimace, really. It's a combination of OhmyGodthatfrakkinghurts! and Ican'tdothatonemoretime! with a bit of WhythehellamIdoingthis?! topped off with a generous helping of DamnI'msexy!

(OK. Maybe not that last part.)

Alas, since taking a sweaty picture of myself at the gym while trying to also lift heavy weights is damned near impossible (because I'm the clumsiest person in the universe), I don't have a picture of my actual "giving birth" face. Therefore, I give you this very poor substitute:


You're welcome.

Getting an Ass-Whuppin'

See, I used to be a runner. I started running a little over seven years ago. Usually, when people start running, they start off small. One or two miles here and there. After a few years, they decide, Hey, I could run a 5K. That would be swell! They run that 5K, get a kick out of the t-shirt received at the end of the run, and decide that in addition to those statehood spoons they've been collecting, they also want to collect race shirts.

So, the first 5K is followed by another, then another, then another until they finally have enough 5K race shirts to fill a wall. That's when the runner, not so new any longer, gets a subscription to Runners' World, learns what fartlek means and how to calculate their target heart rate. Then, the fun begins. Hey, how about a 10K? That's just twice the distance, I can do that, the runner thinks. The months and years go by until finally the runner is ready for their first half marathon and once that is accomplished, the full 26.2 mile marathon smacks them in the face. They spend five months training and run a grueling race and receive a medal at the end. This is typically the natural progression in the life of a runner.

Me? Ish. I did it ALL kinds of backwards. See, my running career began the day after Thanksgiving, 2000 and ended January 28, 2005. I started running three miles a day, right from the get-go. By January, my running buddies and I decided, Hell, why run a 5K when you can run a marathon? That's right, the first race yours truly ever ran in her short running career was the Country Music Marathon, Nashville, Tennessee, April 28, 2001.

Oh. My. God.

The distance to Hell and back is, for a fact, 26.2 miles. If you're thinking of visiting and coming back after a week or so, that's what your speedometer will say. Trust me on this.

The race was good although at mile 20, I was beginning to question my sanity and by mile 23, I no longer gave a shit. But, the important thing is I finished. I got my medal. And I never returned. After that race, I ran a myriad of 5Ks and two 10Ks (hard-ass 10Ks involving many hills and one water break throughout the entire race). The last day I ran was the morning of Friday, January 28, 2005. The day I was successfully artificially inseminated. The day that began my journey as a mom.

So, here I am, almost three years later. I've jogged here and there but nothing compared to my running "career" prior to kids. I actually keep a running log.

Before kids? 1,850 miles
After kids? 29.5 miles

I've run a marathon and a 5K in three years.

I'm sooooo out of shape.

So, this morning, I dusted off the running shoes and broke out the hasn't been worn in three years running clothes. OK, I've gained so much weight with my two pregnancies and post J-man that the sleeves - yes, the friggin' sleeves - of my lycra/nylon blend shirt are tight.

Crap.

And did I mention camel toe? Luckily I ran at 6AM this morning so it was too dark to see said camel toe.

I ran/walked (OK, OK, so it was mostly walking with much huffing and puffing) three miles. Mostly flat, not a lot of hills, but I did it.

It's going to take a lot of work to get back to consistently running 15 miles a week with no walking involved. But I'm going to do it.

Why?

Because.... if I'm going to waste money on buying new pairs of jeans, it had better be because the old ones are too big, not because they're suddenly too small. I can't keep using the old "the dryer must have shrunk them" excuse forever.

Sheesh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, and? Don't forget about Mr. Fab's Blog Talk Radio show this Sunday, December 16th, at 7PM EST. I'll be co-hosting (holy Mother) and I might even get the Coal Miner's Daughter-in-Law (a.k.a. my mama) to show up. Woo hoo! Click here to get there.