The bounce is back
12:06 PM |
0 comments
I put my Mountain Equipment Co-op trail runners to excellent use yesterday and finally tackled a good part of the Millennium trail at lunch time. It’s a big giant loop around part of the Yukon River that is wonderfully paved, although parts of it are covered in melting snow runoff, necessitating the wearing of the super-grip trail runners. I had previously ran from our downtown office around the barren part of the trail, up to the forest entrance and back again.
I’ll say I did this because that takes half an hour and I didn’t want to take too long over lunch, but really it’s because the heightened elevation up here usually sees my lungs on fire by that point, dying for a break.
Yesterday, knowing I only have a few more chances to run the trail, I entered it the other way, right into the foresty part and up to the dam bridge. I decided to turn around there, which is the halfway point, but mostly because it was windy and I didn’t want to run in the barren part. Sometimes running in the wind makes it hard to breathe because you go to inhale and all this wind just flies into your throat and makes you cough. Not fun.
Anyway, my lungs didn’t give out and my iPod lasted through most of it. Marky Mark’s “Good Vibrations” and James Brown’s “I Feel Good” got me through the wanting-to-give-up parts. And my legs aren’t even sore today, bonus!
I love the warming weather and extended sunlight hours. Totally makes me believe that I will become super Mrs. Athletic Runner for the rest of all time, and forget how disturbingly frigid it was donning all my winter running gear and freezing my behind off during what was really a hibernation season for me.
I’m back!
Labels: running
Back to it
12:40 PM |
1 comments
Ah, the small pleasures of simple living. I alluded to them last post, and one has led me off on a tangent in my life I think would only be possible in the Yukon. Or in my Yukon life.
I’ll take this and back up a bit.
When I was “training’ for my 10k race last year (meaning, doing what all runners do: run with some regularity while sloooowwwly upping my distance), I remember getting so down on myself about ‘only’ running 3 or 4 times a week. That sounds lame, I know, but hear me out. It just seems like it was something to try really hard to fit into crazy journalism school schedules and interviews, work events and interviews, family visits, and the obligatory ‘we’re almost done!’ weekend drinkfests. Its a rough life, and busy.
I knew I could be doing more to reach personal limits and test myself. Granted, huffing and puffing and sweating and cursing were indicators that I was working hard on my runs, but I always knew I wasn’t really pushing it. I did my 10k and honestly, I didn’t feel like dying or collapsing afterwards. I just remember thinking how I had totally had it in me to get a better time. Competitiveness with myself? Maybe, and maybe my upbringing in a competitive, consumeristic, pressure-filled world is to blame. Maybe not?
So, anyway, I half-assedly brought running with me to the Yukon. First, I complained that the elevation change was too dramatic to keep at my regular running schedule and so I stopped. Or I’d run on the gym treadmill once a week and be satisfied I’d done something. It was a poor excuse for a fitness regimen. Granted, I’m not pudgy or jelly-ish (Destiny’s Child!), and it’s not like pounds were starting to pack on. But that’s not REALLY why I run, either. Its good for my heart, certainly better than sitting around not exercising my heart, and I wanna be a healthy old fart one day.
I went home for the wedding though, and had the whole, dramatic, I-don’t-fit-into-the-dress fiasco. That was the first time ever I didn’t fit in something. I used to be the stick-skinny girl people started bulimia rumours about, for crying out loud. I don’t GET bigger!! Well yes, I do. And I did. So I got back to running in Ottawa, and I fit in my dress and all was well and good.
I ran on my honeymoon, even leaving new husband alone at the hotel to run the Kelwona waterfront. I was so dedicated. We returned to the ‘Horse and I was still all ‘Ya, I’m totally for sure gonna keep up my running’ and thinking it wouldn’t even be hard because I’d already been running the last month regularly.
But then it got cold. Like, gross cold. So I didn’t run outside. And getting to the treadmill took some effort,.Like, the effort required to decide to go, pack stuff, run and come home. Exasperating! I’m not sure when, but ‘too cold’ and ‘too treadmill-y’ became solid reasons to return to the butt indentation on my couch and stay put.
For Christmas, my Dad got me a subscription to a women’s health magazine, which was really what I needed. In glossy, pretty pages, the message to me became clear: You are lame. Get up and do something. Wanker.
So I signed up for their online save your body or die program (although their name is more suitable and less scary) and began by logging what I eat to see how many calories I’m taking in a day. This was relative to little to no physical activity at this point. Baby steps.
That part turned out OK. I was eating enough. I don’t want to lose weight or anything so that can stay as is and I can stop logging calories for everything I eat, which is relieving. I don’t know how many calories are in Lindor chocolates but I don’t want to either.
This week, I got a gym membership at the Canada Games Centre, this awesome facility with an indoor track (real running! no cold!), a pool (I could so get back into that! And do aquafit hahaha!) so there’s step one. I replaced my broke-down old iPod with this tiny one the size of an eye shadow compartment so I had something to listen to on my runs besides the sound of my laboured breathing.
And my magazine web site thingy tells me what to do. When to run, how long, how hard. I can add in all the other fitness-y things I’m making myself do, like hikes with the puppy, yoga and well, that’s it for now. But soon swimming! I promise!
So the long and short of it is (if you were smart and skipped down to the bottom to avoid reading all of that) is that the simple pleasure of my magazine subscription has re-inspired me to get into running and being active, with a little bit of accountability involved.
I even signed up for pole dancing for fitness at the games centre. I wonder what I am supposed to wear to that? Anything? Anyway, I figure I’ll keep things interesting by switching things up, logging what I do, and planning in advance when I’m going to do it. Yukon time gives me a whole lot more to my day, even with the full-time j-o-b, so I know I can do it.
This is totally the year of seeing how far I can go. There are some extreme races here in the summer, so I’m excited for the chance to push myself and see where these legs can take me.
Labels: Journalism School, running, Yukon
Race Day
8:37 AM |
5 comments
It was race weekend, the day I circled in my agenda back in February when I registered. Back when my weekend long runs were only 30 minutes long and less than half of the total distance I would eventually run. Back when running made my lungs hurt, my shin splints wreaked havoc and my shoes were stinky. (Well, that still happens).
My four girlfriends and I met up an hour before the race and drank our elixirs of race energy. I prefer chocolate milk. We put our time chips on our shoes, pinned our number to the front of our shirts and walked towards the race soaking in the envious and admiring glances of passersby who were not running.
There were thousands of people heading towards the start. We saw the stick-thin, limber Kenyans warming up in their track suits. We saw mums holding their kids' hands so as not to be separated in the crowds. We saw people stretching way too much and scoffed at their inexperience. We thought we were running goddesses. Dramatic? Yes. But that’s just how it goes before a race, we psych ourselves up to be the running goddesses we have bled, sweated and cried to become.
The gun went off and the start line emitted a high-pitched tone as everyone’s timing chip was officially set off, crossing the start line. I admit, I felt like the biggest superstar in the world running that first kilometer down Elgin Street, looking up at the crowds of people cheering for us. I laughed at the voice of the little kid who said, “Way to go runners you’re almost there,” a mere 2 minutes into the run. I found my pace, I smiled, I breathed into my belly and out through my mouth. I totally forget what I thought about during the run, but I think that means I was in “the zone.” I slapped my best friend on the butt when I met up with her. My other best friend spat water on my neck at the water station and the saliva-filled cool water mixture felt so good as it hit my sweating neck skin. We thanked the spectators who cheered us on individually,
“Way to go, orange shorts, keep it up!”
“You’re doing so well, only three kilometers left!”
In the last leg, best friend K and I were snapped by her paparazzi papa, and given a last dose of inspiration by my mum and little sis. At their words, “We’re so proud of you,” I kicked it up, sprinted like I was seven years old and booted it to the finish line.
Nothing can compare to the feeling of lifting your arms and pumping your fist as you cross the finish line.
We waited for our friends who were trailing us, collected our medals and slammed back some Gatorade. We crashed early that night and spent the better part of the next day at a Scandinavian bath house soaking our muscles. We earned the feeling of accomplishment. I am a certifiable runner and I pinned my number bib to my bulletin board to remind myself of the glorious feeling of running farther than I’ve ever gone before.
My four girlfriends and I met up an hour before the race and drank our elixirs of race energy. I prefer chocolate milk. We put our time chips on our shoes, pinned our number to the front of our shirts and walked towards the race soaking in the envious and admiring glances of passersby who were not running.
There were thousands of people heading towards the start. We saw the stick-thin, limber Kenyans warming up in their track suits. We saw mums holding their kids' hands so as not to be separated in the crowds. We saw people stretching way too much and scoffed at their inexperience. We thought we were running goddesses. Dramatic? Yes. But that’s just how it goes before a race, we psych ourselves up to be the running goddesses we have bled, sweated and cried to become.
The gun went off and the start line emitted a high-pitched tone as everyone’s timing chip was officially set off, crossing the start line. I admit, I felt like the biggest superstar in the world running that first kilometer down Elgin Street, looking up at the crowds of people cheering for us. I laughed at the voice of the little kid who said, “Way to go runners you’re almost there,” a mere 2 minutes into the run. I found my pace, I smiled, I breathed into my belly and out through my mouth. I totally forget what I thought about during the run, but I think that means I was in “the zone.” I slapped my best friend on the butt when I met up with her. My other best friend spat water on my neck at the water station and the saliva-filled cool water mixture felt so good as it hit my sweating neck skin. We thanked the spectators who cheered us on individually,
“Way to go, orange shorts, keep it up!”
“You’re doing so well, only three kilometers left!”
In the last leg, best friend K and I were snapped by her paparazzi papa, and given a last dose of inspiration by my mum and little sis. At their words, “We’re so proud of you,” I kicked it up, sprinted like I was seven years old and booted it to the finish line.
Nothing can compare to the feeling of lifting your arms and pumping your fist as you cross the finish line.
We waited for our friends who were trailing us, collected our medals and slammed back some Gatorade. We crashed early that night and spent the better part of the next day at a Scandinavian bath house soaking our muscles. We earned the feeling of accomplishment. I am a certifiable runner and I pinned my number bib to my bulletin board to remind myself of the glorious feeling of running farther than I’ve ever gone before.
Labels: running
I hate this. But don't let me stop.
12:13 PM |
7 comments
These days it starts out with trepidation, resentment that I am putting myself through it again today. Within a block or two the familiar ache in my shins creeps its way from ankle to knee and I feel I am wearing too thick a T-Shirt. My lips feel chapped, even though I applied Vaseline before I left the house. Dread.
I try and pump myself up by envisioning the toned soccer-playing character in the Traveling Pants movie, the lean legs of the girl in Two-A-Days and the awesome behind of Miss Jessica Simpson in Dukes of Hazzard. That works for a bit. I focus on the path in front of me, not looking up for fear of the daunting view of how far I’ve left to go. I belly breathe to avoid stomach cramps, though on days as hot as today, the eventual side stitch creeps across my belly near the end.
I feel the blood rising to my face, reddening it. I feel my back becoming moist. I stop paying attention to the songs playing on my iPod. I fight the mental war of being convinced it’s too hard. I reach the half-way point, slow my breathing and stretch my hips.
I make mental landmarks. I’ll walk between the footbridge and highway. I’ll sprint between the fire station and the dog park. I count my steps until I forget what number I’m at. I slow down and center my hips because I’m going too fast, I just want to be finished. When I can see my house and the sprint is done my lungs are burning. I am breathing too hard to walk just yet so I slow down my jog. I feel like I’ll explode otherwise. My reward is my stretching today. I feel the cool grass as I stretch my worn shins and calves. I breathe deep into the stretches I’ve earned.
I drink water like it’s been a month. I ice my shins, my ankles, my heels. I massage my feet and avoid the blisters that have formed on the balls of my feet. I take my shirt off as soon as I can and throw my socks off, distancing myself from the hard work they’ve just held.
My breathing slows down in the shower, the cool water on my face doesn’t stop flowing. My legs settle down, the soap washes away the sweat left on my shoulders.
I’ll wash, rinse, repeat it all again tomorrow. Training for the 10k finishes May 26.
I try and pump myself up by envisioning the toned soccer-playing character in the Traveling Pants movie, the lean legs of the girl in Two-A-Days and the awesome behind of Miss Jessica Simpson in Dukes of Hazzard. That works for a bit. I focus on the path in front of me, not looking up for fear of the daunting view of how far I’ve left to go. I belly breathe to avoid stomach cramps, though on days as hot as today, the eventual side stitch creeps across my belly near the end.
I feel the blood rising to my face, reddening it. I feel my back becoming moist. I stop paying attention to the songs playing on my iPod. I fight the mental war of being convinced it’s too hard. I reach the half-way point, slow my breathing and stretch my hips.
I make mental landmarks. I’ll walk between the footbridge and highway. I’ll sprint between the fire station and the dog park. I count my steps until I forget what number I’m at. I slow down and center my hips because I’m going too fast, I just want to be finished. When I can see my house and the sprint is done my lungs are burning. I am breathing too hard to walk just yet so I slow down my jog. I feel like I’ll explode otherwise. My reward is my stretching today. I feel the cool grass as I stretch my worn shins and calves. I breathe deep into the stretches I’ve earned.
I drink water like it’s been a month. I ice my shins, my ankles, my heels. I massage my feet and avoid the blisters that have formed on the balls of my feet. I take my shirt off as soon as I can and throw my socks off, distancing myself from the hard work they’ve just held.
My breathing slows down in the shower, the cool water on my face doesn’t stop flowing. My legs settle down, the soap washes away the sweat left on my shoulders.
I’ll wash, rinse, repeat it all again tomorrow. Training for the 10k finishes May 26.