The canine of defeat

Saturday’s Polar Dash 10K was notable for two reasons: I snagged a PR and, for the first time, managed to get beaten by a dog.

As context, I’ve been beaten in a race by just about everyone: old people, children (LOTS of children), blind runners being led by guides, you name it. I once, in a moment of truly shameful competitiveness, launched into a near-sprint in order to beat an amputee up a hill during a half marathon. It was NOT my finest moment. (Although I did flash him a thumbs up as I ran by. So there’s that. But seriously, when you’re in the back of the pack, the chance to pass someone – ANYONE – is both thrilling and rare.)

However, Saturday marked my first defeat by an actual canine.

Lining up for the unusually warm race (I busted out cropped pants and a t-shirt for the 40-degree start), I spotted a woman in front of me with a tote bag slung around her shoulder. But this wasn’t just any tote bag: this bag carried a white, shaggy, Muppety -looking tiny dog, who appeared totally content to just hang there like he (or she) lined up in a race corral every weekend.

Inching closer, I heard the woman say she and her husband brought the dog, but didn’t expect to run the race with it. Somehow, though, here she was, in the 12:00 +/mile area, getting ready to start her 6.2-mile race with the dog and purse in tow.

I turned to a girl behind me.

“We HAVE to be able to run faster than the woman doing the race with the DOG,” I said.

We eyed the lady suspiciously. She was blonde. Maybe in her 40s. Maybe in her 50s. Lithe. This description definitely did NOT apply to either of us.

“I don’t know if I can,” said The Girl Behind Me.

“Yeah, um. I’m not sure if I can either,” I said, eyeing Dog Lady like I was on my third drink in a bar.

With that, the race started.

I moved to the side and tried to find my pace and entertain myself, leapfrogging a few other run-walkers. I’ve been working hard to improve my pace, so I tried to accelerate a bit with every passing mile. The race had a few weird moments: the 5K group seemed to miss the turnaround. We all seemed to miss the first water stop.

Mile 4 dragged. At Mile 5 I decided to try to pick up the pace even more, figuring the faster I’d run, the faster I’d be done. That’s when I spotted her: Dog Lady was walking ahead of me. And holy hell, I was going to catch her.

I ran faster and inched closer. Every time I got close enough to start to pass her, she’d begin to trot, dog carrier in hand. It went like this for almost a mile. Then finally – FINALLY – around the 6 mile marker, I did it. I PASSED THE WOMAN AND HER DOG.

“HAHAHAHAHA,” I thought victoriously to myself, as I approached the last turn before the finish line. “ I'M GOING TO BEAT THE WOMAN WITH THE DOG.”

We ran under an underpass and entered Grant Park at the base of a hill that’d lead us to the finish line. That’s when it happened. Woman With The Dog began to speed up the hill. I have a firm policy to always sprint the end of the race, but she was starting well before I was ready. Pumping my arms and legs I tried to catch her as an onlooker yelled: “Look! First place in the dog division!"

I won't lie: I contemplated a "bite me" retort.

Blonde Lady kept going, crossing the finish line about five seconds before I charged through.

I stopped my Garmin and tried to breathe. I looked up, hoping to find her and her furry companion to at least say "thank you" for pushing me. Thanks in part to the two of them, I’d cut about 2:20 off my best 10K time that'd I'd recorded in November.

But by then, she and the dog had disappeared into the crowd.

Maybe next year we'll have a rematch.

We run this town.

My view on a run. (Well, one of them.)

I used to be intimidated by Chicago's Lakefront path. In the warmer months, it's overflowing with people -- runners, bikers, rollerbladers, walkers, teenagers, tourists, beach goers, dog walkers, stray children who don't look before they dart in front of your bike, giving you a heart attack at 6 a.m. on your commute to work and making you think that you'll hit them and either kill them or die yourself in a crash. (Sorry... projecting.)

It took me a while to get used to frantic pace while still being able to keep my cool. (It's been more than six years since I moved here, and I still know my sanity will always be tested if I ride south of Fullerton on a warm summer afternoon. Been there, been hit in the head with the football by the drunk frat boys.) (True story.) (I also got hit by a flag attached to a passing triple-wide stroller. You can't make this shit up.)

I live about two blocks from the 18-mile-long paved path that runs along the waterfront. To dodge the crowds -- and my own insecurities when I started running -- I'd usually veer along winding dirt paths that splinter off from the main north-south thoroughfare. Sure, they might be muddy and devoid of bathrooms and water fountains. But they offered this incredibly different experience of exercising in the city. Running right along the water's edge, I'd loop around Montrose Harbor, following the shoreline south past the golf course and then trace the outline of Belmont Harbor before turning back north to finish a 5-mile route. You'd get spectacular views of the skyline while passing a few runners and picnickers off the main drag. (I learned the disastrous way NOT to bring the Mutt Puppy on these runs after an ill-fated outing where she stopped roughly every 500 feet to roll around in smelly goose poo and fish detritus.)

A storm washed out a huge part of my favorite splinter path last summer, so I've found other routes to call my own. In the winter, when the sun sets before 5 p.m., I hit the main trail. (Because treadmills are the devil.)  It's a wholly different experience to be out there in January. Bundled up in gaiters and balaclavas, you still see just a few runners and cyclists who are out in the cold. You nod as you pass each other, offering the trail version of a high-five. (I've been known to let out a loud squeal when the snowflakes start falling and the wind gusts kick up in single-degree weather.)

RunChi shirt from CafePress.

This past summer, I'd ride my bike six miles down to Oak Street Beach on Saturday mornings to get in a swimming workout while I was training for a triathlon. One morning in particular it felt like the path -- and the entire city -- was alive. It was warm and sunny on the way south as I passed my Chicago Endurance Sports teammates training for the marathon. Along the way I spotted an outdoor yoga class, cycling groups, people doing bootcamps, tennis players, people flying kites, walking dogs, fishing, picnicking and swimming. I finished my workout with this ridiculous grin, so proud of my city and the people in it. It was just one of those moments when I felt so much civic pride. I was so stoked to be able to call myself part of Chicago's dynamic running community.

The path is this weird place full of conflict when it's crowded and yet full of serenity when it's not. (And the views of the city are mind-blowing.) When I saw this photo posted on a Facebook page, I knew I'd have to share it.

If you're ever up this way, let me know -- I'll show you my trail. Just make sure you bring your camera.

Successes and failures

For years, I used to have dreams I was a secret runner. I’d fall asleep, lace up my shoes, and take off – running, bounding, practically flying through the air. It was easy and effortless. And the spectators – whoever they were on any given night – would be awed.  “Who is this girl? Why didn’t we know what she could do? How does she do that?”

I’d run, and run, and never get tired. The miles would fly by.  And I’d smile this big, huge crazy grin.

Then I’d wake up.  And lying there in the dark under the covers, I’d remember that feeling of effortlessness. I’d be inspired. “Maybe, one day,” I’d think, before rolling over and going back to bed, hoping the next dream would be just as good, vivid and real.

It’s been almost 23 months since I started Week 1, Day 1 of the Couch to 5K workout and 49 weeks since I ran my first half marathon. In 2012, I logged almost 689 miles on the path, finished 11 races, including four half marathons and a triathlon. (Since I started running, I dropped almost 40 pounds -- and gained roughly 10 back.) By my math, I worked out for well over 130 hours last year and went from being a running participant to a running leader – working out four to five times a week, pacing run-walkers with my training group and mentoring new runners who are trying to cross their own first-time finish line.

My 2012 medals and bibs.

With a turtle pace, my running isn’t effortless like those dreams from so long ago. But in two years, I’ve managed to transform myself from the girl who thought about things, to the girl who does them.

And so, catching up on TV yesterday I was surprised to find myself crying – REALLY crying. At every commercial break, there was another ad highlighting someone else’s weight loss success story. The married couple who’d shed more than 100 pounds on Weight Watchers.  The Medifast woman who has a tearful conversation with her future “leaner, happier” self.  

I was jealous. And defeated. And embarrassed. And frustrated.

I’ve worked so hard in the past two years, and yet here I am – still so far from where I want to be. I’m exercising harder and more frequently than I ever have in my life and the number on the scale isn't moving much at all. (I know, I know – it’s just a number. But when you stand there and stare at it, it sure feels like a measure of your own effort and self worth.) 

With every commercial, I felt more like a failure.  (Note to self: only watch things that have been DVR’d.)

I typed out a few tearful text messages to friends and after a few conversations, I had one of those knock-you-over realizations.

When I was fat and sedentary (instead of slightly less fat and active), I thought the hardest part of losing weight was going to be the exercise. When the thought of running even half a mile is intimidating and beyond your ability, exercise – and committing to make it part of your life – seems impossible.

Grand Rapids Half Marathon

But on a snowy Saturday two years into my journey, still sniffling from my meltdown, I realized that exercise is actually the easy part of the weight loss equation. It’s the food that’s the biggest, baddest mean girl bitch.

My life (and often my social life) now revolves around my training group. Some of my bestest friends in the city are athletic inspirations (ironmen, triathletes, marathoners, cyclocross riders). They encourage me and I support them.  We talk about training schedules, race bucket lists, rough workouts and speed drills. IT’S AWESOME.

(Pro tip, new Sporty Spices: When your community is all about exercise, it makes you want to be all about exercise. Who wants to bail on a workout if it means bailing on your friends? NO ONE, that’s who!)

So with a new year and new goals, I tried to talk me self out of my wallow fest. I decided to treat myself to a new yoga mat I’d been eyeing for months. (Shopping heals, y’all.) And I refocused. I thought about where I was and where I am and then how I’m going to get to where I want to go.  (Preview: it’ll involve a lot more mindfulness about food.)

Triathlon finish!

My word of the year is going to be “push.” Wallowing moments aside, I’m so proud of what I’ve done, but I know I need to push myself to keep going. I’m not where I want to be. and I’m working to be OK with that. Losing weight and changing your life aren’t supposed to be easy.  (Although seriously, you’d think the universe could have made losing weight nearly as easy as putting it on.) My wise BFF, The Modern Gal, points out that when I started this whole process, I would never have called running -- or any exercise -- easy. I've come pretty far to say that. So now it's time to do the same thing with the healthy eating. 

So here’s to another year of trying. And the reassuring fact that those skinny bitches in the TV commercials probably can’t run a half marathon.

So there.

Ennui.

Watch. Laugh. Repeat.

 

I first time I watched poor Henri contemplate his existential angst, I laughed so hard I cried.

My new toy

My birthday present came early today.

No, it's not a pony. (Although that'd be awesome.)
No, it's not a monkey. (Although last year I did research if I could rent one for my 30th birthday. Verdict: They're too expensive.)
And no, it's not (another) puppy. (I promised my mother that four-legged animals wouldn't outnumber the two-legged ones in my house, so I have to get a live-in boyfriend before I can get another canine friend. I expect to be waiting a while.)

So what is this birthday bit of awesomeness?

Behold!

For the record, my birthday is still five weeks away. But the birthday fairy (ie: the parental units), thought it'd be nice to have this fancy-pants gadget when I run the Country Music Half Marathon in holy shit less than three weeks. This means that once I can can figure the damn thing out, I'll be able to use it during my runs this weekend, including my last/further training run of the season on Sunday. (11 miles. Oh, sweet Christ.)

As a run-walker who does 4/2 intervals, I've spent the past year+ using a patchwork of iPhone apps on my runs. One app gives me my intervals, another plays music and then I use Nike+ to track my distances and read me my pace every mile or so. The system has worked OK for now, but it also means I have to carry my phone in my fuel belt, which gets crowded on long runs with the accompanying ShotBloks, chapstick, inhaler, snot sock (in the winter), Body Glide (in the summer), water bottle, and emergency cash I sometimes remember to carry. Once I feel comfortable enough with the gadget, I can swap out the iPhone for my iPod nano and I should (knock on wood) be good to go.

Somebody I used to know

Holy shit, this song is gorgeous. The lyrics almost make me wish I was nursing a break up. (Yes, I typed that.)



Enjoy.

Easter inspiration and an in-process theology

From today's Easter Sunday sermon, which quoted theologian Clarence Jordan:

“The proof that God raised Jesus from the dead is not the empty tomb, but the full hearts of his transformed disciples. The crowning evidence that he lives is not a vacant grave, but a spirit-filled fellowship; not a rolled-away stone, but a carried-away church.”

I'm an ordained deacon at my church, but I'll be the first to tell people that there are days when I'm more agnostic than not. My faith journey is something I usually struggle to articulate -- and I admit I have far more questions than answers about my own beliefs and spirituality. But sometimes there are those great eureka moments where you feel like something you read or hear or think about ... just clicks. I love those moments (fleeting and rare as they are) and I felt fortunate to have one this morning when I listened to Jordan's quote. 

I know there are a lot people who believe that the Bible is inerrant. I respect those who do, but I'm not one of them. I believe the Bible is a living, breathing document and its pages have been compiled, rewritten, debated, translated, mistranslated, retold, argued, compressed, omitted and transcribed. (And that's just part of it.) I believe it's a book of metaphor, poetry, symbolism, tradition, story, history, mystery, frustration, inspiration ... well, you get the point. (I should stop before I sound too much like Rob Bell.)

What I love about this quote is that it shows that it's not really a question about whether you literally believe the Easter story as a verbatim, factual account of a series of events that happened roughly 1,980-something years ago. Instead, Easter is about everything that happened in the days, weeks, months and years after. And it's about everything that's still happening today. 

Believe what you want. Create your own theology. Find your own metaphor in the texts of a pretty magnificent story. See it as allegory, fiction or fact. But as I celebrate Easter, I find it hard to argue that a pretty powerful seed was planted in our history, and it's still bearing fruit today. 

P.S. Fun fact about Jordan... he's considered the spiritual founder of Habitat for Humanity. The more you know.

New header

Apropos of nothing, I decided to play around with a new header for the blog. I'm torn on whether it's perfectly me or perfectly a 15-year-old. There's an above-average chance that it's somehow both. (Reader users, click over to check it out.)

Lost dignity and icy substitutes

Maybe I should own one of these.

So if you've been in whining range of me in the past month or so, you probably know that I'm dealing with a strained muscle on the back of my thigh. And if you've ever visited me anytime, say, ever, you'll know that I'm also one of those people who is unable to keep ice cubes in my freezer.

This confluence of events is what led to me spend some quality time this month sitting on a bag of frozen shrimp fried rice, which I'd arranged so it was pressed oh-so-delicately onto the offending area.

If someone had told me a year ago that running would eventually lead me to spend time -- even briefly -- sitting in my underwear on a bag of frozen food while the dog stares in puzzled judgement, I would have politely declined to sign up for this silly adventure.

But now, it's just part of training. (Loss of dignity is, apparently, also included.)

Of course, while skivvy-sitting atop the improvised ice pack, I couldn't help but be entertained by the various frozen food items (bagged, I swear!) I've retrieved from the freezer in the past year to ice knees, ankles and shins. In fact, if you put together the frozen peas, corn, broccoli florets, shrimp, scallops, fried rice and raspberries it'd would probably make some kind of really good meal.

Maybe I'll eventually invest in an ice pack. Or, you know, remember to make ice.

Did you know...?

That it's PI DAY!? 3.14, baby. (Extra nerd points if you celebrate at 1:59:26.) (Yes. I typed that.)

Pi Day is all sorts of awesomesauce and I plan to celebrate with some some of pi(e) -- probably of the pizza variety.

But heads up BEWARE, people. Tomorrow's Part II of the Noodles Nerdathon. Why? Here's a hint.

My life.

Weird things happen when you live by yourself. I've lived solo since 2002, with the exception a several month period that basically reassured me that should I ever get married, my husband I will each need our own houses.



This was so spot on it, made me basically snort out a kidney. Not featured: having extended monologues with your pet.

Smiles.

'Nuff said.

A new season

I'm a month into a training program for my second half marathon. But before I kicked off the season, I decided to set a few goals for myself. (After all, I am nothing if not Type A.)

Goal No. 1: Get faster. Keep in mind, that faster is relative -- especially when you're a back-of-the-pack run/walker. I finished my first half with an average pace of about 15:45. I was shooting for 15:00, which was what my Nike Plus app was telling me I was doing. Turns out, it was wrong. Very, very wrong. (It also said I ran 14.7 miles, which, P.S. I did not.) Anyway, while I was running through Miami, I kept thinking about how well I must have trained because I wasn't every tired. Mystery = solved. At first I was bummed that I didn't hit my pace goal, but then I realized "OMFG, SELF. YOU JUST RAN A HALF MARATHON. YOUR FIRST! EVER! YOU! THE FORMER FATTY WHO ONCE BECAME A FIELD HOCKEY GOALIE IN HIGH SCHOOL SIMPLY TO AVOID HAVING TO RUN A MILE. AND YOU WERE NOT LAST. AND YOU DID NOT GET KICKED OF THE COURSE. ERGO, YOU ARE 18 KINDS OF BADASS."

This time around, I have the confidence of knowing that I CAN cross that finish line if I put in the training time. And now I want to see what what this (generally busty) body of mine can do. I'd be THRILLED if I could get down to that 15-minute mile pace, if not under it. Most of my long runs so far are in the 14-minute range. (The runs -- RUNS! HA! -- are generally about 12-12:30/mile while the walking portions bring me up to about 14:30.) And I'd be bowled-over happy if I could pull that off in a half marathon setting. That said, I know my next race will be a challenge because it's a hilly course, especially for a Chicago girl who trains on pancake-flat terrain. (For the curious is the County Music Half Marathon in Nashville later next month.)  So we'll see. I'm trying to tell myself that even if my race pace doesn't get much faster, at least my training pace IS.

Goal No. 2. Have fun. God knows I'll never place in a race. I have no expectations of winning my age group. Or even making it across the finish line in time to see the winners get their medals. I'd be shocked shitless if I ever see the day when I maintained a pace in the single-digits per mile. I am a back-of-the-pack Penguin through and through. And that's OK. I'm not doing this to win medals. I'm in this to have fun.

Sure, I know that not every workout will be awesome and every not every run will be invigorating. But at the end of the week, if I'm not having fun then I'm not sure why I'm out there. (Yes, there's health reason, the awesomeness of being outside, the friendships I've formed, and the ability to brag to anyone and everyone that I DID IN FACT DO A TIME TRIAL WHEN IT WAS -7, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.) I cringe at the competitive runner types who beat themselves up for missing a time or falling short of a goal. I want to cross every finish line with a smile on my face. Or at least as many as I can.

I have this great quote by John "The Penguin" Bingham on my desk and I look at it almost every time I'm lacing up my sneakers. If you've been sporty all your life, or are in those first few corrals at a race, or are someone who thinks people aren't real athletes unless they run a certain pace or a certain distance ... you won't get it. But if you're someone like me who's what Bingham calls an "accidental athlete," then maybe it'll make you hold your head a little higher when you're lining up way, way, way, way in the back of the pack at the starting line:

"The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start." 

Amen to that and happy trails.

My race, storified.

More on the race later, but I Storified the whole thing...

See for yourself here. (Spoiler alert: I finished. And felt awesome.)

13.1

It's been nearly a year since I first started running. It hasn't been easy. It hasn't always been fun. But somehow over the hundreds of miles, it's become an undeniable part of me.

I leave on Friday to go to Miami where, God willing, I'll finish my first half marathon. Last February, I couldn't run for more than a minute. This month, I toughed out an 11-miler when it was 9 degrees outside and five days later did sprints when it was a down-right frigid -8. Sunday, winding though the streets of a new and strange city, I hope to cover 13.1 miles before I collapse at the finish.

There's a lot to say about the journey. And a lot of stories to share. (Like the time a well-meaning colleague said I was aiming for distances beyond my ability. Or the first time I got scared about having to run for 20 whole minutes -- an inconceivable amount of time when you've just started. There was my first five miler, which left me so giddy I called my mom from the running path, still panting so much her first question to me was "What's wrong!?" And of course the 15K where I spent MILES dead freakin' last in a field of 20,000+ runners, which also happened to be the time I realize you cannot run and cry at the same time -- especially when police are yelling out you because you're going too slowly. But those are stories for another time.)

For now, as I pack my bags, I want to say this: It wouldn't have been possible without my friends.

From my friend who came over to keep me company during my first Couch to 5K workout ...
To my pals who ran with me in races and stood on the sidelines in freezing, raining and burning hot weather to cheer me on...
To the peeps who've listened to me endlessly prattle on about nothing but ridiculous details ...
To training partners who've become like family ...
And to the people at the table during carboloading dinners...

My friend's 5-year-old sent me this letter for good luck.

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.


I haven't said a lot on this blog lately, because sometimes it's hard to really process how much your life has changed when you're in the eye of the storm. But 30 pounds, three sports bras, two pairs of sneakers and one well-used stick of body glide later, I'm beginning to wrap my head around it.

So there you have it. As they say: Running changes everything.

Say a prayer for me on Sunday.

Love,
Noodles

P.S. If all goes according to plan, I'll be sharing details from the weekend on Twitter and under the #runnoodleesrun hashtag.