I have a strange fascination with sled dogs. Well, maybe it's not that strange, but it's a fascination nonetheless. I love to watch them in action, I watched the Iditarod on television, and I've always wanted to stand on the back of a sled and be pulled through the snow at warp speed. The whole sport seems barbaric to me, but I admit, I can't peel my eyes away from it.
So when I sat down to clean out my DVR, which I do about every week upon realizing that I have three months worth of 30 Rock, The Office, Chuck, and Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels that I am never going to have time to watch, I noticed that another of my favorite shows - Dirty Jobs - had an episode where Mike Rowe, beefcake host extraordinaire, takes care of sled dogs.
I didn't delete that one.
And last night, I finally had a chance to watch it. As I sat in amazement and wondered how long I would last in a dog sled race (and as a thin-blooded Southerner, I'm guessing about a nanosecond), I started figuring out what it was about those dogs that I liked. Once they got hooked up to their sled and took off, they were dead-set on their goal. They put their head down, their nose to the grindstone, and they just kept going and going and going and going and going until they were at the end. Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while knows that I appreciate that kind of work ethic.
It's not hard to see how dedicating yourself to a healthier lifestyle can make you feel like a sled dog sometimes. You're not always at the front of the pack, sometimes you've got someone else calling the shots, and once in a while you just have to put your head down and barrel through the tough spots.
This morning as I powered through my hurdle drills and plyometriced my way across the gym parking lot, I thought about another aspect of sled dogs - they're not a specific breed. In other words, they're mutts. They aren't born to power through and win, but rather are trained to. I had caught glimpses over the weekend of television coverage of the Ms. Fitness USA pageant and some SEC NCAA Track and Field competitions, both of which reminded me that I am not 18 anymore. And even when I was 18, I wasn't able to do that stuff. I did my squat jumps and compared myself to an old mutt learning new tricks.
And then later in the gym I channeled the mentality of a sled dog when Captain Awesome tasked me with our usual Friday circuit with a twist - my goal was to lap my training partner, and her goal was to keep me from lapping her. I thought about those sled dogs and mimicked their work - head down and barreling through to the end. I did lap her (sorry, Tracy!) and thanked my virtual sled dogs for the tip.
There are parts of any fitness journey that are tougher than others, and we all have to just deal with that and let it go. The next time you're in that spot, channel the sled dog mentality and see if you don't end up at the front of the pack.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Wiggle Room
Running in the morning can be exhilarating. The cool air, the quiet streets, the isolation and alone time with your thoughts...it can truly be poetic. When the weather is especially good, running in the mornings can turn cranky pants inside out, make a Monday feel like the best day ever, and put a spring in your step all day long.
This was not that kind of morning.
I had a difficult run today. Since being chastised for running alone in the dark, I've stayed indoors for my early cardio and saving running for lunchtime, after I've had a chance to limber up and get that powerful combination carbs and coffee flowing through my veins. But this morning as I wrapped up my resistance training and headed for the elliptical, I bypassed it and went outside instead. I almost got in my car and went home, and then something pulled me towards the street. I stood there for a second, debating. But inevitably I snapped on my headphones, turned on the Violent Femmes, looked both ways, and took those first steps onto the pavement.
I went about two blocks before it started to suck. My legs were cramping up and my feet felt like bricks. And, it was raining. Just a little, but I usually like running in the rain.
I stopped and stretched, then started back running. Again my legs seized up and my shins caught fire. I flashed back to running with my dad as a kid and him telling me, "sometimes you just have to run through the pain." So I ran through the pain. Or rather, I plodded through the pain. This was not the exhilarating jaunt through the cool morning air that I was used to. I was puzzled. I had been tricked. I stopped and looked at my feet expectantly. What was wrong with them? Did they not get the memo on the "one in front of the other" routine? I shook them out and started, for the third time, down the sidewalk. This was getting personal.
Three blocks later, I started walking. Run a few steps, walk. Run a few steps, walk. I stopped and shook my feet again. They felt weird. I sat down on the wet sidewalk and untied my shoes. Feeling blood return to my limbs, I had to laugh. The irony of not being able to run because my shoes were tied too tight was too much to ignore. I retied my laces, a little more loosely this time, and started down the sidewalk for a final attempt. This time, with a little more wiggle room, I sailed down the sidewalk and over puddles, stretching my stride and pulling myself up the hills. And by the time I returned to my car 30 minutes later, soaked and tired and worn out, I had stopped trying to count the parallels of my too-tight shoes to my too-tight life.
Without some wiggle room, it's hard to get any momentum. The next couple of weeks will be challenging for me to get in the amount of gym time I like. Between work travel, lunchtime obligations, and generally having to be a responsible adult (grrrrr), I will be lucky to get one good workout a day. But, I'm going to try and take it in stride. I think I got my first preview of what will happen if I don't.
This was not that kind of morning.
I had a difficult run today. Since being chastised for running alone in the dark, I've stayed indoors for my early cardio and saving running for lunchtime, after I've had a chance to limber up and get that powerful combination carbs and coffee flowing through my veins. But this morning as I wrapped up my resistance training and headed for the elliptical, I bypassed it and went outside instead. I almost got in my car and went home, and then something pulled me towards the street. I stood there for a second, debating. But inevitably I snapped on my headphones, turned on the Violent Femmes, looked both ways, and took those first steps onto the pavement.
I went about two blocks before it started to suck. My legs were cramping up and my feet felt like bricks. And, it was raining. Just a little, but I usually like running in the rain.
I stopped and stretched, then started back running. Again my legs seized up and my shins caught fire. I flashed back to running with my dad as a kid and him telling me, "sometimes you just have to run through the pain." So I ran through the pain. Or rather, I plodded through the pain. This was not the exhilarating jaunt through the cool morning air that I was used to. I was puzzled. I had been tricked. I stopped and looked at my feet expectantly. What was wrong with them? Did they not get the memo on the "one in front of the other" routine? I shook them out and started, for the third time, down the sidewalk. This was getting personal.
Three blocks later, I started walking. Run a few steps, walk. Run a few steps, walk. I stopped and shook my feet again. They felt weird. I sat down on the wet sidewalk and untied my shoes. Feeling blood return to my limbs, I had to laugh. The irony of not being able to run because my shoes were tied too tight was too much to ignore. I retied my laces, a little more loosely this time, and started down the sidewalk for a final attempt. This time, with a little more wiggle room, I sailed down the sidewalk and over puddles, stretching my stride and pulling myself up the hills. And by the time I returned to my car 30 minutes later, soaked and tired and worn out, I had stopped trying to count the parallels of my too-tight shoes to my too-tight life.
Without some wiggle room, it's hard to get any momentum. The next couple of weeks will be challenging for me to get in the amount of gym time I like. Between work travel, lunchtime obligations, and generally having to be a responsible adult (grrrrr), I will be lucky to get one good workout a day. But, I'm going to try and take it in stride. I think I got my first preview of what will happen if I don't.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Mind Over Matter. And Feet.
I've done it! Ladies and gentlemen, I have emerged from my funky, negative, and otherwise cranky mood of the past, oh I don't know, FOREVER. I don't know what did it, I don't know why, and I don't really care. It just feels great to be back among the living again.
I'm back to feeling invincible, back to feeling optimistic, and back to feeling like I've got the wind at my back. Which, incidentally, would be a great advantage these days with all of the time I've been spending on the treadmill.
Now that I think about it, I do know the cause of my funk - getting up every day to do something at which I consistently fail (re: hurdles) was starting to wear on me. So, while I didn't want to stop my drills and training, I decided to also train on something I am relatively good at: running. Running is my fall-back plan. It's pretty easy, just one foot in front of the other over and over and over. It doesn't require any fancy equipment, just some carbs to get me going. And then there are the endorphins. Oh, those sweet, sweet endorphins. Let's just all have a moment of appreciation for endorphins, shall we?
Anyway, as I was saying - I decided to start back running to distract myself from my miserable hurdle work. But I wasn't happy with just plain old running. I felt challenged to increase my speed, inspired by a gym buddy who was working on an 8-minute mile. I was in awe. I am not a fast runner, but steady at a little over 9 minutes per mile. But as Jenny wiped sweat from her brow and told me it was just mind over matter, I decided to give it a shot.
To be honest, I didn't think I could do it. I mean, I knew I could, but I didn't think I would. But that day at lunchtime I started out running at my usual speed, and increased it every minute until I was at an 8 min/mile pace. Then, I tried to think about anything other than my feet pounding on the treadmill, my chest burning, my legs begging for mercy, and my mouth suddenly parched for water. I focused intently on the latest college basketball report on SportsCenter as if my life depended on it, glancing down at the treadmill periodically to see how much longer I had to go. And, eight minutes later, I was done. I slowed to my normal pace and tried not to throw up.
I had done it. I felt pretty darn pleased with myself.
The next week, I decided to go for 1.25 miles. "Mind over matter," I kept telling myself when my feet threatened to quit. And I did it. I felt pretty darn pleased with myself.
The third week, I added on another quarter mile. 1.5 miles at 8 min/mile was tough, but also easy. Once I got over the mental block, it was just like regular running. Just one foot in front of the other, over and over and over. I wondered if I could do 1.75 miles.
I could. The following week, I climbed on my trusty treadmill and cranked it up. This time, instead of thinking about my feet pounding on the treadmill, my chest burning, my legs begging for mercy, and my mouth suddenly parched for water, I imagined my feet crumbling the pavement behind me, my chest taking in oxygen and delivering it to my muscles, and my legs flexing and contracting to propel my body forward. My mouth was still parched for water, but that was okay. I was too exhausted to care.
That Saturday I was meeting some friends to run in a 5k. As we stretched and discussed our personal goals for finishing times, I aimed for a time of 28 minutes, an average of about 9 minutes per mile. I knew I had increased my speed but also knew that the course was hilly, part of it was a trail, and I was used to running on a flat treadmill in the air conditioning. Regardless, when I reached the finish line and saw the clock, I thought there must have been a mistake. Not only had I beaten my goal, I had taken 1:17 off of my best time.
I finally felt alive again.
I'm still not a fast runner; there are plenty of people who run faster than I do every single day, people for whom an 8 minute mile is a rest day. But I'm faster than I used to be, thanks to Jenny and her reminder that fitness is often a simple equation of mind over matter.
This morning I got back to work on the hurdles. I enjoyed the workout a lot more after seeing the almost instantaneous results of my endurance training. Hard work and perseverance pays off, and eventually my hurdle training will, too. But until then, I always have my 8 minute mile.
And yeah, this week I'm going for 2.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Working the Negative
Today at the gym was all about working the negative. It was chest, biceps, and shoulders day and as a result, my eyeliner is a little wobbly. Ahhh....you know it was a good workout when you have not yet regained total use of your arms by the time you have to leave for work.
But before I did my first BOSU ball push-up, I had already spent a full 60 minutes working the psychological negative. After a weekend of nutritional choices that were, hmmmm, less than ideal, and facing a week dotted with lunchtime obligations that would keep me from my running game, I couldn't wait to hit the gym and work my cares away. I needed a good sweat, some warm worn-out muscles, and a swift kick in the pants to snap out of the negative zone I had been in for the past three days.
Unfortunately, the negative stayed with me for my hurdle training. I got to the gym early and set up in the parking lot, grumbling about how it could already be 73 degrees and 250% humidity at 4:30 in the morning. As I set up my hurdle and started on my drills under the curious eyes of other early-morning exercisers jogging past, the little voice in my head asked who I was kidding. My high-knees were pathetic. My trail leg drill was amateurish. I watched my reflection in the gym's dark window and wondered if I would ever become good at this. And I did 15 more.
The negative nagged at me during my first round of cardio, too. Doing bike intervals is usually a fun, high-energy way to start the day. But this morning, all I could think about was how my quads looked a lot more defined last week than today. I knew I needed to get positive soon, so I bumped up the resistance and pedaled harder.
Finally climbing off the bike to hit the weights, Captain Awesome set up a little circuit and informed me that we would be working the negative. "Whatever," I thought. "Like it will make a difference." I grimaced at myself. Was this really me? Why couldn't I snap out of it?
I finally felt the stress and negativity start to melt away as I concentrated on slowing down the negative effort of each exercise, really focusing on the movement and resistance of the weight. As I dedicated my attention to visualizing my muscles at work, I began to feel more like myself. And finally, when Awesome and I high-fived and congratulated each other on our hard work, I was awake.
I went in for my second round of cardio with somewhat renewed vigor. I was still angry at myself for losing focus over the weekend, but somewhere between doing karaokes in the parking lot and incline hammer curls in the weight room, I had made amends. I realized that working the negative was going to have to be part of the rest of my day. Meaning, that I was going to have to find a way to make the negative energy that is inevitable in life work for me. By harnessing the frustration I have in a goal not met and using it instead as energy to try "try again," I can more easily forgive, forget, and ultimately get over myself and move on.
Get over myself and move on. Now that's what I call resistance training. :)
But before I did my first BOSU ball push-up, I had already spent a full 60 minutes working the psychological negative. After a weekend of nutritional choices that were, hmmmm, less than ideal, and facing a week dotted with lunchtime obligations that would keep me from my running game, I couldn't wait to hit the gym and work my cares away. I needed a good sweat, some warm worn-out muscles, and a swift kick in the pants to snap out of the negative zone I had been in for the past three days.
Unfortunately, the negative stayed with me for my hurdle training. I got to the gym early and set up in the parking lot, grumbling about how it could already be 73 degrees and 250% humidity at 4:30 in the morning. As I set up my hurdle and started on my drills under the curious eyes of other early-morning exercisers jogging past, the little voice in my head asked who I was kidding. My high-knees were pathetic. My trail leg drill was amateurish. I watched my reflection in the gym's dark window and wondered if I would ever become good at this. And I did 15 more.
The negative nagged at me during my first round of cardio, too. Doing bike intervals is usually a fun, high-energy way to start the day. But this morning, all I could think about was how my quads looked a lot more defined last week than today. I knew I needed to get positive soon, so I bumped up the resistance and pedaled harder.
Finally climbing off the bike to hit the weights, Captain Awesome set up a little circuit and informed me that we would be working the negative. "Whatever," I thought. "Like it will make a difference." I grimaced at myself. Was this really me? Why couldn't I snap out of it?
I finally felt the stress and negativity start to melt away as I concentrated on slowing down the negative effort of each exercise, really focusing on the movement and resistance of the weight. As I dedicated my attention to visualizing my muscles at work, I began to feel more like myself. And finally, when Awesome and I high-fived and congratulated each other on our hard work, I was awake.
I went in for my second round of cardio with somewhat renewed vigor. I was still angry at myself for losing focus over the weekend, but somewhere between doing karaokes in the parking lot and incline hammer curls in the weight room, I had made amends. I realized that working the negative was going to have to be part of the rest of my day. Meaning, that I was going to have to find a way to make the negative energy that is inevitable in life work for me. By harnessing the frustration I have in a goal not met and using it instead as energy to try "try again," I can more easily forgive, forget, and ultimately get over myself and move on.
Get over myself and move on. Now that's what I call resistance training. :)
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Hurdler Wannabe
So remember back in March when I went to the Al Rosen Tri-Fitness Camp and got my butt kicked by a bunch of track and field hurdles? Yeah, that was awesome. Well, about six weeks had gone by and I just couldn't get it out of my head how:
a) I really need to practice so I do a better job next time,
b) I really need to practice so I do a better job next time, and
c) I really need to practice so I do a better job next time.
So, since the bruises on my legs had finally gone away, I decided it was time to add some more. I put together my PVC hurdles (thanks to Al for the instructions on making my own) and headed to a park near my house to run the gauntlet.
I'd been putting this off for a while, kind of due to time restraints and kind of due to fear restraints. I mean, running at full speed only to trip over a hurdle and fall onto the ground is painful. Unfortunately, the pain of doing so in front of a crowd is even greater, so there was no other choice. There was a slight chance that my comedy of errors would be seen by a group of high school boys playing Frisbee, but I was willing to risk it. I figured their mockery would be easier to take than that of the little kids on the playground, because I hoped that by this age their mothers had taught them not to gawk at the disabled.
Luckily, the park was empty. I found a secluded spot, set up my hurdle, walked back about 30 feet, and stared at it.
It stared back at me menacingly.
I gulped and reminded myself that I had done this before. Technically, I had successfully jumped over a few of the hurdles. Although, at this point I suspected that I had misread Al's measurements and made my hurdle about three times too high.
I took off running, approached the hurdle, and crashed into it. Not pretty. I was glad the Frisbee players were not there.
I set it back up, walked back to the starting point, and ran towards it again. This time I stopped right before and didn't even attempt to jump. This sucked.
It went on like that for about 30 minutes. I would either knock it over, skid to a stop right before it, or simply run around it. I knew there had to be a better way to do this, and preferably one less emotionally painful. I packed up.
Back at home, I sat down at my computer and googled, "How to Jump Hurdles." I first came upon this video of people at some gym somewhere who can jump really high. It was impressive, but since they were really more showing off than teaching me anything I didn't already know (meaning, that they are better at jumping than I am), I moved on. I next landed at www.ehow.com, a website that promised to show me "how to do just about anything," including this video on how to potty train a bunny. I bookmarked that for later and instead clicked on a video advertising basic tips for great hurdling. A long, lanky, and enthusiastic young college student greeted me. She looked like she had jumped her first hurdle about two days after she was born, rather than starting at 32 years old with no sports training whatsoever. I hoped she understood that we might have slightly different definitions of the word, "great."
The first lesson was one of hurdle-jumping fashion, which I wasn't expecting. I kind of just wanted to know how to jump hurdles. It was then that I realized this was just one of a series of videos, which proved to actually be a great resource. As I watched the videos and learned about different warm ups and drills, I realized that this girl was going to be my savior. I wrote down a workout to do each morning, and realized that before I could jump the hurdle, I had to work on the basics. Since it looked a lot easier and even like fun, I was totally cool with that.
Now, with my workout in hand, I am ready to start learning. Hey, I might be 32 years old, clumsy, and a little late to the world of sports training, but I don't think I've yet crashed into my last hurdle.
a) I really need to practice so I do a better job next time,
b) I really need to practice so I do a better job next time, and
c) I really need to practice so I do a better job next time.
So, since the bruises on my legs had finally gone away, I decided it was time to add some more. I put together my PVC hurdles (thanks to Al for the instructions on making my own) and headed to a park near my house to run the gauntlet.
I'd been putting this off for a while, kind of due to time restraints and kind of due to fear restraints. I mean, running at full speed only to trip over a hurdle and fall onto the ground is painful. Unfortunately, the pain of doing so in front of a crowd is even greater, so there was no other choice. There was a slight chance that my comedy of errors would be seen by a group of high school boys playing Frisbee, but I was willing to risk it. I figured their mockery would be easier to take than that of the little kids on the playground, because I hoped that by this age their mothers had taught them not to gawk at the disabled.
Luckily, the park was empty. I found a secluded spot, set up my hurdle, walked back about 30 feet, and stared at it.
It stared back at me menacingly.
I gulped and reminded myself that I had done this before. Technically, I had successfully jumped over a few of the hurdles. Although, at this point I suspected that I had misread Al's measurements and made my hurdle about three times too high.
I took off running, approached the hurdle, and crashed into it. Not pretty. I was glad the Frisbee players were not there.
I set it back up, walked back to the starting point, and ran towards it again. This time I stopped right before and didn't even attempt to jump. This sucked.
It went on like that for about 30 minutes. I would either knock it over, skid to a stop right before it, or simply run around it. I knew there had to be a better way to do this, and preferably one less emotionally painful. I packed up.
Back at home, I sat down at my computer and googled, "How to Jump Hurdles." I first came upon this video of people at some gym somewhere who can jump really high. It was impressive, but since they were really more showing off than teaching me anything I didn't already know (meaning, that they are better at jumping than I am), I moved on. I next landed at www.ehow.com, a website that promised to show me "how to do just about anything," including this video on how to potty train a bunny. I bookmarked that for later and instead clicked on a video advertising basic tips for great hurdling. A long, lanky, and enthusiastic young college student greeted me. She looked like she had jumped her first hurdle about two days after she was born, rather than starting at 32 years old with no sports training whatsoever. I hoped she understood that we might have slightly different definitions of the word, "great."
The first lesson was one of hurdle-jumping fashion, which I wasn't expecting. I kind of just wanted to know how to jump hurdles. It was then that I realized this was just one of a series of videos, which proved to actually be a great resource. As I watched the videos and learned about different warm ups and drills, I realized that this girl was going to be my savior. I wrote down a workout to do each morning, and realized that before I could jump the hurdle, I had to work on the basics. Since it looked a lot easier and even like fun, I was totally cool with that.
Now, with my workout in hand, I am ready to start learning. Hey, I might be 32 years old, clumsy, and a little late to the world of sports training, but I don't think I've yet crashed into my last hurdle.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Missing: One Mojo. Reward: A Mumbled Apology
Have you seen my mojo?
I just had it, but now it's gone. I've retraced my steps, jingled my keys in hopes that it would come scurrying out from under the couch, and even called it from my cell phone to see if it would ring or vibrate or play "Yankee Doodle Dandy," or do something to reveal its hiding place.
Work meetings, volunteer obligations, and other real-life stuff kept me from my lunch workouts most of last week, complicating my search and convincing me that I was wasting valuable training time as I smiled and nodded and acted like a grown-up instead of throwing myself on the floor and pitching a fit about not getting to work out like I really wanted to.
Mid-week, I found some of it next to the treadmill, and a little bit more under my Pilates mat. But I still had this aching, nagging, unfulfilled hole in my psyche that was more than a little pouty when I sent a sideways glance to my lonely gym bag in my office, knowing it would be at least another couple of days before we could head out together and really reconnect. The fact that I couldn't even muster up enough energy to care was proof that my mojo levels were low and falling by the day.
I went through the motions in my morning workouts, dutifully doing my cardio and trying to be enthusiastic about beating my own personal record in barbell squats. But I wasn't into it. I searched the dryer to see if my mojo had gotten statically connected to something. I started to wonder if it had fallen into whatever black hole sucks up random socks.
On Friday I went to the doctor. She listened to my heart, looked in my ears, and tapped on my knees and ankles. She wrote something on her clip board, probably a grocery list or something, and looked up at me. "Classic case of a mojo deficiency," she said with finality. I'm serious. That actually happened. Okay, it didn't. But I was low in Vitamin D, which has been scientifically linked to mojo. Okay, that's not true either.
As I drove home I wondered if maybe instead of looking for my mojo, I should try figuring out why it left. If I fixed that problem, maybe it would show up under my bedroom window with a boom box over its head, silently begging me to take it back, which would be pretty impressive seeing that I live in a one-story house.
Over the weekend, I got a lead that my mojo was off having a pity party, complaining about busting its ass every day and never getting any respect. I peeked my head in and caught the tail end of my mojo venting about about how it gives and gives and gives and what does it get in return? And then I understood: there's been a little too much drill sergeant and not enough camp counselor in my workouts these days. I've been so focused on getting all of my training in that I forgot to smile at myself and enjoy the process.
So this morning I went running in the chilly air and just let the endorphins wash over me. I didn't pay attention to my time, and I didn't check my heart rate. I just ran. In the weight room, I slowed down and really felt my muscles respond to the resistance and push through to become stronger. And as I left and bid everyone a good day, I think I caught a glimpse of my mojo following behind me.
I'm glad we're back together, my mojo and me. I just hope it doesn't hang this over my head for too long; we have work to do.
I just had it, but now it's gone. I've retraced my steps, jingled my keys in hopes that it would come scurrying out from under the couch, and even called it from my cell phone to see if it would ring or vibrate or play "Yankee Doodle Dandy," or do something to reveal its hiding place.
Work meetings, volunteer obligations, and other real-life stuff kept me from my lunch workouts most of last week, complicating my search and convincing me that I was wasting valuable training time as I smiled and nodded and acted like a grown-up instead of throwing myself on the floor and pitching a fit about not getting to work out like I really wanted to.
Mid-week, I found some of it next to the treadmill, and a little bit more under my Pilates mat. But I still had this aching, nagging, unfulfilled hole in my psyche that was more than a little pouty when I sent a sideways glance to my lonely gym bag in my office, knowing it would be at least another couple of days before we could head out together and really reconnect. The fact that I couldn't even muster up enough energy to care was proof that my mojo levels were low and falling by the day.
I went through the motions in my morning workouts, dutifully doing my cardio and trying to be enthusiastic about beating my own personal record in barbell squats. But I wasn't into it. I searched the dryer to see if my mojo had gotten statically connected to something. I started to wonder if it had fallen into whatever black hole sucks up random socks.
On Friday I went to the doctor. She listened to my heart, looked in my ears, and tapped on my knees and ankles. She wrote something on her clip board, probably a grocery list or something, and looked up at me. "Classic case of a mojo deficiency," she said with finality. I'm serious. That actually happened. Okay, it didn't. But I was low in Vitamin D, which has been scientifically linked to mojo. Okay, that's not true either.
As I drove home I wondered if maybe instead of looking for my mojo, I should try figuring out why it left. If I fixed that problem, maybe it would show up under my bedroom window with a boom box over its head, silently begging me to take it back, which would be pretty impressive seeing that I live in a one-story house.
Over the weekend, I got a lead that my mojo was off having a pity party, complaining about busting its ass every day and never getting any respect. I peeked my head in and caught the tail end of my mojo venting about about how it gives and gives and gives and what does it get in return? And then I understood: there's been a little too much drill sergeant and not enough camp counselor in my workouts these days. I've been so focused on getting all of my training in that I forgot to smile at myself and enjoy the process.
So this morning I went running in the chilly air and just let the endorphins wash over me. I didn't pay attention to my time, and I didn't check my heart rate. I just ran. In the weight room, I slowed down and really felt my muscles respond to the resistance and push through to become stronger. And as I left and bid everyone a good day, I think I caught a glimpse of my mojo following behind me.
I'm glad we're back together, my mojo and me. I just hope it doesn't hang this over my head for too long; we have work to do.
Monday, April 13, 2009
I Got Nothing
The past couple of weeks have been great for my training. I've been getting a lot of good cardio, changing things up in the gym, and finding time to squeeze in a little more time to work out each day. I know that I have a limited amount of time to prepare for the obstacle course in November, and have been walking that fine line between doing just enough and wearing myself out. And so far I am keeping my New Years resolution to pay more attention to when I need to rest!
So I felt really proud of myself when, on Friday morning, I decided to listen to my body and not do any extra cardio. I've been in the habit of running about 3 miles after my weights in the nice cool weather. But on Friday, after a few steps, I just wasn't into it. I went home and promised myself I would make it up at lunch.
But by lunchtime, a list of things to get done before leaving for a weekend away had grown as long as my arm, and cardio unfortunately was not on it. I didn't worry about it, because I knew I would get some early-morning miles in while staying at my sister's house. I confidently packed my sneakers in my suitcase and looked forward to a new running route.
Riiiiight.
Over the weekend I traveled home to New Orleans, a place where I am repeatedly reminded of how insanely hard it is to be healthy in a culture based on indulgence, decadence, and, well, the worship of unhealthy food. The whole personality of New Orleans is laissez les bon temps rouler, which is... kind of the opposite of me. But we do our best.
My first priority upon waking up on Saturday was to go for a run. I had mapped out the streets of my sister's neighborhood in my head and couldn't wait for some "me time." But, fate conspired against me. Instead, I watched the finish line of the Crescent City Classic, a 10k race that happens annually through the Garden District and City Park of New Orleans. The morning news was covering the finish of the race, and it was fun to see the New Orleans characters running in costume and having a ball like always. Where else will you read about runners who split into teams and see who can first cross the finish line with an empty keg? Although I did feel bad for the poor girl who happened to be finishing the race just as a local newsman began his coverage, and ended up being front and center on live television when she lost her lunch 3 feet from him.
And it made me want to go running.
Then my brother showed up, looking taller than I remembered and about 30 lbs lighter. "I've been running about 5 miles a day and doing a lot of weights," he told me when interrogated on the absence of his beer belly. Seems the single life is agreeing with him.
I wanted to go running.
The rest of the weekend proceeded pretty much the same way. I stayed busy, but never really took my eyes off of a chance to skip out and help myself to some of the free endorphins that were just laying around all over the street for anyone to take. But Saturday came and went and I never did get my run.
On Sunday, I had plans to get up early and hit the pavement before anyone woke up. But unfortunately, I didn't wake up either. At least, not until I realized that my son was awake and the Easter Bunny had not yet hopped through the living room. So alas, my running shoes stayed in the suitcase wondering why I bothered to bring them on this trip if I wasn't going to let them have any fun.
I arrived back home resigned to a lesson that I know everyone will groan at - NEVER SKIP YOUR CARDIO THINKING YOU WILL MAKE IT UP LATER! :) Yeah, I know I was right to rest when I wasn't feeling up to a workout, and most of me doesn't regret it. But, I have to admit that a little voice in my head keeps reminding me that I should have done it while I had the chance. Oh, well.
This morning was a cardio feast, and I got seconds and thirds. The rest of the week promises more of the same, and I am looking forward to building up a nice little stockpile of treadmill time just in case life interrupts me again.
Which means I better wrap this up and hit the pavement. Have a great week!
So I felt really proud of myself when, on Friday morning, I decided to listen to my body and not do any extra cardio. I've been in the habit of running about 3 miles after my weights in the nice cool weather. But on Friday, after a few steps, I just wasn't into it. I went home and promised myself I would make it up at lunch.
But by lunchtime, a list of things to get done before leaving for a weekend away had grown as long as my arm, and cardio unfortunately was not on it. I didn't worry about it, because I knew I would get some early-morning miles in while staying at my sister's house. I confidently packed my sneakers in my suitcase and looked forward to a new running route.
Riiiiight.
Over the weekend I traveled home to New Orleans, a place where I am repeatedly reminded of how insanely hard it is to be healthy in a culture based on indulgence, decadence, and, well, the worship of unhealthy food. The whole personality of New Orleans is laissez les bon temps rouler, which is... kind of the opposite of me. But we do our best.
My first priority upon waking up on Saturday was to go for a run. I had mapped out the streets of my sister's neighborhood in my head and couldn't wait for some "me time." But, fate conspired against me. Instead, I watched the finish line of the Crescent City Classic, a 10k race that happens annually through the Garden District and City Park of New Orleans. The morning news was covering the finish of the race, and it was fun to see the New Orleans characters running in costume and having a ball like always. Where else will you read about runners who split into teams and see who can first cross the finish line with an empty keg? Although I did feel bad for the poor girl who happened to be finishing the race just as a local newsman began his coverage, and ended up being front and center on live television when she lost her lunch 3 feet from him.
And it made me want to go running.
Then my brother showed up, looking taller than I remembered and about 30 lbs lighter. "I've been running about 5 miles a day and doing a lot of weights," he told me when interrogated on the absence of his beer belly. Seems the single life is agreeing with him.
I wanted to go running.
The rest of the weekend proceeded pretty much the same way. I stayed busy, but never really took my eyes off of a chance to skip out and help myself to some of the free endorphins that were just laying around all over the street for anyone to take. But Saturday came and went and I never did get my run.
On Sunday, I had plans to get up early and hit the pavement before anyone woke up. But unfortunately, I didn't wake up either. At least, not until I realized that my son was awake and the Easter Bunny had not yet hopped through the living room. So alas, my running shoes stayed in the suitcase wondering why I bothered to bring them on this trip if I wasn't going to let them have any fun.
I arrived back home resigned to a lesson that I know everyone will groan at - NEVER SKIP YOUR CARDIO THINKING YOU WILL MAKE IT UP LATER! :) Yeah, I know I was right to rest when I wasn't feeling up to a workout, and most of me doesn't regret it. But, I have to admit that a little voice in my head keeps reminding me that I should have done it while I had the chance. Oh, well.
This morning was a cardio feast, and I got seconds and thirds. The rest of the week promises more of the same, and I am looking forward to building up a nice little stockpile of treadmill time just in case life interrupts me again.
Which means I better wrap this up and hit the pavement. Have a great week!
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