Life on the Streets

The other day I take my run down to the streets. I'm dressed to the nines in my new, non-rotton cotton, synthetic fabric, moisture wicking gear. I've got my hydration belt and entertainment sysyem strapped around my waist (some say it resembles a fanny pack, I say, shut up). I've got my new $100+ kicks laced up tight, and I'm on my way. I am an athlete (or at least I really look like one). I got Jay Z on the ipod and I'm raring to go. I take off from the front of my house like Flo Jo in '92. By the team I reach the end of my block, my heart is about to explode out of my chest. What the hell just happend? I've been running on my treadmill for months with ease and grace, and now I'm running like I'm trying to catch the ice cream truck. It makes no sense to my form is all jacked up. I then realize that the treadmill does all my form for me. It conveyor belt moves, so I move. At 6.0, I move like I'm running 6.0. If it's too fast, I turn it down. If it's too slow, I speed it up. Really it's that simple. On the street, I run too fast, I have a heart attack and lie dead in the street. I run too slow, a kid on a tri-cycle passes me up. It's that simple, really. I realize that I have been conditioned to respond to the machine, rather than my body. It is at this moment that I begin to doubt my abilities to actually run the marathon. I am transported back to that awkward girl in highschool who thought that the desire to run was all I needed, rather than the talent. I actually stood on the end of my block with a stupid tear welling up in my eye.

I must admit, I undersetimated what the streets would do to me. I was a pampered treadmill princess, introduced to the thuggery of the street. There are no shock absorbers in the side walk. You feel each and every pound of the pavement. That cold breeze is going under my shirt and introducing itself to my body. There are no pause buttons or fuzzy comforts. It's just you and the street. It's when you determine whether you are stronger than the discomfort, or whether you lie down in the middle of the sidewalk and feign a faint. I've been there and done that. It's been 20 years since I allowed myself to be defined by futile efforts to impress others. That day I faked it, haunts me on every one. It haunts me that I simopy stopped moving. I stopped moving. My life, has never been easy, but I've always kept moving. I realized on this first day on the street, that know matter how much new equipment I wore, it would mean nothing if I stopped moving. So, I slowed my ass down, and let the kid on the tri-cycle pass me up, but I kept moving. I kept moving from one block to the next, until I reached 3 miles. 3 street miles. My legs were sore, my hair sweated out, and I looked like I went 12 rounds with Iron Mike. But I did it. The next day I ran 3.5, and the next time I did 4 more. It's never easy, and I can't say that I always love it. I can say, I always keep it moving!

Taking it to the streets!

I must admit that my renewed interest in running started in the most unlikely of places. The dark, dank, and dusty utility room of my basement. There, tucked in a corner next to a cold exposed brick wall and a weird cork board key holder is where my treadmill is situated. I begged my husband to buy me a treadmill soon after we bought our house. See, we'd previously owned a treadmill when we lived in a spacious apartment with a sun room. We could run on it while in the comfort of a heat controlled room, and watch the outside runners dodge rain drops and dogs. Truthfully, I think I used it twice. When we moved into our condo there was no room for our beloved machine (ok, ok, Kelley's beloved machine). I asked my best friend if she could take care of our dear treadmill since her apartment had space. She happily obliged, and unbeknown st to me placed our treadmill on her deck so she could enjoy the feel of an "outdoor" run. Now you would assume she lived say in Arizona, where it would make sense to leave a heavy piece of electrical equipment outside. You would assume wrong! She lived in a Chicago suburb that had the same lousy a@@ weather that would preclude anyone from leaving a dog outside, let alone a treadmill! (I should note that this lapse in judgement is not an indictment of my friend, she is a very lovely woman and fine doctor, who really just lost her mind). I didn't discover that she killed our machine until we bought our current house and I went to retrieve it to resume using it, if only for the third time. I felt like I lost a friend, or at least someone I bumped into twice at Starbucks. I needed another treadmill to fill the void of the one that I used twice, then not at all for three years. Reluctantly, Kelley bought me a new one, and placed it in the aforementioned section of my basement.

The first week I had it, I ran on it 3 times. The first year, I ran on it, 3 times. I layed clothes on it to dry all the time. I stored boxes on it lots of times. Who wants to run on a treadmill tucked away in the utility room of a basement? Why did he waste our money on that? Oh that's right, I begged. After a year, and my acknowledging that tucking my stomach in my pants was not cute, I took the clothes and boxes off the machine and started running. At first, it sucked, but then overtime I began to relish the time I had alone. I started from barely being able to run/walk a mile, to running 5 miles. I could watch Maury declare that Tashon was the baby daddy and get my workout on too(again, don't judge me).I could wear my sleep cap, hole ridden shorts and early morning eye boogers and not worry about "running" into anyone.It was wonderful, igniting a passion for fitness and health. So as I began to pre-train for the marathon, I thought i had a leg up on the others in my running club. I could run 3 miles easy, and was ready for the challenge. That was until, I took my running to the streets and out of my basement. Let's just say, it ain't the same!

The street kicked my ass..........