The alarm cut through the early morning, surprising me. Most mornings I quietly snapped it off at least 30 minutes before, but today my body was heavy and my mind tangled and full. The quiet click silenced the beeping and my body rolled out of bed. If I let my mind think I would lose the battle and not get up. I didn't want to face the day, the knots ensnaring my brain and bogging down my thoughts had generously shared their tension with the rest of my body. Discipline had to kick in.
The routine of getting ready was helpful, but I still felt detached and heavy. My mind had become so snarled that stress kept racing through, tightening kinks and adding confusion. In this state I was vulnerable and felt it as I laced up my shoes. The cellar door was open and negative comments, that had been buried, wandered up adding fuel to the mess. The snarky comments about my running added pounds to what was already present; it ruins your knees, you have so much more time for something like that because your children are older, I wish I had the kind of time you must have to be able to run, why would you even want to do that. . . Feeling weak, those silly comments swirl around fighting my decision to be up. Discipline prods me forward.
With a quiet word to Jim, I throw on my hat and gloves and am out the door. It is a struggle from the beginning. My legs are lead, my heart is heavy and my mind is an endless mass of confusion. Within the first block the desire to stop is almost overpowering. Tears fight their way to the surface and sit poised on my lashes. I never cry and the depth of this emotion stuns me. My mind is exhausted and prompts internal discussions to turn back. Thankfully the intimacy of the dark gathers me. The solitude speaks quietly to the snarls and the stars wink their understanding. I need this morning's run as much as I need the air to breathe.
A song fills my ears and it seems the music has heard the needs of my heart. I listen and search for my rhythm. It is missing, but I press on, gauging my time by the number of songs that play. My pace seems slower, saddening my heart, but seeming to be consistent with the weight of my mind. I press on. Today my furry little friends seem to know that I need a solitary run and have stayed tucked into their burrows. Finally, the steady beat of my feet on the road begins to eat away at the sadness and worry in my soul. Fluidity graces my rhythm as the tangles and knots, taut with frustration, lack of understanding, pain and fear begin to move. The coils are tight and it is difficult, but I begin to process.
I begin the painstaking process of unraveling, trying to understand or at least accept enough to minimize raw emotion. The internal conversations ride my thoughts, sliding in and through, loosening snarls and untying knots. The weight begins to slide down through my shoulders, gravity pulling, leaving negative energy puddles with each footstrike on the ground. My open conversation continues mile after mile until the worst of the mess has been sorted through. My legs no longer feel encased in lead and my heart is lighter. The chatter has stopped.
Music surges and I move from just listening to the song, to feeling the music. Realizing how active my mind was for the first part of my run, allows me to appreciate the silence. I feel an openness to hear what I need to hear. My body feels better and is releasing the burden that smothered it at the beginning. As if re-awakening I look around, appreciating those as tied to routine as I am at such an early hour. Familiar cars drive by, the steady blink of the traffic lights keep time and each upheaval in the sidewalk reaches up as if grasping for a friend.
The run is helping and I feel lighter heading into the final mile of eight. My legs are stronger, my breathing is even and my emotions are under control. Although problems weren't resolved I am better equipped to manage each situation objectively. I push the final half mile, savoring the rhythm of my shoes on the road, the music dancing through my veins and the heat of my body contrasting the cold of the morning air. The final 400 meters, I dig in, my stride opens up and my arms pump. Any remaining weight falls off, crashing on the street like the boulders off a sheer cliff. I stride over the worry and pain, finishing under glow of the street light.
My breathing calms back to normal and I slowly walk into the house. Checking my stats, my pace was good, as are my mind and body. Nothing was solved, but the stress and worry was released. Today I will work through each problem or situation proactively. Decisions will be made that are not fraught with irrational thoughts and raw emotion.
I feel better. I am better. I am thankful for the quiet, the solitude and the therapy of my run!
Monday, March 28, 2016
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Speed
The first taste came before I began kindergarten; it was a game on the streets in my old neighborhood. We were young and there were four of us; my best friend Kelly, Melanie, Michelle and myself. It began innocently enough, a little bit of taunting and then easily enough I was hooked. Freeze tag introduced me to my first taste of speed. Kelly, the lone boy in our group, would be "It". The streets rang with laughter, squeals and screams as Kelly took off after us, focused on picking us off one by one. I remember the summer heat, wild flowers from the field, the smell of fresh tar on the street, and my pig tails whipping around. Melanie and Michelle were frozen down the street and Kelly started toward me. My sandels slapped on the sidewalk and I could hear Kelly's sneakers coming up behind me. The moment his hand reached toward me, something inside me erupted. It was like a tiny flame had been doused with gasoline, it exploded. My feet flew, Kelly missed and his hand only caught air. I raced down the street, Melanie and Michelle cheering. I unfroze them and we were off again. From that point forward the allure of that feeling would beckon me. I was addicted.
Over the years the addiction of speed would taunt me. I tried to ignore the desire most of the time, but it still pulled at me. I was not considered to be someone with athletic ability. Usually I was the smallest in my class, the runt in my family, and the four-eyed, bookworm, geek devouring books like they were my only source of sustenance. All of that made it difficult to be seen or feel like someone that could run let alone be graced with speed. Regardless, that small flame stayed, ready to re-kindle at a moments notice.
My sophomore year in high school I gave into my addiction. The need for speed moved to the top of my list. At the end of a pre-season volleyball practice the coaches lined us up and pitted the sophomores against the JV and Varsity. Each class chose one person to represent them in a head to head competition of killers. The winner and their team would be finished with practice and running for that day. Suprisingly my team chose me. I lined up against a well-known senior. She was an unbelievable athlete; a volleyball player, basketball player and a star sprinter for the track team. I was nervous until the whistle blew. We took off. We were even for the first couple of lines and then I broke away. Line by line I lengthened my lead, the joy of speed spurring me on. I crossed the final line first, surprising my coaches, the senior and myself just a bit. It was an absolute rush!!
My true love affair with speed and sprints began during high school track. The pure unadulterated joy of muscles bunching, arms pumping, feet flying and breathing in perfect unison hooked me. It was so elemental and sexy. I loved the feel of my body pushing through the pain threshold. It was addicting and exhilirating!!! I pushed my body and loved the way it responded. On the track I loved running against other women and winning, but always stayed focused on being better than I was! Each practice I would push myself to the absolute limit, finishing first on every run. I loved the speed, but my form was a train wreck; elbows out, arms crossing my body, and my core in constant motion. Tirelessly, my coach worked with me giving me relay batons to teach me proper form, focusing on looking ahead, on my toes and finishing strong. As my form got better I got faster and the addiction grew!
Practice was great, but there was an incredible buzz during meets! Each of my races were unique, 100 meter, 200 meter, 400 meter, 4x100 meter relay and the 4x400 meter relay, and each fueled the desire for speed. The weather could be good or bad, it truly didn't matter. On the sunny days, the sun would tickle the back of my neck, fueling my body with Vitamin D. An incredible comradery was formed running against the same women in each meet. Prior to each race we would chat, catching up on life, but with each heat the chatting would get a little more quiet. When it was finally my turn at the line, all other sound and confusion completely disappeared. The only sound was my slight breathing and the starter. The desire and yearning for what happened next was shimmering, waiting for the hit in the next few seconds.
My eyes were trained on the starter waiting for those words, "Runners take your marks." My body was so tuned into this routine I didn't even need to think; the feel of my feet in the uber light spikes, two large frog jumps, shake the legs out, crouch down, left leg stretched back past the block and then settled in, right leg stretched back past the block and then settled in, spikes against the rubber foot plates, one knee up and one knee down, wipe hands on the side of my shorts and then placing my hands perfectly against the white of the starting line, simple joy in the pyramid they formed, head down and then utter silence. "Set." Adrenaline courses through my body the instant the gun goes off. Muscles bunch; shoulders, arms, back, quads, calves, hamstrings and then uncoil, the flame exploded me out of the blocks. Nothing mattered but pure speed, strength and power. Using every ounce of energy the body could provide it was me against me. The draw and passion of the run spurred me forward, teaching me to fly. I would win races or place most of the time, but it was more about the addiction to speed and adrenaline. The focus and feeling of being so powerful, muscles pushing their limits, blood flowing, lungs straining, all in unison for one end result. The finish line was close and one final lean to break the tape. The body goes from pure speed to rest in a split second, but the adenaline of the race and the run feeds the soul.
Now that I am older my addiction for speed has transitioned. The love of the run still courses through my soul, but now my runs are longer and more languid rather than fast and explosive. I never stopped running, but the character of the run has changed. Now I devour the miles, craving the quiet and solitude of solitary runs. Music courses through my veins as my mind adapts to the hours spent unspooling whatever tangles I encounter. I love being competative and constantly strive to improve each race and maybe grace the podium of age group, masters or even overall female winner. In the miles of running, and the days of strength training my body still craves speed.
On a beautiful February morning my need for speed was fed in tantalizing gulps. The 800 meters to the track unspooled my mind and prepared me for the sprints. My body was taut thinking about the joy of the track. Early morning sun kissed the bleachers and my heart surged at the eight perfect lanes in front of me. The air was crisp and the morning sounds filtered through the music in my ears. Pure desire filled my body as I stepped into lane 4, no starting blocks just simply my left toe to the line. The first 100 meters brings such happiness. The thrill of crossing the finish line feeds my soul, even with the only witnesses being a small bunny and a couple of pigeons. The walk back to the starting line calms my breathing while the blood zips through my veins. My muscles feel alive with speed and fluidity! It is like flying. The second 100 meters sees my form focused, elbows tight, core strong, arms moving, hamstrings and quads bunching and pushing. There are no limits, velocity and the finish line in sharp focus. Steps devouring the red track. Each walk back calms my breathing and allows me to appreciate the beauty of the early morning; the color of the sky and clouds skirting across the blue. Cars pass the track, out running early errands and another runner joins me. All of this contributes to the joy I am experiencing. The morning takes me through ladders, an 800 to the track, 3 - 100s, 3 - 200s, 2 - 400s, 2- 200s, 3 - 100s and another 800 home. The feeling of powering the curves, striding the backstretch, and pushing through the final 100 feeds my starving addiction. Power and passion are synonymous with speed.
I am not as fast as I used to be and my body may be more accustomed to miles, but the love affair with speed is always there. The passion to go fast and the personal power that comes from knowing my body remembers and will willingly course down the track in the pursuit of this addiction and the ability to fly.
Over the years the addiction of speed would taunt me. I tried to ignore the desire most of the time, but it still pulled at me. I was not considered to be someone with athletic ability. Usually I was the smallest in my class, the runt in my family, and the four-eyed, bookworm, geek devouring books like they were my only source of sustenance. All of that made it difficult to be seen or feel like someone that could run let alone be graced with speed. Regardless, that small flame stayed, ready to re-kindle at a moments notice.
My sophomore year in high school I gave into my addiction. The need for speed moved to the top of my list. At the end of a pre-season volleyball practice the coaches lined us up and pitted the sophomores against the JV and Varsity. Each class chose one person to represent them in a head to head competition of killers. The winner and their team would be finished with practice and running for that day. Suprisingly my team chose me. I lined up against a well-known senior. She was an unbelievable athlete; a volleyball player, basketball player and a star sprinter for the track team. I was nervous until the whistle blew. We took off. We were even for the first couple of lines and then I broke away. Line by line I lengthened my lead, the joy of speed spurring me on. I crossed the final line first, surprising my coaches, the senior and myself just a bit. It was an absolute rush!!
My true love affair with speed and sprints began during high school track. The pure unadulterated joy of muscles bunching, arms pumping, feet flying and breathing in perfect unison hooked me. It was so elemental and sexy. I loved the feel of my body pushing through the pain threshold. It was addicting and exhilirating!!! I pushed my body and loved the way it responded. On the track I loved running against other women and winning, but always stayed focused on being better than I was! Each practice I would push myself to the absolute limit, finishing first on every run. I loved the speed, but my form was a train wreck; elbows out, arms crossing my body, and my core in constant motion. Tirelessly, my coach worked with me giving me relay batons to teach me proper form, focusing on looking ahead, on my toes and finishing strong. As my form got better I got faster and the addiction grew!
Practice was great, but there was an incredible buzz during meets! Each of my races were unique, 100 meter, 200 meter, 400 meter, 4x100 meter relay and the 4x400 meter relay, and each fueled the desire for speed. The weather could be good or bad, it truly didn't matter. On the sunny days, the sun would tickle the back of my neck, fueling my body with Vitamin D. An incredible comradery was formed running against the same women in each meet. Prior to each race we would chat, catching up on life, but with each heat the chatting would get a little more quiet. When it was finally my turn at the line, all other sound and confusion completely disappeared. The only sound was my slight breathing and the starter. The desire and yearning for what happened next was shimmering, waiting for the hit in the next few seconds.
My eyes were trained on the starter waiting for those words, "Runners take your marks." My body was so tuned into this routine I didn't even need to think; the feel of my feet in the uber light spikes, two large frog jumps, shake the legs out, crouch down, left leg stretched back past the block and then settled in, right leg stretched back past the block and then settled in, spikes against the rubber foot plates, one knee up and one knee down, wipe hands on the side of my shorts and then placing my hands perfectly against the white of the starting line, simple joy in the pyramid they formed, head down and then utter silence. "Set." Adrenaline courses through my body the instant the gun goes off. Muscles bunch; shoulders, arms, back, quads, calves, hamstrings and then uncoil, the flame exploded me out of the blocks. Nothing mattered but pure speed, strength and power. Using every ounce of energy the body could provide it was me against me. The draw and passion of the run spurred me forward, teaching me to fly. I would win races or place most of the time, but it was more about the addiction to speed and adrenaline. The focus and feeling of being so powerful, muscles pushing their limits, blood flowing, lungs straining, all in unison for one end result. The finish line was close and one final lean to break the tape. The body goes from pure speed to rest in a split second, but the adenaline of the race and the run feeds the soul.
Now that I am older my addiction for speed has transitioned. The love of the run still courses through my soul, but now my runs are longer and more languid rather than fast and explosive. I never stopped running, but the character of the run has changed. Now I devour the miles, craving the quiet and solitude of solitary runs. Music courses through my veins as my mind adapts to the hours spent unspooling whatever tangles I encounter. I love being competative and constantly strive to improve each race and maybe grace the podium of age group, masters or even overall female winner. In the miles of running, and the days of strength training my body still craves speed.
On a beautiful February morning my need for speed was fed in tantalizing gulps. The 800 meters to the track unspooled my mind and prepared me for the sprints. My body was taut thinking about the joy of the track. Early morning sun kissed the bleachers and my heart surged at the eight perfect lanes in front of me. The air was crisp and the morning sounds filtered through the music in my ears. Pure desire filled my body as I stepped into lane 4, no starting blocks just simply my left toe to the line. The first 100 meters brings such happiness. The thrill of crossing the finish line feeds my soul, even with the only witnesses being a small bunny and a couple of pigeons. The walk back to the starting line calms my breathing while the blood zips through my veins. My muscles feel alive with speed and fluidity! It is like flying. The second 100 meters sees my form focused, elbows tight, core strong, arms moving, hamstrings and quads bunching and pushing. There are no limits, velocity and the finish line in sharp focus. Steps devouring the red track. Each walk back calms my breathing and allows me to appreciate the beauty of the early morning; the color of the sky and clouds skirting across the blue. Cars pass the track, out running early errands and another runner joins me. All of this contributes to the joy I am experiencing. The morning takes me through ladders, an 800 to the track, 3 - 100s, 3 - 200s, 2 - 400s, 2- 200s, 3 - 100s and another 800 home. The feeling of powering the curves, striding the backstretch, and pushing through the final 100 feeds my starving addiction. Power and passion are synonymous with speed.
I am not as fast as I used to be and my body may be more accustomed to miles, but the love affair with speed is always there. The passion to go fast and the personal power that comes from knowing my body remembers and will willingly course down the track in the pursuit of this addiction and the ability to fly.
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