Losing it

Over the President’s Day weekend, Zdenek and I headed to the Catskills with good friends, Dave and Erica, where we spent a good chunk of our time watching the Olympics with wine glasses in hand. At some point during the moguls, I commented to my cabin-mates that it made me feel like a bit of a loser to see these 18- or 20-year olds shred up the mountain. Dave and Erica were confused by this, so I explained that, at 32, I haven’t achieved even a fraction of what these kids have already done, and I’m not looking to win any Olympic medals soon. I know I've lamented this fact before, but every time I consider my middle-of-the-pack status, I am both humbled and frustrated. Dave and Erica (bless them) were somewhat incredulous, and reminded me that I had run 17 miles that morning while they slept. Erica comforted, “Jodi, next time you feel like a loser, think of Dave and me.”

But it’s not only my lack of athletic superstardom that is humbling. As if I needed further evidence of my mediocrity, today I happened to come across the whereabouts of a few of my grad school housemates: One is now a relatively famous figure in the liberal media. Another is the deputy to a very important political figure. A third is running a large investment fund. And here I sit. The only thing I've ever run is a marathon.

So I called my husband, complaining on this wet and soggy New York day that I felt like one of the smallest people on this island. He asked why, and I explained. Unfortunately, if I was looking for sympathy, I should have gone elsewhere. All I got was a peeved, “Now you’re making me feel bad about myself! You married a loser.” I said, no, he didn’t understand me clearly. I am the loser. “Perfect,” he replied. “Then we’re meant for each other.”

Because I am fortunate to work with a large number of very bright, Ivy League-educated twenty- and thirty-somethings, I decided to pose my question to the larger group. I figured that, between them, they must know dozens, if not hundreds, of members of the literary, political, and business elite. So how do they feel about this? Do they sometimes feel like they don’t measure up? Do they ever feel like losers? (Sure, we have all made out okay, but none of us have dedicated Wikipedia pages or blogs about us that we didn’t write ourselves.)

As it turns out, the unanimous answer was a resounding, “Yes,” followed by the advice, “We just try not to think about it too much.” But how could one not think about it, especially living in New York, home to the largest proportion of over-achievers anywhere on the planet? Next suggestion: “Get out of NYC," which was quickly followed by, "But also avoid DC and LA.” But I’m not moving anytime soon.

Yes, it appeared that despite the almost $1 million in education between them, these Ivy Leaguers couldn’t give me any advice on how to cope with feelings of mediocrity, despite the fact that they deal with these same feelings from time to time. And then came the final piece of advice: “Just have a baby already.”

Why we do it

As everyone is no doubt aware, New York was blanketed by snow yesterday. This followed several days of snowy weather in DC, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey and, in the opinion of one Canadian girl, a laughable inability in these areas to cope with a bit of the white stuff. As my brother appropriately asked me yesterday, “I heard that NY shut down cause of snow. What kind of snow do you guys get there? Are there three foot snowflakes that weigh 40 pounds each?”

To be fair, yesterday did bring a considerable dump of snow (with icy cold winds to boot) in only twelve hours. The snow began falling in Manhattan just before sunrise, right as Zdenek and I were getting ready to head out for our run. Because of the media build-up to this “severe winter storm,” we were amused to see only an inch of snow on the ground when we rolled out of bed. We almost decided to go ahead with our scheduled 10 mile tempo; only because we weren’t sure whether we’d have adequate time did we opt for a five mile run instead (reserving the 10 miler for today). And it’s probably a good thing we did.

By the time we got to the park 30 minutes later, it was almost impossible to run. The snow/ice/rain was coming down hard, and I could barely open my eyes facing into the wind. The roads were covered in icy slush, making it impossible to do anything more than a very easy run. (God bless the Central Park crew who were already out there, salting the roads and plowing the snow as fast as it was falling. It is no lie that Central Park is home to the most well maintained six miles of asphalt anywhere.) It was one of those mornings that made me ask myself, Why am I doing this again? I could be at home with a steaming cup of coffee right now or, better yet, still in bed. Passing one lone runner in a green sweatshirt on the West side, we asked him (rhetorically), “How are you enjoying this run?” “Great!” he replied, much too enthusiastically. “This is why we do it!”

This is why we do it? Really!? We run because of the snow and sleet and wind and rain? Perhaps we run in spite of those things, but definitely not because of them. I’ll admit, a tough run through terrible conditions is a sure way to make me feel like a hero, but I’ll take sunny days and calm winds any day over the satisfaction from triumphing over adverse conditions. What in the world was that man thinking? I can only conclude that the ice pellets hammering his head had left him in a temporary state of delirium.

This morning, we awoke at 5:30 am to the sound of our pre-programmed coffee machine (so “very suburban” of me, as one of my coworkers recently mocked) and soon made it to the door to face our ten mile tempo. Outside, the winds were absolutely howling on our little corner of the UWS, and I opened the door only a crack before quickly shutting it again. Zdenek muttered something about “going back to bed” and then commanded, “Just open the door! You’re psyching me out!” And off we went, onto our icy, uneven, ankle-twist-inducing sidewalk and through the empty streets in the pre-dawn light. It was slow-going.

But upon entering the park, we predictably found ourselves running in almost complete solitude on a (mostly) cleared road (the Central Park snow removal team are not miracle-workers, after all). The majestic elms of Central Park were covered down the lengths of their north-facing trunks in a full dusting of snow (one positive side effect of strong winds, I guess). The ground was blanketed in fluffy white. We saw snow-men, a snow-woman, and even a rather impressive snow-dog. Zdenek and I both commented to each other at least once, “This is so beautiful!” And under breaking skies, over occasionally slippery roads, I ran a solid 10.3 miles. (Remarkably, I even hit my target paces.)

If I were not so accustomed to heading out no matter the weather, and perhaps if five miles weren’t a perfectly manageable run to me, then I would never have found myself in the necessary shape and with adequate motivation to run ten miles this morning in the prettiest of winter conditions. Perhaps that runner in the green sweatshirt was right, and yesterday’s conditions are the reason I run, after all. Perhaps every run in abysmal weather is just preparation for the real thing.

Flip-turn

Tuesday’s run, as detailed, left me feeling positively elated. In fact, the whole day from start to finish was a winner: A great run. A fantastic, swanky lunch along Central Park South. The closing of a deal that I’ve been working on for months. The season premiere of LOST. In fact, by the time I got home on Tuesday after work, I was so thrilled about how my day had gone that I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to take full advantage of my good fortune and fit in as many more wonderful experiences as possible, so I changed into my suit and headed to the pool for an unscheduled swim.

My first 500 meters or so weren't too bad. I wasn’t super fast but nor was I super slow. My legs were tired from the morning’s run but I focused mostly on my upper body. All seemed to be going well. And then, somewhere between 750 and 1000 m, it all went very, very wrong.

At first, I just couldn’t breathe quite properly, and found myself gasping for air after only a few strokes. I kept hitting the lane ropes. The pool seemed too murky and I had a hard time focusing (this may, disgustingly, have been the reality). And then suddenly my flip-turns ceased to be flip-turns at all, and instead became some sort of half somersault that left me bobbing, disoriented, two feet away from the wall. I tried to flip-turn on the next lap. Same problem. And then next one. And then next. Granted, I’ve never been a champion flip-turner (Zdenek looks like some sort of streamlined dolphin when his legs flip over and he powerfully glides away from the wall, bullet-like), but this was ridiculous. So when Zdenek and the girl in the next lane started laughing at my muddled “swimming,” I decided it was time to call it at day.

Approaching the pool this morning at 6:30 am was a bit frightening. Had I forgotten how to swim, or at least how to turn around? Did I damage the part of my brain responsible for somersaults? Would I be laughed out of the pool yet again? Was my swimming career already over? But the pink sunrise over Central Park was shining in the through the windows lining the pool deck, and the “Fast” lane was empty, calm, and beckoning. I jumped in. Twenty-five meters later, I found myself flipping, turning, and pushing off the wall. And again. And again. Until, 1800 m later, I headed to the showers.

I now realize that what happened to me during Tuesday’s swim was likely due to complete and utter exhaustion -- I (pathetically) lacked the necessary energy to throw my legs over my body. Tuesday morning’s tempo certainly did a number on me, and perhaps if I had just rested that night instead of trying to squeeze in an unnecessary swim, I would have been better off for it all week long. I learned that I really do have a finite amount of energy and, indeed, a finite number of flip-turns, available in one day. Tuesday night's activities should have consisted solely of flipping on the remote and turning to LOST.

A great place to run

I have a confession to make: I did not end up running my 8 mile OMP (that’s “ordinary mortal pace,” or basically a comfortably hard run) after work yesterday evening. I did, however, come very, very close to it. So close, in fact, that I had my Clif bar in hand and was almost changing into my running tights, but Zdenek (who, to his credit, was fully willing to do the run) reasoned that we’d be better off having dinner, getting to bed at a decent hour, recovering from our lingering hangover, and running the OMP Tuesday morning instead. We would then shift our workouts around slightly (choice b) to schedule our difficult tempo run (at 30 seconds per mile faster than the OMP) on Thursday. Ideally, this would still leave us rested enough to run 18 miles on Saturday.

So that is what we did. Except that we didn’t.

This morning’s run started off questionably. It took us almost a full hour to get out the door (due to delicious coffee and a few too many trips to the bathroom); once we did, I realized that my heart rate monitor had gone totally wonky and was reading 199. While I normally rely on my heart rate during training runs to ensure my effort is hard enough but never too hard, this morning I was forced to simply go by feel. And I felt great. So great, in fact, that by the time my monitor kicked in again about 1.5 miles later, I realized that my heart rate was in tempo, rather than OMP, territory. But I didn’t slow the pace. Climbing Cat Hill around mile four, Zdenek commented that we might as well be doing our tempo run today. I suggested slowing down, but he retorted, “Finish what you started.”

And finish we did. I ran a perfect tempo pace for a full eight miles (which is 2.5 miles more at tempo pace than required by my training plan), and my resulting heart rate was spot-on (if not lower than anticipated). It was an exceptionally good run for me. I felt fantastic completing it, and even better knowing that Thursday’s run will be a more relaxed effort. This made me think of an interesting interview with Kara Goucher that I recently read, in which she talks about following an unscripted training plan and running by feel (which is, apparently, the Kenyan way). If she feels good, she trains hard. If she’s having a rough day, she backs off. She aims for a certain number of miles each week and a few key workouts, but the rest is decided on the fly.

It took me a few miles today to get over the fact that I was supposed to be running an OMP but was instead hammering out a tempo. For the first loop, a small battle played out between my mind, which wanted to follow the script, and my body, which wanted to write its own rules. Thankfully, I let my body win, and I was rewarded with the most perfect eight miles. The best place to run is in my element.

Real enjoyment

This past Saturday, in talking with my sister, I learned that one of my nephews has decided to take his training to a new level. Without going into too many of the details, he very much wants to improve his competitive swimming but feels that three practices per week offers insufficient pool time to realize his full potential. And so, recently, he approached the front desk of his local swimming pool to request an open swim schedule and purchase a book of drop-in passes. He has committed himself to swimming two times per week -- before school at 6:30 am or so -- on his own and in addition to his usual club practices. Did I mention that my nephew is just shy of ten years old?

As his running, swimming, and cycling aunt, I beamed with pride to hear my sister tell me this, and I sincerely hope that both of them stick to their new plan (because, of course, his ability to make a morning pool time will depend on her ability and willingness to get up earlier than usual to drive him to the pool). My sister’s life is, to put it mildly, extremely hectic, and so I can’t say I’ll blame her if this new commitment ends up falling through the cracks. Nevertheless, I applaud my nephew for even suggesting an increase in his training intensity, and I’m delighted that he’s enjoying swimming as much as he is (and so, too, is my other nephew, who recently told me, “I finally found the sport that I really, really, really enjoy”).

The truth is, though, if my nephews are enjoying swimming as much as they claim to be, then extra swim practices and early mornings probably don’t feel like work at all. Training can almost become the opposite of work and, indeed (in the adult world at least), relief from work. I know this feeling well. Tonight on my calendar, for example, I have a work party (complete with dinner and drinks) at a swanky Manhattan location. Unfortunately, though, I missed my scheduled eight miler this morning, and so I am faced with the choice of: (a) missing this run altogether (unheard of); (b) shuffling around my runs for this week to try to accommodate it elsewhere (annoying); or, (c) skipping the party and heading to that other Manhattan hot spot, Central Park. I have opted for (c). Though I was a bit nervous to reveal to my co-workers my reason for missing tonight’s party, I found that everyone I told had the same reaction: “That makes sense. That’s a very good reason to skip the party.” I guess my co-workers understand that it’s the one thing I really, really, really enjoy.