Humble pie

I’m not a prideful person. Really, I’m not. But, apparently, God sees something in me that needs a dose of humility.

I’m aware that I haven’t run much in the past 8 years or so. I also know that I’ve never been fast and never been faithful about strength training. So, this year, in an attempt to reclaim my health, I’ve set some very achievable goals for myself. Strength training 3 days a week, swimming afterward, walking 45 minutes to an hour the other days, with my eye on dropping a little running into the mix by the end of the year. Doable, right?

Not being a gym rat, and having a deep aversion to gyms in general, I half heartedly decided to use the Y membership I’ve been paying for since October of last year. My man is playing pickle ball, which doesn’t interest me at all, so I strength train for 30 minutes, then swim with a goal of eventually swimming for 35-45 minutes.

I started last week and swam the first time on Friday. Geez. I forgot how hard swimming is. After 4 laps, I was tired. After 6 laps, I was nauseated and decided to cut my losses.

Fast forward to today, and I was able to swim 10 laps (or about 15 minutes) fairly easily and no nausea. I’m calling that a win.

I’ve never been competitive. My motto has always been to just try to be better today than I was yesterday. I’m struggling with this return to exercise, but I know that the end result will make it worthwhile.

That 45 minute swim and that one mile run seem really far away right now. I’ll keep you updated.

Just a boy excited about breakfast

Aging with grace

You know you’re getting older when you take a nap and throw your back out.

Yep. I did that just a few weeks ago. Don’t know how or why. But there it is. Four weeks later and I’m still channeling my Mamaw’s grunts.

So. Where do I go from here?

Getting older is a beautiful promise. But, it’s also a b**ch. There. I said it. I guess it depends on the day as to which one I subscribe to.

I’ve watched my predecessors. My parents weren’t much for movement and they died before they should have. My in-laws, on the other hand, have been movers all their lives, and at 87 and 86 are still going pretty strong.

My takeaway? Get my a** in gear.

So, I’m moving. So slowly it barely counts. I stretch every day. Most days, I walk twice a day. S. L. O. W. L. Y. Seriously, butterflies whiz past me. Still, I persist.

I’m not sure I’m aging gracefully, but I’m trying. And, isn’t that the most important thing? I’m barreling toward 60 on a trajectory I can do nothing about. After the last year, I really understand that I don’t know what the future holds. Two of my classmates (both under 60) died this week. Both unexpectedly. Holy crap!

There are no promises that we’ll age with grace. But, I think continual movement is one of the keys. So, I’ll keep moving, however slowly. I’ll keep stretching and walking and gardening and cleaning house. And, hopefully, I won’t throw my back out by taking a nap again.

Old dogs, new tricks

A long time ago, when I was running strong and couldn’t envision a time that I wouldn’t be, I wrote a post in which I made the statement, “I love my legs.” It wasn’t a boastful post, as my legs are nice, but nothing to crow about. Rather, it was a post about thankfulness. Thankful that my legs took me places, held me up, helped in my quest for adventure. Years later, after many injuries, come-backs, more injuries, and illnesses which sidelined me from running, I have to say that statement stands. Probably even more now than then, I’m thankful for my legs. They take me where I want to go, and I know many people who don’t share that privilege. They’ve led me into new adventures, proving, yet again, that old dogs can absolutely learn new tricks.

Gary and I have been hiking for a number of years, and a few weeks ago, we were hiking in the Sipsey Wilderness area of Bankhead National Forest in Alabama. It’s fall here in the south, and the colors and sights are breathtaking. I made an off-hand comment that I’d be willing to do some wilderness backpacking, and that was all my man needed. Many dollars later, he had us outfitted and ready for bear. If you know me, you know I’m very attached to my perfect mattress and high thread count sheets, but I’m more game in my old age than I used to be, so we took a week and devoted it to hiking and backpacking.

Oh my. I can’t even describe how glad I am we’ve added wilderness backpacking to our repertoire. Come along as I take you on our first foray into the wild.

Thompson Trailhead

Don’t let the bucolic scene above make you believe this is going to be an easy hike. Because it’s not. All the info we read (And by we, I mean Gary) claims this is a fairly easy trail, and maybe it is if you’re 25 and in great shape. I’m not. The trail is medium to hard hiking, with lots of downed trees, slippery rocks, and up and down traverses with tricky footing. But the views…

We hiked roughly six miles in, then set up camp, as it was not too long until dark. As always, my man prepared us well.

After putting the cover on and the sleeping bags in, this was as cozy a nest as I’ve ever slept in.

Filtering water

Not quite Mamaw’s dumplings, but very tasty all the same

Getting ready for dinner

After a solid 12 hours in the sack, we were ready for adventure the next day. We set off in search of the Big Tree, but took a wrong turn somewhere and didn’t find it. No worries, though. Just a reason to come back.

We returned to camp and packed up to head back. On the return journey, we ran into some friends.

Pays to keep your nose clean. No telling where you might meet your pastor.

After roughly 18 miles in two days on bodies not quite as young as they used to be, I’ll admit the last two miles to the truck felt a lot like a death march. We finally made it back, stopped for a hot meal, then headed back to our base camp at Trace State Park in Tupelo for a really good night’s rest.

He’s an artist as well as trip planner. And, I’m pretty sure he’s Superman (Don’t tell anybody).

Forty pound packs are new to me. I felt like I needed ankle weights when I took it off to keep me on the ground.

And, finally, a reminder to bloom where you’re planted. This tree grew on a rock…

There are many more wilderness backpacking hikes in our future, I hope. This one, our first in almost 40 years of marriage, was a magnificent success.

A voice from the past

This time eight years ago, my man and I were winging our way north for me to run my first marathon in NYC. So far it’s a one and done, but who knows what the future holds.

I’m always nostalgic as the first Sunday of November looms, so I went back to read some of the posts that were the reason I started this blog to begin with. This one felt appropriate to reblog this week as runners begin filing into NYC in the thousands. Sure wish I was there.

THE VIEW FROM THE BACK OF THE PACK

It’s been almost a week, I’m walking normally again, and the last glow of finishing has faded from my cheeks.  It was a back to reality type of week, I hit the ground running mid-week to make up for time away from the studio at this busy, busy time.  But, I couldn’t resist one last post about the race.  I wanted you to know how it feels to run at the back of the pack.  I had a bird’s eye view from there, so I’ll fill you in.

The view from Staten Island before the race

Starting in the third wave of a 47,000+ racing field allows you to know that you’re among friends.  The third wavers are mostly running enthusiasts who race to enjoy the experience, not to set land speed records.  The race announcer noticed the difference immediately as we crowded together at the bottom of the Verrazano Narrows bridge.  He commented that we were definitely the rowdiest group to start.  There was lots of laughter, shouts of joy, singing, even dancing around with glee.  We sang along with “God Bless America,” even the runner beside me who spoke little English and asked me twice what the song was.  She hummed along and raised her hands just as the rest of us did.  There were lots of older runners, groups of women run/walking together, a husband and wife team dressed alike in running bras and skirts (yes, really), fun costumes, and joy abundant.  Off we went.

I mentioned in the previous post how much I liked Brooklyn, and I just want to re-emphasize that here.  It was still early enough that thousands of people lined the streets.  Kids, parents, grandparents, maintenance workers, all manner of people were out, shouting for us, calling our names, high fiving us, encouraging us. Many brought signs to encourage, some for specific runners, others for general encouragement.  One of my favorites was “Black toenails are sexy”, held aloft by an NYPD fireman.  Made me laugh.  And, for those of you who are keeping count, I lost my third toenail after the race.  No matter, it was worth it.  Brooklyn was amazing.  I would run that section of the race over again tomorrow if I could.

On into Queens, and then that wicked, wicked bridge.  I won’t whine about it, but it did take the wind out of my sails.  I was really looking forward to rounding into Manhattan onto First Avenue, I had heard stories about the solid wall of people who would be there to give us fresh legs with their yells.  Alas, I had not counted on it being so late in the race, and many of the merry makers had left their posts to get on with their days (or head into the pub).  There were still a fair number there, and that was when I realized one of the benefits to being a back of the packer.  The people who were left cheering knew that we were the ones who would struggle to the finish line, and their encouragement became very personal.  I had not put my name on my shirt as many racers did, because my name is not pronounced the way it is spelled and I didn’t want to hear people yelling for “Jane” the entire race.  (It’s spelled Jayne, pronounced Janie,  not a big deal, but it is my name, after all.)  However, I began to wish that I had put it on my shirt, anyway.  The encouragers yelled to me, some of the bands sang for me and yelled encouragement into their mikes, and made me feel like they were truly rooting for me.  And, the fun thing about this race is that they really were.  One guy even ran into the road, picked me up, and hugged me!

Through Manhattan, into the Bronx, then that long, seemingly endless 5k with legs made of lead, through Central Park, out onto Central Park South, then across the finish line.  I’ve read comments posted by some of the earlier finishers that there was a lot of congestion at the chute leading away from the finish.  Another advantage to being a back of the packer is that there was no congestion by the time I got there.

I share this back of the pack experience because I want anyone who has a desire to run to realize there’s no shame in being there.  Do I wish I was faster?  Of course.  But,  another advantage to my race is that I remember every single step, each mile, many of the faces.  It was a fantastic, bucket list experience that I wouldn’t change in any way.  

Added bonus: when you run at the back of the pack, there are no lines at the port-a-lets!  😉

Central Park Monday after the race

If this was my one and done, I’m really glad it was NYC.

The “D” word

Today’s run was one of those ugly, demoralizing events that made me question whether I should just throw in the towel, quit trying to rebuild my running base and take up competitive eating. I think I would be really good at that. I’m not that great at running.

Yes, it was ugly.  If you live in the south, you know that it’s hot.  No, I said that wrong.  IT’S.  HOT.  Insanely hot. Even for me, who really likes to sweat.  Especially if, through your own laziness and forgetfulness, you get up late, forget there’s a 5k at your usual running spot, and have to drive 15 minutes to another one.  No one to blame but me.  I know I need to be running no later that 6:15, so when I don’t get up until then, I’m already in a deficit.  Anyway, enough complaining.  It was hot, I was late, it was hard, it was ugly, but I got it done.  Four miles, even.  You did not want to be downwind from me when it was done.  And, if there’s any cell phone video of it while it was happening, I’m going to be needing that.  No one else needs to see just how ugly it really was.

Today’s run (and other recent doozies) was a reminder to me that nothing worthwhile (like good health) is easy to obtain.  I’ve managed to let me health decline, while allowing my weight to creep up, and it’s just going to take awhile to get back to the starting line.  As my wise daughter texted me the other day, “I wish getting fat hurt as much as getting fit.”  Ain’t it the truth.  (She’s so far from fat that’s almost laughable, but she knows the struggle is real, so she’s putting the effort in early.)  If getting fat hurt as much as getting fit did, I know for a fact I would be a size 2.  Running hurts.  Pizza feels good.  Not eating bread sucks.  I’m sorry, there’s just no other way to really say that.  

It’s physically and mentally painful to get fit.  It often requires more effort than I’m willing to give it, and this time of year, in South Mississippi, it takes 10 times the amount of effort it took just three short weeks ago.

I know why I do it.  I want to be healthy. I love to live life; scuba diving, hiking, exploring, letting my feet and lungs take me places others never get to go.  I have a hunger to experience life that it seems only my feet can fill.  I like the way the world looks from the trail.  And, I can’t run that trail, hike that hill, dive that reef, even walk all day in a new city, if I don’t keep chasing that running dream.  For me, it’s that simple.  

The reality of that 5 am wake up call is something else altogether.

Which brings me to that “D” word.

That verse is the first one I ever committed to memory as an adult out of need. It’s meant various things to me over the years. I’ve called it forth when I was fearful of something, whether it was as simple as singing a solo in church, or as monumental as trying to mend relationships that seemed broken beyond repair. At this point in my life, the “D” word is the one that jumps out. Yes, Discipline. Yuk. There are several translations of the words “self-discipline”, some translate it as “sound mind”, others as “self-control”. This is my favorite translation.

As I’ve pulled it into my heart this week in a daily reminder, I realized something that I don’t think I ever thought of before. This is a gift God has given me. The ability to discipline myself. Discipline as a gift? That had to settle in awhile before I grasped the absolute loveliness of it.

As with all His gifts, He’s given me the choice of whether to receive it or not. I can continue in my life as I have: sleeping in, eating/drinking too much, not allowing this gift of discipline to take hold in my life and set me on the path towards my goals; or I can embrace it with open arms and let it fill me with determination (another “D” word). I choose the latter.

Sigh. I really miss pizza.