A while back I complained about running in the rain. I tried to tell myself that it was the only weather that made it hard for me to run.
Turns out I was kidding myself. I hate running in the heat, mostly because I hate the heat. When the temperature's between, say, 75 and 85 degrees Fahrenheit, it's merely a source of amusement among family and friends, as I start to get uncomfortable. Beyond that, though, I get miserable and usually plant myself in front of the nearest fan.
Needless to say, running in the heat is right out, especially since I increasingly struggle to drag my ass out of bed early enough in the morning to run before work. In my younger days (read: 20s) I would grab a few miles at lunchtime, then wonder why I felt like crap the rest of the day. Now I know better.
It sucks, because I, like any runner, would rather be running than sitting on my ass. (It doesn't help that I really don't have one, so sitting on it for prolonged period of time makes it sore.) But it's the sort of thing that I've accepted. Instead, I try to cross train -- as I did on a recent trip to Florida, when I hit the pool instead of trying to run in 90-degree heat -- or do some core work while watching TV (with the ceiling fan on, of course), all the while reminding myself that, in six months, I'll be much happier.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
Life is waiting for you
Last week I got on my high horse, who happened to be perilously perched atop a soap box, and made the incredibly surprising revelation that running is hard. This remains true. It has been balls hot this week, and I abhor the heat, so I haven't been running much.
No matter. It's been a good week. My wife's birthday was yesterday. I woke up early to make her breakfast (note: the house did not burn down), and after work we went out for dinner and then met a friend who' in town for the weekend.
Was a small part of me feeling guilty that I didn't squeeze in a few miles? Mercury notwithstanding, yes. However, as one of my favorite bands says, life is waiting for you. Taking an unplanned off day here and there is no big deal.
Some runners and coaches will tell you it is, but, in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? I'm not gonna qualify for the Olympics. Hell, I'll be happy with a top-3 finish in my age group someday. Falling asleep at the table for my wife's birthday dinner would not have been worth a quick run through the neighborhood as the sun was rising.
Obviously, things will be different in about a month, when training does officially kick off and I can't really afford to skip a speed workout (as much as I'm sure I'll want to). Even then, though, I won't be afraid to juggle the schedule to accommodate a dinner date, a family gathering, or a Sunday morning 5K with friends when my training schedule calls for 18 or so miles. Life is waiting, and I sure as hell don't want to miss it.
No matter. It's been a good week. My wife's birthday was yesterday. I woke up early to make her breakfast (note: the house did not burn down), and after work we went out for dinner and then met a friend who' in town for the weekend.
Was a small part of me feeling guilty that I didn't squeeze in a few miles? Mercury notwithstanding, yes. However, as one of my favorite bands says, life is waiting for you. Taking an unplanned off day here and there is no big deal.
Some runners and coaches will tell you it is, but, in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? I'm not gonna qualify for the Olympics. Hell, I'll be happy with a top-3 finish in my age group someday. Falling asleep at the table for my wife's birthday dinner would not have been worth a quick run through the neighborhood as the sun was rising.
Obviously, things will be different in about a month, when training does officially kick off and I can't really afford to skip a speed workout (as much as I'm sure I'll want to). Even then, though, I won't be afraid to juggle the schedule to accommodate a dinner date, a family gathering, or a Sunday morning 5K with friends when my training schedule calls for 18 or so miles. Life is waiting, and I sure as hell don't want to miss it.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Running is hard, as it should be
Running is hard.
Admittedly, it's a matter of priorities and, perhaps, maturity. At 21, with no real responsibilities, not to mention bills, it was easy to crank out a few miles after a long day at work while mom and dad made dinner. A decade later, I'm lucky to run three times a week. Working two jobs, getting married and ripping and replacing your entire backyard will do that. Rain certainly doesn't help either.
Motivation -- specifically, a lack thereof -- has played a role in my recent doldrums. With no race on the horizon, it's easy to pick up the shovel and spread some mulch instead of pounding the pavement. I did make it to the James Joyce Ramble earlier this spring, but, at the risk of sounding like a running snob, a 10K isn't enough to push me all that hard.
More than once, though, I have tried to commit to a marathon, only to back out after a few weeks of training. (That's why I don't register too soon.) It's usually a combination of life intervening -- why I thought I could conceivably run 26.2 miles two weeks before my wedding I'll never know -- and my brain somehow convincing my body that it's better to quit while I'm ahead than go through months of training only to run what most everyone else in the free world would consider a kickass time (say, 3:30) but what, when I cross the finish line, is only bound to disappoint me
A couple weeks ago, though, my wife told me something in passing. "You should run more," she said. "It makes you happy." It got me thinking. (Hence the first blog post in almost a year.)
Running does make me happy, in part because it is hard. Running is supposed to be hard. Squeezing in three-and-a-half miles on your lunch break, as I did today, is hard. Waking up at the asscrack of dawn for a weekend long run so you don't miss work, a family event or an afternoon of pulling weeds is hard. Driving halfway across the state by yourself for a road race that serves as a marathon tune-up is hard (or an indication that you need more friends).
It's time, then, to kick myself in the pants. This fall, I am going to run the Manchester City Marathon, come hell, high water or a couple dozen raspberry bushes that need to be trimmed. This time around, I'm setting aside the notion that I can qualify for Boston -- after all, at this point I am 0-for-7 -- and simply giving myself a reason to run. That, it turns out, is pretty easy.
Admittedly, it's a matter of priorities and, perhaps, maturity. At 21, with no real responsibilities, not to mention bills, it was easy to crank out a few miles after a long day at work while mom and dad made dinner. A decade later, I'm lucky to run three times a week. Working two jobs, getting married and ripping and replacing your entire backyard will do that. Rain certainly doesn't help either.
Motivation -- specifically, a lack thereof -- has played a role in my recent doldrums. With no race on the horizon, it's easy to pick up the shovel and spread some mulch instead of pounding the pavement. I did make it to the James Joyce Ramble earlier this spring, but, at the risk of sounding like a running snob, a 10K isn't enough to push me all that hard.
More than once, though, I have tried to commit to a marathon, only to back out after a few weeks of training. (That's why I don't register too soon.) It's usually a combination of life intervening -- why I thought I could conceivably run 26.2 miles two weeks before my wedding I'll never know -- and my brain somehow convincing my body that it's better to quit while I'm ahead than go through months of training only to run what most everyone else in the free world would consider a kickass time (say, 3:30) but what, when I cross the finish line, is only bound to disappoint me
A couple weeks ago, though, my wife told me something in passing. "You should run more," she said. "It makes you happy." It got me thinking. (Hence the first blog post in almost a year.)
Running does make me happy, in part because it is hard. Running is supposed to be hard. Squeezing in three-and-a-half miles on your lunch break, as I did today, is hard. Waking up at the asscrack of dawn for a weekend long run so you don't miss work, a family event or an afternoon of pulling weeds is hard. Driving halfway across the state by yourself for a road race that serves as a marathon tune-up is hard (or an indication that you need more friends).
It's time, then, to kick myself in the pants. This fall, I am going to run the Manchester City Marathon, come hell, high water or a couple dozen raspberry bushes that need to be trimmed. This time around, I'm setting aside the notion that I can qualify for Boston -- after all, at this point I am 0-for-7 -- and simply giving myself a reason to run. That, it turns out, is pretty easy.
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