Of Dogs and Runners

Last week I peed in a bush. No need to read the line again, it says what it says. I squatted like an animal and peed in the bush. I tell you this not to ruin your meal, but to inform you that I have crossed over into a full fledged distance runner. Unlike when I joined my sorority, where there was a deeply moving ceremony where I was embraced by an amazing sister-hood, there was no embracing here. Instead, my friend and running buddy, stood watch while I huddled low under a bush and let it flow. My back receiving welts and scratches from the thorny bush that obscured me from sight.

Let me first say that never in my wildest imagination would I ever have believed that this scene was possible. I am a lady. I may occasionally burp or release an SBD, but generally those things can't be helped. Like that dude from Ally McBeal, I like a clean bowl, before I take care of business. So if anyone had told me two months ago that I would be handling my business all out in the open, I would have laughed in their face and slapped them with a dainty white glove. So what in the hell led me to such a crass act? A full bladder plus a seven mile run and no bathroom in sight, equals, the runner's squat.

There were hints a few months back from the seasoned runners about bodily functions and long runs. They would impress upon us novice runners to keep tissues in out pockets for "emergencies." There was the constant reminders that the park district didn't open their bathrooms until after Memorial Day, so be mindful. A few mentioned scoping out scenery, while giggling about stomach issues. I guess I was dense because I didn't get it. I thought the tissues were for a snot attack, and scoping out the scene was for pure aesthetic enjoyment. I didn't care about the lack of restrooms because, well, I peed at home before I left. In fact during out shorter runs (4, 5 miles), and discomfort I felt was temporary because the run was so short. I could hold it, and as a proper young woman I would. However, as the runs got longer, more Gatorade was consumed, and the restrooms became non-existent, things got jacked up!

On this day, Vickie (names have been changed, although I don't know why, I'm the one embarrassed here), and I are about a mile into the run. Before heading downtown, I had consumed about 12 ounces of water to give me some base hydration for the run. I waited to go potty before leaving, as I knew that there was no place to go on the run. Anyhoo, as I'm running, I feel my bladder filling up, and that icky sloshing feeling. Despite this I keep going, assuming that I had the mental fortitude to block out the discomfort. I'm slowing my pace hoping that it would ease the pain. It didn't. I continued to run, gripping stomach as though somehow I could push the pain back inside. It didn't. Vickie, notices my discomfort and ask if I'm ok. I share with her that I feel like my insides are going to explode and I have no idea what to do. Vickie scopes the scene and points out a row of neatly manicured bushes off to the right. She says without skipping a beat, "how about over there?" I look to the bushes, and wonder to myself, "how about over there what?" Vickie says that it looks secluded enough that no one will see me. It is then that I get it! OMG! Is there no where else to go? As I contemplate this, my bladder is singing. "You'll never make it six more miles, never." I look at Vickie and then at the bushes, and back at Vickie. I search her face for the slightest glimpse of disgust or judgement. All I see is her concern. She is waiting to stand guard, waiting for the command. We meet eyes, and I know what I have to do. I trot off path, and obscure my self deep inside the bush. I drop trough, and I pray. I pray that no one sees me, because really what is there to say. I finish, grab my "emergency" tissue, and gather myself together. I sneak out the bushes like Swiper the Fox, and meet up with Vickie again. I wait for her to lament-"uhn, you naaasty!" She doesn't. She smiles and ask, "ready?", and I was.

At the end of those seven miles, I was a mixture of emotions. Elated that I had run farther than I ever thought I could. Embarrassed, as I watched a golden retriever assume the same position I had earlier. One of the more experienced runners came up to me and asked about the run. I blurted out to her what I had done, and she flashed a big smile. She asked it I had my tissues, and I told her that I did. She hugged me tight, and whispered in my ear, "Welcome to the road."

Nightmare on Main Street!

One of the advantages of running outside is that you get to choose your scenery. On the treadmill my scene is the brick wall to my left, dirty pile of laundry to my right and my tv which sits in the adjacent room. That scene never changes, except when the dirty laundry pile get bigger (sadly never smaller). Occasionally my cat will come in and take care of her business in the litter box in the corner. Outside, well I can take my pick of views. About 3 blocks from my house is a forest preserve with a running path. You will never, ever, catch me running in there. I repeat, never, ever! I have seen too many Dateline specials about women who end up missing while on their morning run through the forest preserve. I have seen enough horror movies where the hapless jogger is attacked by some crazy mask wearing assassin while running through the woods. And we all know that black women don't make it far in those movies. So, if I were to ever end up missing and my beloved spouse says I was jogging in the preserves, cue Drew Peterson footage and call the cops!

Out of fear of being abducted, I started taking a route the goes along several major streets. My logic being that if anyone tries to carry off a 5ft 11in woman wearing spandex from head to toe, there'd be people around to see it. My plan thus far has been working in that I've yet to encounter a would-be kidnapper. I have however, been approached by something far more sinister. Along my route there is a hot dog stand with a small parking lot out front. During my run late one Sunday afternoon, I was running past said hot dog stand, when I saw a robust man leaning against his car greasing down on an Italian beef sandwich. I had my music blaring, and was covered in a thick sweat. As I was passing Mr. Rotund, he began waving his hands at me as if to flag me down. Because I had my earbuds in, and he had a mouth full of shaved beef, I couldn't hear what he was saying. Foolishly, I stop my run, remove my buds, and ask him "what's up?" To my shock, horror, and complete amazement, he responds, "Can I go with you?" . Is this real? Are you f@*king kidding me? I'm out here grinding it out when I'd rather be on my couch, and this dude has the audacity to hit on me while I'm mid stride. Really?!? What makes you think we match. I'm running, you're leaning--on a car--eating a greasy sandwich--wearing a velour track suit! Can you go with me?!?! Where, running? Are you going to put the sandwich down and take off that sweltering jacket and run the block with me? What about me would make this dude in any way feel like interrupting the peace and tranquility of my run to hit on me. We are not a club, and I'm not dressed in my favorite little black dress. On the contrary, I clearly look like a woman on a mission--fitness. This exchange infuriates me. I was planning for Freddie Krueger jumping out on me, not Al Roker (old Al, not surgery Al). If I'm leaving the comfort of my home to engage in this activity, I really don't want to have to stop my stride to address some fool who has nothing better to do than harass passing joggers. This includes the guys who honk their horns and scare me half to death, so they can give me a sleazy thumbs up. Ick!

Needless to say, I have found another route. Now, you can find me on the quiet tree lined streets sharing the road with Yorkies and their owners. Here, I can run without fear of Freddie or Hamburglar, I can just run free.

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..........

Bricks are for chumps!

Growing up I was always a very limber girl. My granny would describe me a long and gangly, while I preferred tall and statuesque. In any event, part of having long limber legs was my ability to contort my body in all kinds of crazy positions. My most famous move was the "ol' leg wrapped around neck and tying my shoe" trick. If I was feeling really loose with it, I'd even put my big toe in my mouth (don't judge me). Despite my advancing age, I've still managed to maintain some of this unnatural flexibility. In fact I recently embarrassed myself at a retreat by busting out a full on split while dancing to Michael Jackson (there is a video out there awaiting my judicial election). My husband, who is a yoga devotee, suggested that I use my talent for good, and not drunken party trick evil. So with his prodding I decided to take a yoga class to supplement my marathon training.

Before this class I'd been to yoga once, and didn't like it. I often find it impossible to tune out my thoughts and meditate for longer than 5 minutes. I'm a mom, there are at least 10 things that are spinning around up there at a time: dental appointments, fundraisers, did I put underwear on Kendall? There is little time to focus on breaths. I breathe quite well everyday, why sit and think about breathing while sitting cross-legged in a hot room? However, after observing my often stressed husband floating around in a zen-like state, I figured I'd give it a try. Besides, I'd heard that the stretching exercises are of great benefit to runners.

My yoga class is filled with mostly middle-aged women, with a sprinkle of 30 and 20 somethings. These women look like the ladies who lunch type; fancy yoga mats, frilly pull over, and freshly pedicured feet. I on the other hand, am wearing that damn Calvin and Hobbs T-shirt again, and my feet look like someone took a whack-a-mole mallet to them. These women have this kinda yoga snobbishness to them, you know like they discuss downward dog over lattes in the middle of the day, while I sip vending machine coffee at my county job. I don't know the names of these moves so I'm usually at least 2 steps behind. I see their sideways glances and knowing looks to one another as I clumsily adjust to each new move. I am annoyed, and the thought of my naked 4 year old is really impeding my slow deep breaths. But something magical happens. Our instructor tells us to lay on our backs with one leg tucked underneath our thigh. Next, we are to take our other leg and fold it into the opposite direction and lay it on the floor. I hear moans and groans around me. I see the latte ladies reaching for these little blue bricks to sit on, because it's too hard to do as the instructor has described. However, for me, instead of ancient chants, I hear my college buddies chanting "go, Kim Go, tie your shoes around your neck!" I'm in the zone! Contorting in each way our instructor dictates! It feels good, my body is coming alive, and I feel like each move is a natural extension. I watch the other ladies struggle, and childishly I beam inside because my gangly legs are doing me proud. At the end of the session I feel at ease and at peace. I listen to the ladies complain that it was a bit too strenuous for their skill level. It is then that I realize that I have turned yoga into a competitive sport. I can't wait til next week!

Namaste!

Cotton is Rotten and Wick Away Intimates

As you may know, I joined a faith based running club. Every Saturday I meet with a group of 100 or so fellow Christians who have chosen to embark on this journey together. Among this group there is an older more conservative bunch, as well as a younger more liberal bunch. I sit with the latter group. I am joined by my good friend Daisy (not really her name, but I know she'll kill me if she reads this). Daisy and I sit through the classroom lectures listening intently and taking copious notes. We haven't actually started running as a a group yet. These first few weeks have been the indoctrination period, the Obama-esque "YES We Can" motivational jargon. It has also been lectures on diet, nutrition, and strength training.

Yesterday we focused on proper running apparel. I must admit, I assumed running was a cheap sport. I mean really, all you need are a pair of shoes, shorts and a T-shirt, right? Oh no! There's all these specialized garments you need to wear. My husband's ratty Calvin and Hobbs T-shirt--inappropriate. My cotton based jogging pants--oh the horror! Cotton, I have learned, is rotten. Remember the old cotton campaigns: "The look, the feel, the cotten, the fabric of our lives", with images of people snuggled up in cottony soft goodness. Well....the new running capmaign is quite simple" "Cotton is rotten", insert image of sweat soaked T-shirts and heavy funky socks, and hot drippy drawers (sorry). Cotten soaks up moisture and causes blisters and funk and other unimaginable horrors--(cotten industry, don't sue me, this is what I was told). There was enough cotton bashing that I wanted to come home and burn all my damn Q-tips to keep the evil fabric away from my family. So, I;ve been indoctrinated, "cotton bad, synthetic fibers with wick away materials good".

I learned that there is underwear that is made to wick away moisture while running. Who'da thunk it? Did I mention that this portion of the lecture was being taught by members of the older more conservative members of the group. Awkward. Daisy, again is taking her notes, and decides to raise her hand and ask a very vital question "Can you run in a thong?", and more importantly "do they make wick away thongs?" Daisy noooooo! These are church folks, we don't talk about thongs with these people. I'm uncomfotable enough talking about bras with the sweet old lady describing her size 42E's. It's too much information to know about anyone, especially our conservative crew. As our elders discuss the benefits of "Body Glide", it's best to keep it to ourselves that we thought it had other more practical purposes. I remind Daisy of where we are, and whom we are running with. I tell her that she must resign ourselves to wick away synthetic granny panties and keep it moving!

Trying not to whine or wine

Last night I joined my husband anf friends to check out the Alvin Ailey Dance Company. I must admit that I am more mesmerized by the dancers impeccable physiques than I am the dancing. These dancers do amazing things with their bodies. I always wanted to be a dancer when I was kid. We couldn't afford dance lessons, and as rhymithically challenged as I am, it wasn't coming naturally. So, I do what every parent who never fulfilled a childhood dream does--I force my kids to do it for me! Both of my girls spend their Saturday afternoons doing plies and pata-beres, while I peer through the two way mirror and pretend that I'm a 7 year old prima ballerina. Don't judge me!

Anyway, during intermission it was suggested that we get a drink. I must admit that the thought of a soothing glass of crushed red grapes was calling like Pookie to crack. As I lept from my seat to run to the bar, my husband grabbed my arm and said "should you be drinking wine, athlete?" I wanted to to take my heels and dig them into his foot. How dare he question my wine consumption! How dare he use the word "athlete" so facetiously when talking to me! I am an athlete, dammit. Didn't I run 4 miles 2 days ago? haven't I been hauling my out of bed at 5 in the morning to get to the gym? Take a public shower? Don't I wear spandex? All characteristics of an athlete. And yet I am mocked because I want to sip a little wine to unwind. I promised myself that i wouldn't whine as I embarked on this adventure. I knew that it would be hard and that sacrafice was inevitable. Whining was not going to make it any more bearable. However, my experience has shown that wining (a sweet reisling) always makes things better, at least while you're sipping and the few hours that follow, and during that deep sleep.......... Sorry, I drifted off for a moment. Therein lies the rub. Wining weakens my defenses and makes we want to curl up in my bed and dream. Wining forces me to realize that running 26.2 miles is probably as goofy as me dancing in my kids' recital. Wining is totally counter-productive to getting up and donning spandex and hiting the gym! To get all Jesse Jackson with it, "I can't win with wine" (well it doesn't rhyme but you get the the point). So, I am committed to no whining anout no wining, and no wining on nights before a run. That seems fair right?