August 25, 2011

Witness

There’s a horrible man that lives in my town.

I never saw him until today.

He wore a pink golf shirt and khaki colored shorts with sandals.  His white hair was cropped close and his tanned skin showed his age to be in the mid-60’s.  His strong body was filled with determination as he pushed a dolly that was loaded with a crate wrapped in black trash bags.

There’s a horrible man that lives in my town.

He walked fast; his stride was purposeful and his clear eyes met mine.  I smiled in greeting and said Hello as my dogs casually sniffed the tall grasses that lined the bike path.  His mouth turned up at the corners but the lines around his eyes never shifted as he strode past.

The smell of skunk wafted to my nostrils as he got further and further away.  It was sweet and garlicky, pungent and overwhelming.  A skunk was in the cage and he was taking it to open space to release it away from the houses that lined the greenbelt near the pond around which I was walking.

There’s a horrible man that lives in my town.

My dogs were not in a hurry to finish their walk on this warm morning; I waited while they sniffed the luscious scents that only canines can truly enjoy.  My eyes followed the man who walked with such purpose.

He left the bike path and instead of walking to the open space he headed toward the dock of the pond.  The water is covered with algae at this time of year.  No kids fished from the railing; they’re all in school these days.

He lifted the cage from the dolly, removed one of the plastic bags that covered the lower half of the cage and in a fluid motion, lowered the cage into the water while holding on to the long wire attached to the end.

The remaining plastic bag ballooned as water entered it, and the cage settled just below the surface.

There’s a horrible man that lives in my town.

I left the path without doing a single thing to save the innocent creature that died today.  I didn’t have a phone to call Animal Control.  I didn’t have voice to call out.  No one else witnessed the drowning death.

I was frightened.  A person that drowns an animal is not reasonable.  Pleas for the skunk’s release would fall on deaf ears, if I were even in time to get the cage out of the water.  The skunk’s fate was sealed as soon as it was in that cage.

I kept myself safe from certain verbal abuse and quickly walked home.  Inside the safety of my house I locked the door and cried.

There’s a horrible man that lives in my town.

 

Filed Under: Summer 2011 Tagged: ,
August 17, 2011

Fighting

As an athlete I’ve fought to run through all sorts of weather; snow, rain, freezing air that hits my lungs like a thousand pinpricks, deflating the very tissue that sustains my life.  I’ve fought my own limitations, injuries, sleep, rest, hydration and food.  I’ve fought for time and space to pursue my activities.  I’m a fighter.

I fought for my marriage, though I ultimately lost.  I continue to fight for authenticity and honesty in self and relationships that are important.  I fight loneliness and uncertainty.  I move constantly and my body and soul have battle scars.

Today I fought for motion.  The training plan hanging on my fridge told me to put in 8 miles, but there were no other instructions.  When the sweat started to bead on my face after a mile I decided that I was properly warmed up and thought about what would “feel good” today… since it was my run, training and body, I would go by feel.  Two miles at a fast pace in the middle of the run fit the bill; yesterday was a good tempo run, and today would be a recovery run with just a hint of speed.  Perfect.

My glutes and IT bands were a little tight; they’re starting to respond to the increase in miles and hills.  My foam roller lives on the living room floor and I cozy up to it a few times a day.  But this morning was all about getting blood flow to muscles that were still warm and stiff from bed.

Coal Creek Trail was lively.  Runners of all shapes and sizes were out at 6:30am enjoying the coolness of the morning. Seemed like we all had the same idea of hitting the trail before the heat of the day blazed down.  I finished the second mile as I hit the hill coming out from the underpass that typically floods during monsoon season, and breathed out as my achy right glute protested the effort.  Too bad, muscle.  Keep up.

I dropped about 10 seconds from my warm-up pace during mile 2, and held steady through mile 3.  I wasn’t trying to “win”… just holding steady.  The low music in my ears was background noise for the various “hello’s” from the dog-walkers that hugged the right side of the crushed-gravel trail.   Listening for the beep of my Garmin that would signal Mile 4, I held onto cruising speed and waited for the Go.

With the tinny signal of the watch my leg turnover increased.  This would be the last mile of the “out” part of the out-and-back and I opened up the hip flexors, dropped my shoulders and luxuriated in the pounding of my feet on the earth.  Arms swinging and elbows loose, there was a slight rotation of my upper body that countered what was happening underneath my hips.

Don’t go all out.  There’s still another mile of speed and the next one will be faster.  Rein it in.  Negative split these two miles.  I estimated my heart rate to be about 85%– I wanted to push it a little higher for the next mile, but not too much.  An easy ramp up is always better than a sudden push that leaves me gasping for air.

I ran, I ran, I ran until the bell signaled the end of the mile, slowed down enough to pivot on the dirt trail, and headed back the way I had just come.  Go faster.  Put the hammer down.  Harder.

I dropped another 30 seconds from my pace and held steady.  This pace felt good.  I didn’t look at my watch, but experience told me I was getting close to a 10k race pace.  Suddenly running was a big pile of yummy in my soul.  Let it rip.  Run, Lara, race it home.

No.  I’m not racing and holding this pace is NOT what I need to do today.  I fought the urge and allowed my brain to over-rule my runner instincts to hold a 10k pace, pull out 10-12 miles, or run until I couldn’t run any further.  None of those things would get me to my ultimate goal of running 50k in eight weeks.

At the end of the mile I slowed down.  Way down.  I almost crawled.  Still not looking at the Garmin, I searched for the cruising pace that I had dialed in on the front side of the two-mile speed work.

I reminded myself of the training plan; time on my feet is more important than speed at this point.  To prove my own point I walked the last 20 feet up the last big hill.  So there.  I can walk when presented with a hill.  I don’t need to fight my way to the top.

And then I forgot about pace and just ran home.  The last two miles were faster than I meant to go, but I wasn’t paying attention.  Sweat trickled down my forehead, prickled my hairline and dripped into my eye.  My sunglasses moved a millimeter down my nose, though it felt like they were about to be swept away by the salty river that was bubbling up through my pores.

The Garmin beeped eight miles just as I reached my house.  As I stepped onto my porch a thought flitted through my mind… it’s funny; the more I fight to run, the more energy I have for the things worth fighting for.

 

Filed Under: Summer 2011 Tagged: , ,
August 6, 2011

Trust and Ultras

After a hard week of running that was capped by a tempo run at 7:30 am the other day, I listened to a voice mail from my best friend and returned her call as I drove away from the trailhead.  While I ate breakfast, made coffee, stripped off my sweat-soaked running gear and stretched sore muscles, we discussed the finer points of relinquishing control over relationships and other people’s emotions, and trusting that time will slowly reveal life lessons and perspective that is otherwise hidden from us at the moment.  We talked about allowing space for each person to feel their emotions without trying to control the other person’s response to us, and trusting that relational dynamics will play out organically instead of forcing our intellect and rational minds to dictate the terms of our most intimate interactions.

You know, a typical post-workout conversation between besties.  No biggie.

But really, the conversation struck home.  Over the years I have struggled with allowing my emotions to be what they are and to release judgment on what “should” happen, instead of admitting that I simply feel the way I feel.  I’ve attempted to control outcomes of interactions based on the faulty assumption that I have all the data necessary to make such decisions.  I’ve super-imposed stories that I’ve told myself about how other people feel about me or my choices, thereby refusing to engage with them because I was protecting myself from perceived judgment.

And yet, time and time again, I have been proven wrong.  Every time I make an assumption about how someone in my inner circle will react, I am proven wrong.  The life lesson that continually slaps me around is that I don’t give other people enough credit, and I try to side step their emotions as a way of staying within my story about how the world really is.  When really, my stories are simply complex forms of fiction.  Stories are a form of brain-candy that keep me entertained when I don’t feel like engaging as an authentic person who may or may not have the most accurate knowledge.

When it comes to being an authentic person, there is a lot of trust involved.  Trust in one’s self, trust in others; trust in the magic of Time.  I have found that time is a great healer.  Time reveals life lessons when the student is good and ready, and not a moment before.

Engaging in trust is like walking off a cliff.  I stop making plans based on perceived contingencies and trust that I am capable of handling challenges because I am a self-aware, intelligent, rational, creative and passionate person.  I’ve done a lot of living and seen a lot of things.  I will never be able to spreadsheet all the nuances life has to offer, so why would I ever want to stop my forward motion by sitting down to plan out the unknown?

Exactly a year ago I decided to get outside my comfort zone and do something terrifying and massive, something that would challenge me and my relationship with my body, family and self.  I signed up for a marathon.  I spent the next 16 weeks re-learning how to listen to my body.  I embraced TIRED, and learned how to rest after pushing the limits.  I learned how to communicate my needs to my family, and they in turn learned to respect my downtime, and help me.  I learned how to ask for support, push my limits, hydrate, feed my body during and after intense training sessions and get up to do it again.

I learned Trust.  I trusted that Coach Gwen had created a training plan that would and could get me through a marathon.  I trusted that my body was able to perform and would hold up through 26.2 miles.  I trusted that the solitary hours spent running would reveal aspects of myself that were shadowy at best and shocking at worst.  And I trusted that the process was worthwhile, though I didn’t know what was waiting for me at the finish line.  I had hope.

Fast forward twelve months.  It’s early August again and I’m ready to push the boundaries.  I’ve registered for the Slickrock 50k trail race in Moab on October 8.  I trust that I am capable of running 30 miles, and time will reveal nuances of my soul that are heretofore unknown.  I’ll be resourcing myself out to people who support me in this goal, and will help me along the way.  I’m open to whatever happens… I just want to try.  I can’t learn Trust if I don’t get outside my comfort zone and do things differently than I’ve ever done before.  By choosing activities that are outside my comfort zone, I am also choosing to relate to people, myself and situations differently than I’ve done before.  I am open to learning a new way of seeing, feeling, understanding, and being.  I am trusting that there are life lessons to be learned along the way, and I choose to put myself into situations that will help me to get to the next level.

 

Filed Under: Summer 2011 Tagged: , ,