I got to keep on running. Keep on hiding....

You know those people who say that running gives them a sense of freedom and energy? That it's a tonic, an escape, and that it clears their head? They lie.

Running (or whatever it is that I do, more akin to the lurching forward propulsion of an elephant with a limp) is neither freeing nor energizing. It's a trial of bursting lungs, burning legs, endurance of people looking at you like you are nuts (because you are) and repeated moments of hoping that if you just make it to the next street corner, a bus will come barreling around the corner and hit you, putting you out of your misery.

Oh sure, it clears your mind. It clears it of all thoughts except "I must keep going because eventually I get to stop and eat large quantities of baconnaise." And yes, it is energizing. Once you stop, have eaten, showered and slept for two days. But an escape? Perhaps from other, much more pleasurable activities such as seeing friends, eating, dancing, and cleaning the grout out of the bathroom sink.

And now, a musical interlude from the Spencer Davis group (includes bonus unidentified foreign subtitles!)

I've been doing this for let's see, about six weeks. My long runs are up to 8 miles (or about 13 KM), which I do once a week, and have been running 2-3 other times a week, plus one "cross-train" of a cycling or weights class. You'd think it would have gotten easier. That, also, is not true. Although there was one time in which I was finishing a longer run and all of a sudden, it was like someone injected me with energy/speed/cocaine because I felt I could have continued running for longer than my planned route, maybe even for several minutes longer. I also had a ridiculous smile on my face the whole time. It was lovely. And never happened again.

In the past three or four weeks, I've also run through a blizzard. Let me repeat that. I got home (in a blizzard), put on my running clothes (while it was blizzarding), left my house (in a blizard) and went for a run (blizzard). At least I know I'm not alone in my mental instability - my friend Andrea came with me. We lasted for 26 minutes.

But after all this, it is encouraging that even with the increased distances, I have not yet, in fact, died. You know, that's kinda cool.

Small victories to big pains

See, I had this plan to do my whole running schedule while on vacation. I thought it would be a good way to get in the running mindset. Besides, I'd be running in Washington and in New York, and I'd probably need to run away from muggers and rapists anyhow, which would add an extra challenge.

Surprisingly, I was able to do about 80% of my runs, including a wicked 7 mile run in Washington. And I didn't die! It was beautiful - I ran along the Mall, past the Washington monument, and high-fived Barack. Did I mention I didn't die? My heart didn't stop/explode out of my chest? My legs continued to work when I was done, which was also astounding.

Of course, with great success comes great, uh, pain? At first my ankle started to really hurt, but that went away as quickly as it came. So I thought I was home free (what does that mean? Home free? That my mortgage is paid off?). But then my little knee, which has carried me through hundreds of fitness classes, thousands of kms of walking and biking, and many hours of dancing, decided it was not impressed with me and filed notice to cause me pain and suffering while going down stairs, running, and just generally moving. I now hobble along like a demented, three-legged bear, scaring small children in the process.

And so, I may have to rest up for the next week, forgoing running, and instead spending lots of time on my couch with ice on my knee, watching endless pirated episodes of "Paris Hilton's new best friend's new boyfriend's small dog's food preferences."

First week - fail!

Well, I may have created a new record for the earliest failure on a running plan. Ever.
I started with incredibly good intentions, even ripping myself out of bed two early, early mornings in a row to run. But then on Thursday, my cross-training day (oh yes, for those who don't know, a running plan not only has running four times a week, but throws in a cross-training day of biking, swimming or weight-lifting for fun. Yay.), it was the Ecology Ottawa dinner, and my work day began at arond 7:30am and ended at 1:30 in the morning.
I considered getting on my bike once I got home and going for a nice friendly bikeride in my druggie, pimp and drunk university student-infested neighbourhood, but I was totally exhausted, so dehydrated that my lips were entirely chapped, and had a wicked headache. Friday was a rest day so I was off the hook then, but Saturday was the day of my first long run (90 minutes). No problem, right? I mean, I'm used to getting up relatively early on Saturdays for a fitness class, and without the drinking can now look forward to many hangover-free days, which makes it even easier. However, because I'm heading off for vacation for the next two weeks, all of the work items that I was going to have done earlier had been pushed back because of the dinner (who knew a dinner for 200 people would eat up so much time?), so that's why I found myself at the office at 7:30am on a Saturday.
All day, I had thoughts of my run. I mentally worked backwards in my schedule to see where it would fit. But between cleaning off my desk, doing final drop-offs of items for the dinner, then repping Ecology Ottawa at an event that night, I found I had NO free time until 11pm.
Sunday I did make it out for a very short run, but this whole week has clearly illustrated to me that fitting training into my schedule is going to be an incredible challenge.
Luckily for me, I've got many motivated friends who've kindly offered to go running with me. Of course, what they don't realize is:
1) I'm slow. So slow that it's likely that the temperature of the earth will have risen a few degrees by the time I get to kilometre 5, and as a result, extreme weather events will likely destroy all the nice NCC pathways, so we won't even have to worry about getting to kilometre 6.
2) They'll have to carry a defibrillator with them to revive me when my heart gives out after about 55 minutes of running.
3) I don't really run. What I do is more akin to throwing my body forward in a jerky manner while trying not to trip on my own feet. It's sort of like watching someone have continual seizures combined with complete uncoordination. It's beautiful, really.

But I will perserver. Or at least completely destroy my body, mind and willpower in the process.

Prohibition time!

I remember I knew a girl who was training for a 10k run and gave up the booze in preparation. I laughed. And laughed some more. Then I had a double gin and soda.

Having put together my run training schedule for the next 3.5 months, I've realized that if I'm actually going to rouse myself for jogging on both Saturday and Sunday mornings, I'm not going to be able to go out partying till 3 in the morning, stumbling back to what I think is my house but actually turns out to be a garage, and passing out under someone's Camaro (don't worry mom - this only happened once. Usually it's a Hummer).

So I thought about that girl, and made a pro and con list for not drinking till the half:

Pros:

I won't be hungover as much

I'll save money that I'll have to spend on really expensive running shoes

Cons:

I won't be able to drink. For four months.

I'll probably be a much less tolerable person.

But I won't be alone. My dad, recovering from illness, is also not able to drink. We can be miserable and anti-social together. Yay!

PS: Haven't actually started training. But I did make a really pretty training schedule.

One step, one sinking of the stomach

I've created this blog to document my training for a rock and role half-marathon I plan on running at the end of February in New Orleans. I'm blogging to keep myself accountable, hopefully amuse my friends with humour and those who don't like me so much with my travails and failures. I've never run a half-marathon before. The idea makes my heart palpitate, stomach start to churl like a whirlpool and causes me to have a nearly undefeatable urge to throw myself quickly and safely into my bed. So why am I doing it?

I used to hate running. I used to hate it more than I hate the idea of being covered with 2300 paper cuts, then being repeatedly dipped in vinegar. But one summer, I got into it. And by got into it, I mean I'd jog slowly (so slowly that 85-year old women would speed by with their walkers) for a few kilometres, sweat a lot, and feel real hard-core. I realized that it wasn't so bad, and in fact, I kinda liked being out on a warm summer day, jogging along the street, and not immediately going into cardiac arrest (which is what I used to think would happen if I jogged for more than two minutes). But from here to a half-marathon? Although it would seem I had a partial lobotomy, this is not, in fact the reasone.

My darling friend Andrea's sister lives in New Orleans, and we chatted a while ago about planning a trip there. In my head, this trip would involve drinking, eating fried chicken, staying up till 5am listening to unbelievable music, a half-marathon. HA! I got you with that last one, didn't I? I mean, who would want to run 21.6 km when they could instead enjoy beer, music, dancing and fried food?

Well, apparently lots of people. Including Andrea. She sent me an email saying "hey, why don't we sign up for this rock and roll marathon?"

I dusted myself off from falling off my chair laughing so hard I hit my head, blacked out, came to, and repositioned myself in front of the computer. I read her proposal again, realized it would mean training through an Ottawa winter, I once again fell off my chair, but this time due to an effort to pick my jaw up off the floor.

But then I thought about it some more, and (perhaps due to my earlier head injury), said Yes! Yes, I would like to torment myself for the next four months! Yes, I would like to do permanent damage to my currently functioning joints! Yes, I'd like to potentially humiliate myself by not finishing/falling/throwing up/passing out/losing the use of all my muscles at a half marathon!

The more I think about it, the more nauseated I get. But once that passes, I think about the fact that I was always a chubby kid who was never involved in any kind of sport, and have only a few times really challenged myself physically like this.

The other reason is that this past summer, my dad got sick and it shook me. I mean, really shook me. And I know it shook him too. But he's getting better, and I figure that if he can get through his illness and stay on the road to recovery, I can get through training without killing myself/Andrea/all those spandex-clad jogging flocks I see on the Rideau Canal every day.

So here we go. I'll train, I'll sweat, I'll curse, I may well fail, but I'm going to try and do it. Even if it means dressing like this to jog in February.