After a long bout of writer’s block, I read a Bukowski poem about being a writer, and remembered why I wrote in the first place.
This blog is all about juggling everything on top of maintaining a level of fitness I can live with. Not being perfectly fit, but perfect enough for me. I get so hard on myself. I always strive to be the best at everything I do. Eventually, something fizzles out.
Although I haven’t been blogging, I have still kept up my fitness. I have experienced amazing races, all sorts of fitness classes, and have gotten so much out of my journey back into becoming as fit as a 37 year old, full time working mom can become. I will try to get back to sharing these experiences.
It started tonight. Today was the second day of a brand new job. I am already steeped heavily into a project due in 2 days. I have had to deal with Hurricane Irene… no power… no Internet… and still trying to balance my home life, fitness life, and work life…
I was lacing up to go meet with my running club.
As I head out the door, an anxiety attack started to creep up my chest, constricting my breath like an asthma attack. I have had experience with these anxiety attacks, and have worked hard to remain bigger than them.
“It’s OK…” I whisper to myself, “I’m OK! It’s just anxiety. It’s not going to take my run away from me.”
Taking deep breaths, I drive to the track I have been going to once a week, running speed work with some of the fastest people I know.
These people are CRAZY fast. Like, 50 year olds who run 5 minute miles kind of fast.
People who own no other piece of clothing except for running gear, and shirts from the millions of marathons they do in 2 hours.
And then there is me. Running 9:30 minute miles, my hips moving with a mind of their own. I don’t have that graceful, sleek stride of a runner. I have a huffing, puffing, waddle of a baby hippo trying to keep up with her mother.
And, these people welcome me. They smile and cheer me on, giving me these sweet smiles the way a grownup looks at a cute toddler trying on her mommy’s high heels.
“Awww – look! She thinks she is running! How cute!!!”
But they don’t tell me that. They honest to God cheer me on. A 40-something year old breast cancer survivor. 50-something year old men who compete against each other, bare chested and covered in sweat and still hot as hell (blushing).
All cheering me on. I come dead last at the end of every drill, and they tell me I look great. I am doing awesome.
And they all are able to do it because they all finish before me, and have plenty of breath power to still yell and cheer.
“You know, every week, you get faster” Bob tells me.
Let me tell you about Bob.
Bob is a man, maybe close to 70. Always smiling. Always wearing track suits from the 70’s, when he used to actually run marathons. He volunteers every week to hold the stopwatch, create the drills, give us pointers, and share random facts about bumblebees.
He will tell me some pointer that is really about running, but if you look deeper, it is actually about life…. I am convinced he isn’t doing it by accident.
“Loosen the grasp of your hands,” he tells me “Look how tight you hold them. It is taking too much of your energy. Just let them go… Let them hang loosely – you will see the difference. I promise!”
And these are words of wisdom. I come to this thing to learn how to run a little faster, and at some point I start welling up wanting to cry…. Learning a life lesson I never knew I needed.
And then I will pass him, flapping my hands around loosely like a spastic T Rex “There you go! See! You just took off 10 seconds from your time! I told you!”
And this is why I keep running. To remind me there is never a level of perfection I can achieve. That is a delusion.
Running keeps me humble. Reminds me how much work I still have to do, even when I work my butt off.
And a small change… Just letting go a little, can mean a little baby step closer to a goal I never even knew I had.
By the way, here’s my theory on Bob. I am convinced that when I die, he will be standing there at the gates. Shoes untied, track suit worn and weathered, with a stopwatch in his hand.
“You made perfect time,” he will tell me. “Now… Recover!”
