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.”

Perfect conditions

Tomorrow morning, I'll be without my training partner, under cloudy skies, and dealing with a packed calendar. I'm leaving Zdenek and New York behind for a business trip, and I won't return until late Friday. My days are scheduled with meetings and seminars from start to finish. And while the weather here is likely to be close to perfect, where I'm headed, they're expecting a solid week of clouds and rain. These represent less than ideal conditions all round.

The conditions this morning, however, were near perfect for our 10k: 12 degrees, sunny skies, beautiful colors. We ran fluidly and at a good clip, and I was surprised by our final time given my tired legs and sleepy state. Zdenek has definitely become "a runner," if that's defined as someone who enjoys getting out of bed before 6 am to fit in an extra few miles and is still raving several hours later about what a great a time he had. As for me, I've knocked 10 to 15 seconds off my per-mile pace for most runs, and my usual long runs are 15 to 30 seconds faster than this time last year.

I'm not sure whether it's having a (stronger, faster) partner with whom to run, the beneficial effects of all my cycling, or a bit of both that is responsible for the (modest) jump in my fitness. Perhaps it's the total lack of a schedule -- the unfocused spirit with which I've approached all of my running and cycling over the last six months -- that has allowed me to push myself in a different way. It seems that unexpected rewards are found when one deviates from the plan to try new things with an open mind. Having a best friend along for the ride (or the run, as appropriate) makes it all the sweeter. And sunny skies are always welcome.

A significant climb

I feel as though lately I've come across a disproportionate number of articles telling me that, despite all of the opportunities and choices before us, women in our society are still having a tough time. An OpEd piece in this weekend's NYTimes summarized a few (rather depressing) studies suggesting that, while men get happier with age, women actually become unhappier. Clearly this piece resonated with a lot of readers, because it wound up as the most emailed story on the NYTimes website within 48 hours. Another piece in this morning's Globe and Mail, which I read over my morning cup of coffee, reminded me that women still face systemic discrimination in the workplace, and many women who climb the corporate ladder will eventually opt to get off it altogether. I barely had time to digest the possible reasons for or implications of this before an email arrived in my inbox, alerting me that one successful woman whom I know is, indeed, exercising that option. Is it really true, as these newspaper articles would have us believe, that "the further up a woman climbs, the lonelier she's going to be"?

I'm no sociologist or other expert on these matters, and I'm not in any position to opine on whether these statistics reveal a depressing truth about whether today's woman can really "have it all." I'm not even sure that I, personally, have sufficient life experiences to definitively say whether I currently, or will eventually, count myself among the growing cohort of unhappy and disillusioned women. I did, however, have an interesting experience this morning that, even independently of these news pieces, got me thinking about the differences between the sexes, and how I react to them.

Zdenek and I got one loop in together this morning before he was forced to head home with a punctured tire. We'd only been out for 20 minutes, and since it seemed a waste to get out of bed that early for such a short workout, I stayed in the Park to do another loop or two on my own. I wasn't feeling particularly energetic this morning; indeed, on the first loop, Zdenek and I agreed to just take it easy today. But once I was on my own, my mindset shifted slightly. I realized, as I often do, that I was one of the few women cyclists in the Park (on this weekend's ride to and from Piermont, Caitlin and I saw only one other woman on the whole trip). Obviously there are plenty of recreational and professional women cyclists out there, but I think it's fair to say that they are in the minority. I am not sure why cycling is more attractive or accessible to men. I have a few pet theories, but will leave those for another post.

But I digress. This morning, a few minutes into my first solo loop, I had the urge to push the pace on my own. It was partly a test of my abilities -- physical and mental -- without Zdenek by my side or leading the way. Once I began going hard, though, it seemed like a failure to allow my speed to drop, and so I forced myself to keep at it. Just before the north end of the Park, a group of 10 or 12 men in matching team jerseys flew past me, and about a half-mile later, I caught up to them near the bottom of Harlem Hill. I stuck to my pace, thinking I might get an assisted ride up the hill by staying behind them. Within seconds, though, I had to go around them, lest I slow my pace. Before I knew it, I was charging up the hill, putting more sweat and pain into the ascent than I have ever done, with or without Zdenek. My legs were burning, my breathing heavy. I focused on my cadence. I forced myself to maintain my speed.

Do not let them see you slow down. Keep going. You passed them; do not let them pass you. Do not be "just a girl."

I can say with pride that I emerged victorious on that climb. I made it up in record time with maximum effort, and the work was mine and mine alone. But as I crested the top, I realized that passing a group of men had brought out a competitive, yet defensive, side of me. I can't say for certain, but if it had been a team of women cyclists, I think I would have been more content to stay near the back. If Zdenek had been with me at all, I would have had a good excuse to ignore the other riders -- as I often do -- because I would have had a partner to focus on.

But when I realized that it was just me versus the boys, and that I had even a small chance of passing -- and beating -- them, I was forced to seize it. While I know that they probably weren't trying very hard and that they could have easily put the hammer down if they so desired, the fact is, they didn't. I did. And once I made my move, I wasn't going to let them pass me, because that would make me "just a girl." There may be some truth to the notion that the further up a woman goes, the lonelier she's going to be. But sometimes, the climb is worth it.

It's comfortable in the middle

We spend a lot of our time celebrating success. We admire those who work hard to reach the top of their respective games, we strive to do the same, and we tend to spend a lot of time lamenting the fact that we haven't achieved enough. Or at least I do. In spite of my attempts on this blog to put things in perspective and focus on finding silver linings, I am definitely a "glass is half empty" kind of girl. Living in the Big Apple, it's hard to not constantly compare myself to others who are better educated, more successful, further ahead in their careers, more ambitious, etc. The list goes on.

I have one friend who has worked for the same company since graduation. He is smart, capable, and very good at his job. But he's always resistant to taking on more responsibility at work and, indeed, has made every attempt to actively avoid any managerial responsibilities. I've always thought this was amusing, and somewhat strange, too. Who wouldn't want recognition at work and to take on everything the job has to offer?

I am neither a mover nor a shaker. I don't run a company, I don't negotiate multi-billion dollar transactions, and I'm definitely not -- to borrow a title coined by Michael Lewis in "Liar's Poker" -- a BSD. Nevertheless, over the last few years, my status on the totem pole has risen ever-so-slightly, and the realm of my responsibility has grown just a tad. This is good because it is, after all, my goal. Right?

But with responsibility comes, well, responsibility. As it happens, my small area of responsibility is up against a pretty tight deadline, which happens to fall over this weekend. It is thus with disappointment, but perhaps simple resignation, that I find myself forced to cancel my weekend trip to Canada that I have had planned since October. I probably won't be tied to my desk in New York all weekend, and I hope to take advantage of the good weather to cycle a lot, enjoy my dinners al fresco, and generally relax, but still, I'd rather be elsewhere.

And so, I give a shout-out to all the middle-of-the-packers who aim to finish, not win; to those who do a good job at their jobs, but don't worry that they might not be doing enough; and to anyone who doesn't necessarily wish for more because they're "just fine, thank you very much!"

Three cheers for mediocrity!

Rockets and running

Today marked the last “long” run before the marathon next week. Given that I'm into taper, this meant only nine easy miles were required. Of course, as anyone who has ever trained for a marathon knows all too well, for some reason, cutting back on the mileage tends not to feel as good as it should. Even the short, relatively easy runs that make up this week and the next seem too difficult and too long. My legs feel heavy, my breathing labored. Nagging aches and pains have started to crop up in all sorts of funny places. Experienced athletes will give you lots of pseudo-scientific, physiological reasons for this. They’ll claim that your body is so accustomed to working out hard that it crashes with even a 10-20% reduction in overall intensity. I find this hard to believe. While I know that exercise increases energy levels (apparently, though I beg to differ following a 20 mile run or an intense bout of intervals) and that the less you do, the less you feel like doing, tapering represents only a very modest reduction in training and, if anything, should provide some much needed rest.

I tend to subscribe to the theory that more psychological factors are at work. After 16+ weeks of dedicated training in which I checked off most of my miles but not necessarily all of my target paces or heart rates, the last week before the big day leaves me wondering if I’m really that well prepared to run this thing, and especially to run it at my target pace. This self-doubt is compounded by the realization that, with only one week left to go, there’s nothing more to be done between now and race day. If I haven’t squeezed it into the last 16 weeks of marathon training -- whatever “it” might be – I won’t be doing it at all. There are no more opportunities to improve my speed, strength, or endurance. In seven days, I need to show my hand. But my tendency to distress over missed opportunities and lament what I'll never have the chance to do extends beyond my running. It also extends to space exploration.

Last summer I tried to be an Astronaut. The Canadian Space Agency (yes, we have one) decided that it was time to hire a couple of Canucks to train as astronauts, and they announced that they would be choosing two lucky winners to join Canada’s “next generation of space explorers.” When I say that I have always wanted to be an astronaut, this is mostly true. Certainly I wanted to be one when I was seven years old, and, though I never actually did anything that would increase my chances of becoming one, it remains the coolest job I can think of. Seriously, I challenge you to think of a response to the usually boring "so-what-do-you-do-for-a-living" dinner party conversation that could elicit as many oooohs and aaaaahs as, "I FLY ROCKET SHIPS INTO SPACE!!!"

It was therefore with much enthusiasm that I submitted my Round 1 application last summer, proudly noting that I met the basic height, blood pressure, and educational requirements. When I was subsequently “selected” for Round 2 (never mind whether the selection was automated or not), I immediately began to compose and deliver my essay, “Why I should become Canada’s next astronaut.” My friends were proud. My coworkers were amused. My husband was fearful. I was doubtful, but secretly hopeful.

As you probably guessed, I didn’t make it past Round 2. Those that did have skills that I most definitely do not, such as in flying fighter planes or designing rocket ships. And while I wasn’t really expecting to make it to Round 3 or beyond, it was still a bit of a bummer when I received my automated response. The email ended by saying, “We would like to thank you for your interest in the astronaut recruitment campaign and the Canadian Space Program, and wish you good luck in your future endeavours.”

One thing that is painfully obvious to me is that my “future endeavours” will not include going into space, unless I someday buy a tourist-class ticket. I will never be an astronaut. That ship has sailed, the train has left the station, the rocket has left the launch pad (and I’m not in it). This makes me a little sad, because I have a nagging worry about lost opportunities in my life, and the lack of time to make new ones. I’m only 31 years old, but already I feel like I’ve missed a lot of chances along the way that I’ll never get back. Not only will I never join the esteemed Canadian Space Agency and therefore never have access to the secret files revealing that the moon landing was, indeed, an elaborate hoax, neither will I ever be a doctor or a lawyer, which are also professions that I aspired to at some point in my youth. I’ll never cure cancer or sit on the Supreme Court. Heck, I’ll probably never even live in Paris and perfect my French.

Similarly, I realize that I may never be a 3:10 marathoner (assuming I have the innate ability) because I didn’t start running early enough, and soon I’ll have to start readjusting my PR goals upwards by five minutes with every five years of age, anyway. And while there may have been more I could have done during this round of training to prepare for next week's race, the training is in the bag. There are always things I could have done, but sometimes, I need to remind myself that it may be better to keep my head out of the clouds, feet firmly planted on the ground.

What it's worth

I'm currently in training for the May 10 Mississauga Marathon. This has probably been this most demanding (largely self-imposed) training I've ever done, and lately it has me wondering how we value our accomplishments and those of others. I'm up to 45-50 miles per week right now, and I've been diligently lifting weights and doing core work twice a week. I've also been forcing myself to do 2x20 lunges after two of my runs every week to strengthen my quads (and therefore my knees and downhill running ability), and sometimes I think that this is actually the most difficult aspect of my training; I've never quite experienced rubber legs like those brought on by walking lunges after a 7 or 8 mile run. Happily, my efforts seem to be paying off: my times up hills and in speed intervals are a wee bit faster than they've ever been, and every second saved per mile is a big deal when you multiply it by 26.2. For the first time in my life, I actually have noticeable definition to my arms, which pleases me to no end when flexing in front of my mirror at home. My knees don't ache like they used to after a long run. I'm hoping that all of this will lead to a PR at Missy.

Still, I could be doing more: I don't stretch enough after runs (I'd rather drink my coffee); I haven't done yoga in months (boring); and I could easily stand to do another one or two core workouts per week (but at least I'm doing two right now). And if I really want to be a stronger, faster, more resilient runner, I know that I could add exercises like plyometrics to the mix. I never watch what I eat or drink, but I'm certain that, if I did, I'd probably lose five pounds and, in turn, five minutes off my PR. After reading about Kara Goucher's weekly training schedule in this month's Runner's World (110 miles per week, plus loads of strength work to boot), what I'm doing seems rather unimpressive indeed.

In some respects, I'm not that concerned. I'm not, after all, training for the Olympics, let alone hoping to win my age group in a race. I'm relatively fit, I never miss a workout, and I see modest improvements year after year. Why should I compare myself to Kara Goucher, a supremely gifted professional who devotes all of her time and energy to running? Are my accomplishments as a runner worth less because I'm simply not as fast and don't train as much or as hard, and no major sports brand would ever pay me to wear their clothing line? Or are they, perhaps, worth more, at least to me, because everything I've accomplished thus far has been against the odds?

Ten years ago, I would never have dreamed of calling myself an "athlete." (That still feels like a bit of an overstatement, but perhaps describing myself as "athletic" isn't so far from the truth.) Sports have never come naturally to me. I'm not very coordinated, I'm rather slow on the track, and I wasn't blessed with a naturally svelte physique. I've always been the academic one who got straight As and full scholarships. But I realize now, after 7+ years of running devotion, that, because I never had to struggle in school, it never brought me the same level of satisfaction as I now get through running. I feel absolutely heroic after I've run a "practice" 22 mile race on a Saturday morning or sprinted repeatedly up hills at 6 am in the freezing cold of winter. Every run is a challenge; every mile logged a victory. It is often the most difficult part of my day, and is therefore the most rewarding. I may not be that speedy and I could certainly always be doing more, but it's no secret that the first time I qualified for Boston ranks as the second most important day of my life (behind getting engaged to my husband, and ahead of actually marrying him; my husband knows this and, I think, understands).

It's wonderful to be naturally gifted at school or sports or music or art, and those gifts, when leveraged appropriately, can take one far in life. To others, they may seem to be the most impressive thing about a person. But a true sense of accomplishment, at least for me, has been found where I would have least expected it. Running has taught me that the things at which I have to try the hardest are usually the ones that will bring me the greatest joy.