I'm a runner. I don't know that I've ever characterized myself as a "jogger" (that term always lacked a certain sense of internal drive for me), and I certainly am NOT a walker. When I'm running, I allow myself to do just that: run. And only that. Anything else feels like a failure. Now of course, as a fitness trainer, I would never snub my nose at any type of activity or exercise ... ever! I do whatever I can to encourage movement and forever tout the laundry list of benefits associated with physical activity. I even tell my daughters that simply playing at the park is a fabulous way to stay healthy, even when that finds them perched effortlessly on the swings and my pushing leaves me as the one reaping said exercise benefits.
But when it comes to my own fitness, setting out for a run is usually my chance to test my own fortitude and grit and, while I do occassionally enjoy a relaxing trot around the neighborhood as a way to unwind, I more typically get home from a run having expected to have left most of myself behind on the pavement. Each new run is a comparison to the run before it. These comparisons allow me to guage my personal success, which I tend to measure not only in terms of my ability to clobber and quel the challenge ahead, but also by how well I manage to eliminate that pesky little nagging voice that pops up right when things feel just a slight bit uncomfy; the same voice that constantly threatens to thwart my best intentions by throwing out excuses or sowing seeds of doubt. When I first step out my door and double knot my pair of Asics, I'm not really interested in the scenery. When I start up my watch (or lately, the clock on my iPhone), the rest of the world slips away. I watch the road open up ahead of me and I focus on just me, gradually settling into a comfortable rhythm that will eventually feel like floating.
Don't get me wrong: I know how to stop and smell the flowers just as well as the next guy. But if I'm dilly dallying with flowers, I don't get as much of a chance to prove to myself that my personal strength is not just an obscure term I can throw out when I'm feeling the need for reassurance. When I run, I am instinctually aware that I really am unrelentingly strong, and that strength lives as a deep-seated and familiar force that I call on to deal with life's unexpected curveballs. I strive to assure my fitness clients of their own inherent ability to tackle anything that may stand in their way, and so my runs are my chance to "walk my walk" (although, as I mentioned before, I'm not a walker!)
All that being said, today is Sunday. On Sundays, everyone seems to hold onto each moment a little bit longer before Monday starts to menacingly inch its way onto the scene. Sundays offer a universal sense of calm - the world lets out a communal sigh. Even the "type A" personalities, those of us who might not otherwise know how to function were we to find ourselves with one too many extra minutes to just sit and breathe, conversely have no qualms with lounging lackadaisically in front of a football game for hours on end, or else puttering around nonchalantly, tinkering at tasks that generally get put aside and end up waiting for that improbable extra chunk of time required to get completed. And on Sundays, that intensely focused running I usually insert into my schedule turns more into gliding along, completely carefree, carried effortlessly on a gentle breeze.
So for my Sunday, today's uniform was nothing more than baggy pj's, and the name of the game was casually and lazily putzing, cleaning, organizing, and munching little bits here and there, all while half-heartedly catching up on the most recent season of "Bones." I had been planning to get out for a run - one without any time constraint or any pressure to "give it everything I've got" because that's what runs feel like on Sundays - but just kept letting myself get distracted with yet another chore or mindless job. Finally checking on the time to see how much of my Sunday I had left to hold onto, I was shocked to see my clock read 6:00! I had to go now, or forever hold my peace. Luckily, the early fall evenings in Northern Colorado offer a perfect opportunity to absorb the cooler temps and simultaneously chase the last tired rays of sleepy sunshine just before daylight hits the hay. So, still embodying Sunday's characteristic sense of indifference and casual calm, I pulled on my t-shirt and running shoes, twisted my hair into a messy ponytail, and lethargically grabbed whatever I might need for today's excursion. I realized as soon as I stepped out the door, though, that I had waited a hair too long in getting my rear in gear, and had now passed that point of no return. This is the point where you're not just relaxed, you're devoid of any real motivation or energy. I felt slightly annoyed at the realization that I actually had no problem with turning right back around to slip my slippers back on and finish out my Sunday as lazily as I had spent it thus far.
Well! This non-commital attitude just wouldn't do! What kind of runner was I if I couldn't automatically turn on that familiar competitive mindset I was so sure I needed to make this run count?
Maybe if I just start with a brisk warm-up walk before moving into my running rhythm ... Hmmm, this speed actually feels really relaxing. I like this pace. Wait, what?? Who said that? I don't walk! I don't put on my running clothes and my running shoes ... to walk! Ok, enough of this half-assed farting around. Time to get the show on the road!
Thus, with great effort, I forced myself forward to half fall, half jump into something that vaguely resembled a running stride. But while I'm usually used to flipping a switch and simultaneously acknowledging when it's "go time," my present attempt to maintain my pace and keep running ... (we use the term run loosely - more like a plod, or a lope, or a heavy, lumbering cascade of footsteps that probably looked like continuous stumbling) ... was turning more into a frantic fumble in the dark. Apparently, I had forgotten where that switch was ... there was no "go time" on my side of the street. Arg!
Wait just a minute! I'm the trainer, aren't I? ... Shouldn't I be the one who can push myself whenever I need to, whenever the going gets tough? This "run" will NOT be a walk ... it will NOT be a jog! I'm a runner for goodness sakes!
Well, that less-than-motivational pep talk I gave myself did seem to briefly get me running again, but only for another mile and a quarter. And by this point, my stride was so awkward and uncomfortable, I decided it wouldn't hurt to take a teeny tiny walking break (preferably on a quiet side street where nobody really saw me walk), so I could re-adjust and then start up again to finish. But as soon as I slowed down for this teeny tiny break, my gait automatically (and without permission!) slowed to a relaxed walk, a stroll even ... almost a saunter. And with that slower pace came an onslaught of those pesky little negative voices - those ones that I typically manage to silence throughout my run - chiding me almost defeaningly, persuading me to doubt my own toughness. I felt myself getting increasingly knocked down ... by me! I could feel those nagging little voices getting geared up to dish out a (not so nice!) lecture, and I felt the words "failure" and "weak" start to creep into my consciousness. Suddenly, I was sure I could no longer call myself a runner. How could I? Here I was, walking, and, by doing so, ultimately failing to push myself hard enough.
But just as quickly and forcefully as those vindictive voices had rudely inserted themselves into my internal dialogues and sucessfully started the process of undermining the self-confidence I'd been sure was practically indestructible, they disappeared - they were hit head-on by a very obvious realization (the kind where you feel like hitting yourself on the forehead for having been confused in the first place). I just about laughed outloud at my own ridiculousness. I can't be a runner if I happen to have a slower day? Uhh, FALSE! Who says that's the rule?? Nobody can be "on" ALL the time ... some of us have to take a breather here and there. And progress is rarely linear (duh - I know this!) ... so why would I be the exception?? Sheesh! Get a grip!
Ohh, I get it. And out of nowhere, the rest of the world faded back into view, the smells of early fall BBQ's wafted flirtatiously by, and I resolved to allow myself to walk the entire way home. And I liked it! Rather than darting, dashing, hurrying, bolting, storming, charging, or going like a bat out of hell, I was plenty content just to stroll, saunter, amble, march sluggishly, and even throw in a dance move between strides here and there (which is only a good idea if you're a decent dancer ... I am not).
So with my slow, yet steady walk, I decided that runners aren't runners because they only run and NEVER walk ... we're runners because we know we can urge ourselves forward, steadily yet quickly, gracefully and with fierce drive, through seemingly impossible odds. But every once in a while, it IS kinda nice to slow down, dawdle a bit, and revel in the moment. And besides, just getting out the door is half the battle - walking, jogging, or running, we've already won!
But when it comes to my own fitness, setting out for a run is usually my chance to test my own fortitude and grit and, while I do occassionally enjoy a relaxing trot around the neighborhood as a way to unwind, I more typically get home from a run having expected to have left most of myself behind on the pavement. Each new run is a comparison to the run before it. These comparisons allow me to guage my personal success, which I tend to measure not only in terms of my ability to clobber and quel the challenge ahead, but also by how well I manage to eliminate that pesky little nagging voice that pops up right when things feel just a slight bit uncomfy; the same voice that constantly threatens to thwart my best intentions by throwing out excuses or sowing seeds of doubt. When I first step out my door and double knot my pair of Asics, I'm not really interested in the scenery. When I start up my watch (or lately, the clock on my iPhone), the rest of the world slips away. I watch the road open up ahead of me and I focus on just me, gradually settling into a comfortable rhythm that will eventually feel like floating.
Don't get me wrong: I know how to stop and smell the flowers just as well as the next guy. But if I'm dilly dallying with flowers, I don't get as much of a chance to prove to myself that my personal strength is not just an obscure term I can throw out when I'm feeling the need for reassurance. When I run, I am instinctually aware that I really am unrelentingly strong, and that strength lives as a deep-seated and familiar force that I call on to deal with life's unexpected curveballs. I strive to assure my fitness clients of their own inherent ability to tackle anything that may stand in their way, and so my runs are my chance to "walk my walk" (although, as I mentioned before, I'm not a walker!)
All that being said, today is Sunday. On Sundays, everyone seems to hold onto each moment a little bit longer before Monday starts to menacingly inch its way onto the scene. Sundays offer a universal sense of calm - the world lets out a communal sigh. Even the "type A" personalities, those of us who might not otherwise know how to function were we to find ourselves with one too many extra minutes to just sit and breathe, conversely have no qualms with lounging lackadaisically in front of a football game for hours on end, or else puttering around nonchalantly, tinkering at tasks that generally get put aside and end up waiting for that improbable extra chunk of time required to get completed. And on Sundays, that intensely focused running I usually insert into my schedule turns more into gliding along, completely carefree, carried effortlessly on a gentle breeze.
So for my Sunday, today's uniform was nothing more than baggy pj's, and the name of the game was casually and lazily putzing, cleaning, organizing, and munching little bits here and there, all while half-heartedly catching up on the most recent season of "Bones." I had been planning to get out for a run - one without any time constraint or any pressure to "give it everything I've got" because that's what runs feel like on Sundays - but just kept letting myself get distracted with yet another chore or mindless job. Finally checking on the time to see how much of my Sunday I had left to hold onto, I was shocked to see my clock read 6:00! I had to go now, or forever hold my peace. Luckily, the early fall evenings in Northern Colorado offer a perfect opportunity to absorb the cooler temps and simultaneously chase the last tired rays of sleepy sunshine just before daylight hits the hay. So, still embodying Sunday's characteristic sense of indifference and casual calm, I pulled on my t-shirt and running shoes, twisted my hair into a messy ponytail, and lethargically grabbed whatever I might need for today's excursion. I realized as soon as I stepped out the door, though, that I had waited a hair too long in getting my rear in gear, and had now passed that point of no return. This is the point where you're not just relaxed, you're devoid of any real motivation or energy. I felt slightly annoyed at the realization that I actually had no problem with turning right back around to slip my slippers back on and finish out my Sunday as lazily as I had spent it thus far.
Well! This non-commital attitude just wouldn't do! What kind of runner was I if I couldn't automatically turn on that familiar competitive mindset I was so sure I needed to make this run count?
Maybe if I just start with a brisk warm-up walk before moving into my running rhythm ... Hmmm, this speed actually feels really relaxing. I like this pace. Wait, what?? Who said that? I don't walk! I don't put on my running clothes and my running shoes ... to walk! Ok, enough of this half-assed farting around. Time to get the show on the road!
Thus, with great effort, I forced myself forward to half fall, half jump into something that vaguely resembled a running stride. But while I'm usually used to flipping a switch and simultaneously acknowledging when it's "go time," my present attempt to maintain my pace and keep running ... (we use the term run loosely - more like a plod, or a lope, or a heavy, lumbering cascade of footsteps that probably looked like continuous stumbling) ... was turning more into a frantic fumble in the dark. Apparently, I had forgotten where that switch was ... there was no "go time" on my side of the street. Arg!
Wait just a minute! I'm the trainer, aren't I? ... Shouldn't I be the one who can push myself whenever I need to, whenever the going gets tough? This "run" will NOT be a walk ... it will NOT be a jog! I'm a runner for goodness sakes!
Well, that less-than-motivational pep talk I gave myself did seem to briefly get me running again, but only for another mile and a quarter. And by this point, my stride was so awkward and uncomfortable, I decided it wouldn't hurt to take a teeny tiny walking break (preferably on a quiet side street where nobody really saw me walk), so I could re-adjust and then start up again to finish. But as soon as I slowed down for this teeny tiny break, my gait automatically (and without permission!) slowed to a relaxed walk, a stroll even ... almost a saunter. And with that slower pace came an onslaught of those pesky little negative voices - those ones that I typically manage to silence throughout my run - chiding me almost defeaningly, persuading me to doubt my own toughness. I felt myself getting increasingly knocked down ... by me! I could feel those nagging little voices getting geared up to dish out a (not so nice!) lecture, and I felt the words "failure" and "weak" start to creep into my consciousness. Suddenly, I was sure I could no longer call myself a runner. How could I? Here I was, walking, and, by doing so, ultimately failing to push myself hard enough.
(This is totally what I felt like!)
Ohh, I get it. And out of nowhere, the rest of the world faded back into view, the smells of early fall BBQ's wafted flirtatiously by, and I resolved to allow myself to walk the entire way home. And I liked it! Rather than darting, dashing, hurrying, bolting, storming, charging, or going like a bat out of hell, I was plenty content just to stroll, saunter, amble, march sluggishly, and even throw in a dance move between strides here and there (which is only a good idea if you're a decent dancer ... I am not).
So with my slow, yet steady walk, I decided that runners aren't runners because they only run and NEVER walk ... we're runners because we know we can urge ourselves forward, steadily yet quickly, gracefully and with fierce drive, through seemingly impossible odds. But every once in a while, it IS kinda nice to slow down, dawdle a bit, and revel in the moment. And besides, just getting out the door is half the battle - walking, jogging, or running, we've already won!
Keep up the good walk ... I mean, work!
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