Run! Write! Make!

Growing up, I was not an athletic kid.  I was a tiny, scrawny, little white girl.  I could not hit a ball, I could not run very far, I never lasted very long in dodgeball.  I played no sports.  My closest brush with athleticism was in high school marching band, where I learned to march backwards while holding crash cymbals steady for a snare drummer to play.  (Don’t laugh.  Those cymbals are heavy and we did it in the New Mexico heat.  In hideous cream and brown polyester uniforms and plastic egg-shell hats.)

I will be 36 later this year and the desire to keep my body fit and healthy presses on me.  Simultaneously, the effort to keep my body fit and healthy seems to rise exponentially.  I’m not interested in joining any sports, and my options are limited there anyway.  I’m not interested in anything that requires an investment of equipment or a membership pressure.  I have found, however, that I really love to run.  I feel good when I run.  Unfortunately, the first thing to go when my schedule gets busy is my daily run.  So I tend to run in fits and starts.  Running regularly for a few weeks or months, and then not at all for months.  Sometimes I’m derailed by the general mayhem of family life.  Once I was knocked off track by the flu.  

A few weeks ago at the library, I found a copy of Haruki Murakami’s memoir-ish book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.  I’d not read any of his work before, but was led to him in my quest to read through some magical realism this summer.  I haven’t read any more magical realism since I suffered through Love in the Time of Cholera (I’ll save my ennui with that one for another post perhaps), but Murakami’s personal tale of writing and running gave me a swift kick in the butt on two counts.  

For Murakami, running and writing work together.  He does not write when he runs or even particularly think about ideas.  But it seems that running gives him an absence of thought and an ability to focus that increases his ability to focus on writing.  By training to run (and he is a serious runner of marathons and triathalons) he is a more focused writer when he is writing.

In spite of the particularly harsh and dry summer we are experiencing here in the Coastal Bend of Texas, I have been running five or six days a week for the past two weeks.  Since I haven’t run for months, I’m back to doing interval work to build up my stamina.  I’m up to half-running, half-walking a little more than two miles a day and it feels great.  I’m not sure if I’ll ever build up to a marathon, but if I could continuously run a few miles a day, without being sidetracked for months at a time, I’d feel very proud. 

Running is hard and it is hot and I get sweaty and dirty and funky.  But I’ve been injury-free so far, and working my body just feels so good.  I am more physically tired, but it is a satisfying tired.  Now that I’ve settled into a running rhythm, and my body is getting stronger and I am less worried about injuring myself, my mind is free to wander as I run.  Mostly it wanders into empty spaces.  Thoughts do come to me as I go, worries sometimes plague me.  But in running, I find that I can embrace meditative thought more effectively than I’ve ever been able to in other ways.  The thoughts and worries don’t linger.  They float by me like clouds, and I am able to consider them dispassionately, letting them pass without clinging to them.  At other times my mind wanders to the beat, counting the steps, predicting my tempo, comparing the beat of my heart to the thump of my shoes.  

And I’m learning (or rather reminded), slowly, that I need balance in my life.  Everything feels better when I’m running.  Everything feels better when I’m writing.  Everything feels better when I’m crafting.  But all three of those things have to work together somehow.  When one of those things drops out of my life for a while, the other two tend to disappear as well.  

Besides blogging a little bit more often again, I can’t say that I’m actually writing again.  But I’m getting closer.  I’m working the balance.  The writing notebook is on the desk again.  A few ideas have been scribbled in it, and the more I run, the more the ideas come to me.  The more ideas for writing I get, the more crafty ideas I get and the more enthusiastic I get about running each morning.  

I’m chasing my activities around in a circle.  I just have to keep them all moving in a positive direction, moving with balance in mind. 

Runner?

Recently queried about when I’d start running again, first I stammered, “Uh—.”  Then I whined about how hot it is here right now.  Not hot, so much as humid.  Ok, hot and humid.  

Check out the Wiki article on humidity.  As they point out in the article, we’re usually referring to “relative humidity” when we use that term.  The relative part refers to the different moisture capacity of the air at different temperatures.  The higher the temperatures, the higher the moisture capacity.  So 90% humidity at 75 degrees is much less water than 90% humidity at 80.6F/26C (our current conditions, down from 90F earlier—no, no rain).  Through some magical voodoo one can arrive at a heat index of 87F/30C for that data.  In other words, because there is 90% relative humidity right now, it *feels* like 87, even though it’s only 80.  Go figure.  

This is the kind of weather where I can walk very slowly out the door and begin dripping sweat before the door shuts behind me.  The kind of weather where I “dry off” after a shower, but I’m never really dry, just sort of less damp at some point several hours later.  

So, you can probably understand why the thought of physical exertion out there leads me to whine.  I find it hard to continue to whine, however, after my previous post, in which I extolled the bravery and fortitude of my middle child.  

I haven’t actually done any kind of running for a long time.  I generally refer to April—the Month of Endless Demon Virus—as my excuse for slacking off in the running.  But I haven’t actually run regularly since just after my race back at the beginning of March.  Since I only ran for a smidge over two months, and have NOT run for almost three months, I’m not sure it’s honest or fair to call myself a runner over there in the left-hand margin.  

I can honestly call myself most of those other things, knitter especially.  There has been a decent amount of knitting and knit-planning.  A fair amount of legoing.  Not so much writing.  That one I can blame on the running, but that is for another post.  

I’m disappointed in the lack of running.  I really liked the running.  My brain felt good.  My body felt good.  Ok, you know, not in the moments immediately after the running, but in the times in between the running, when I was sleeping better, feeling stronger, and generally having more energy and enthusiasm for things in general.  

So, what I should be doing right now is promising to me that I will start running again.

Tomorrow.  

When I think that though, at least a dozen excuses pop into my brain, most having to do with wet air and knitting.  

Venous Reverb, or the Untold Story of Eglentyne's First 5k Day

Waking up early and getting ready for the fun run went very smoothly, but there were two things I didn’t have time for: finishing my morning caffeine and stretching properly. I have subsequently paid for both of these things.

The run went well, the weather beautiful and the wind light. I accidentally met some great people who happen to live in my little town. Small world. And I might have an occasional running partner now.

I did not expect the course to be as hilly as it was. My wee town is as flat as flat can be, and the biggest incline I tackle during a run is a sidewalk ramp. The race began with a steep uphill climb, and then meandered up and down, finishing on a long slow downhill slope. The hills and the lack of a good knee stretch have left my calves and knees very unhappy today.

After the race, there was a lot of standing around, sweating, chatting, and waiting for race results while they passed out some raffle prizes. That was fun, and the Sonars thought it was great to play on the fantastic structures at the park, as well as to run up and down up and down up and down a steep hill about five-thousand times. When we finally left the park, they were covered head to foot in mud.

After cleaning up the Sonars, Partner hauled them off for much-begged-for haircuts, while I showered and stretched and snacked and blogged.

When I posted my triumph yesterday, I was already feeling the aura of an impending migraine. It hit hard and fast, and was complete with the most lovely and distressing visual aura (pretty golden wavery lines at the edges of my field of vision). Medicated, hydrated, caffeinated, showered, and stretched, I sprawled out on my bed.

Now, some people can’t stand light or sound when they have a migraine. I don’t mind either of these in moderation. What kills me is movement. Even the slightest little muscle twitch is amplified through my veins and into my head, making it feel like my skull will surely explode. So stillness, profound stillness, is the key to migraine comfort for me. Difficult in the best of circumstances considering I must continue to breathe, which moves my body ever so slightly.

The good news is, that after a hearty lunch and a long, quiet nap, the pain had receded somewhat. I was left with an uncomfortable sort of hollow feeling, but that too waned before dinner time.

What has yet to wane are the cranky after-effects on three children of getting up too early and running up and down a hill five-thousand times. They totally had a blast. I’m sure they ran more than I did yesterday. The experience has even inspired Sonar X7, equipped by Partner yesterday with fresh shoes, to start training with me. But their little bodies are worn a bit tired. And tempers are frayed around the edges. No insult or discomfort passes today without dramatic complaint.

Still a bit tired myself, I’m having to work very hard to maintain my patience and understanding with them, and admit to flipping out once this morning over yet another whiny breakdown by a child. But calm has settled over the house as everyone rests quietly. We have plenty of groceries and I made some rosemary foccaccia this morning that is begging to be eaten. We have nowhere to go, and nothing to do but enjoy our day.

Now, if I can just finish this d#$% sweater.

Two Months of Running

Start time was 7:30 a.m. at Cole Park in Corpus Christi Texas, for the 21st annual Goodwill Spring Fun Run. My number was 147.

There were some beautiful views of the city…

And the sky…

And I met some interesting people…

Coming in for the finish.

I started running at the beginning of this year, and at the end of two months, I ran my first 5k race, finishing in just under 35 minutes. Hooray for me!!

Imagine a Steamy Bathroom

So steamy that you can’t clearly see the walls of the room. It’s not too hot, rather, just on the warm side of comfortable, but with a slight draft of cooler air now and then, stirring around the foggy air.

That’s what my Thursday run was like. My familiar town, along my familiar route, but shrouded in a thick veil of evening fog. The cool and the warm air seemed to compete with one another. Occasionally the fog would thin a bit, and I could see a house or a building, but it would quickly be swallowed by another wave of fog.

The moist air was really good for my waning chest cold. Like a steamy shower, the moisture seemed to penetrate and loosen some of the remaining congestion.

The really creepy horror show moment came on my way back, when a very loud, disembodied voice shouted out just a few feet in front of me: “Ooooooh! It’s a strike for #23.” It scared the hell out of me. Especially since I knew I was a good quarter of a mile from the ballpark where the high school softball game was underway. Luckily no one could see me flinch like mad, and I didn’t scream.

I guess the fog’ll do that to a sound.

Happy to say though, that I made it home without interdimensional monsters sucking my soul.