On Finding My Life Pace Group

When I first started running again, back in 2011, I did it, in part, to have something that was *mine*. Something I was in control of. Something that I could call every shot in.

I had just gone back to work, after spending 3+ years at home, with my kids and I wasn't entirely pleased about it. I had loved being at home. It wasn't my *choice* initially, as I was laid off, but I loved it, all the same.

It wasn't entirely my *choice* to go back to work either. Mr. Man had been laid off and we were both scrambling to find employment. Which we both did. Within mere weeks of one another.

Making matters worse, I wasn't exactly warmly received by my coworkers and I felt awkward and unwanted...but I needed that job, whether I liked it or not.

When I was home, I had my kids and the PTO and all of the different organizations I had gotten involved in. I identified them as my "tribe".  I never had to sit alone at the table...anywhere I went, I had a spot.

At the office, I had no such spot. Everything was grey and lonely. People were sniping at one another and I got the sideways eyeball at least 4 or 5 times a day. And because I was now at the office during the day, the rest of my 'tribe" moved on, without me. They were still in the same circles, but I had become an outsider, peering in through the glass.

Not one to just sit back and wallow in a situation that I don't like, I set out to find something to fill the void that I was feeling. I tried doing the group fitness, yoga thing...but it didn't really come to me very naturally. I never really felt *relaxed*. The classes were at times that just didn't suit and I'd have to move mountains to make it work. Mostly, I just felt guilty.  

Guilty for leaving work a little early to get there.
Guilty for getting to the class almost late.
Guilty for not being home with my kids after so many hours away from home.
Guilty for not at least trying to hang around and socialize and make friends afterwards.

So I stopped going. Clearly the "zen crowd" wasn't my new tribe.


After a few months, I decided to get back into running. It was pretty simple really...I could go whenever  and wherever I wanted to. My kids had soccer practice several nights a week, and it was something I could do while I was there. I set whatever pace felt comfortable and was just pleased with myself for *doing* it. And *bonus*, I had a friend who was slogging through a C25K program with me...so we were a tribe...of 2.

That first 5K came and went, and my interest in running didn't wane. A gulf in ability had started to develop between my friend and I though, and we stopped running together much.

I stepped out on my own, and running became my own thing.

It started to fill that void...I started running early in the morning...when no one else was up. The pre-dawn roads of my small town became my own private playground.

And for a while, this was good.

Over time though, I started yearning to "find my people". I wanted people to talk to. People to bounce ideas and thoughts off of. People to get advice and understanding from. I started looking online, and discovered some great runners. I interacted with them...cheered them from afar...admired their accomplishments and sheepishly shared my own. The longer I "knew" them, the more about their real lives I got to know. Many of them had running friends. Running groups. Running clubs.

I was jealous.

I wanted someone to run with.

I started paying closer attention to the folks that lived near me, and discovered that there were some local-ish running clubs. And as it turned out, I knew some of the folks that were members! I started reading their newsletters and websites...and the more I did, the more I noticed that these weren't just runners...these were Runners. Real Runners. Fast Runners.

I was slow. And just starting out. I couldn't possibly ask them to deign to run with me, could I?

Self consciousness prevailed, and for a long time, I didn't ask. I'd nod appreciatively at their accomplishments...dismissively answer their questions about my own runs...and secretly wish that they would offer to run with me...they didn't. In retrospect, I realize that the ambivalence I was trying to pull off in regards to my running made me seem disinterested and cold...but that was then.

Fast forward a few years...(yes, I said years.) and I was still running. Mostly

alone.

With multiple marathons and half marathons under my belt, there was really no denying the fact that I was now a Runner. A Real Runner. I started meeting other folks who were just starting out. Folks that would tell me that they were inspired and intimidated by me. And I would remember being them, and would offer to run with them.

The answer was typically the same, every time..."I'm not ready to run with you..." or "I'd slow you down..." or "I can't run as far as you can..."

I'd always say "That's ok, we can run your pace, your distance..." All I really wanted was to cobble together my own little tribe...but it didn't typically work.

And so I kept running. By myself.

After a while, I focused more attention on coercing my husband and or children to run with me. It was always nice while it lasted...at least for me. They weren't nearly so...enthusiastic...about the experience.

About a year ago, my internet trail crossed with an old acquaintance who had also become a runner. A Runner. An avid Runner.

This ushered in a new age for me, as I finally had someone to talk to and share the obsession with. And because we were far apart, the differences in our abilities didn't matter. We cheered one another on from across the interwebs. We started having virtual running dates. We'd encourage one another when one of us wasn't feeling it and give one another a kick in the ass when it was needed..which was great. Sometimes, it is nice to someone other than yourself to hold you accountable to your goals. For me, it was a refreshing change of pace, from time to time.

Eventually, this gave me an idea...and so, The O'Dark Thirty Virtual Run Club was born, on Facebook. I started out just inviting everyone that I knew was a runner to any degree, on Facebook. And people actually accepted the invite! I was delighted at how many folks accepted the invite, and started posting on the regular. And then, some of them started sharing the group with some of their friends...and before I knew it, we had a fledgling running community.

This makes me happy. Very happy. Some of them live nearby one another. Sometimes they post runs together. I love this.

And I envy this.

Several of us have actually made plans now, solid, real, money backed plans to complete a Ragnar Relay together...people from the tribe we are building. This delights me...and has given me the gumption to start taking more risks about trying to interact with other runners.

Last night, I met up with a new (to me) group of runners, for a post-work 4 miler. A work friend of mine and I planned to meet up there and run together. Which, ultimately, is exactly what happened.

Just not right away.

When I first got there, there were about 20 runners milling about, decked out in blinky-flashy-glowing safety hats, vests and knuckle lights. Not a single familiar face in the crowd. I stood off to one end, silently surveying the scene...and considered bolting. Small groups were huddled in friendly conversation...I couldn't envision an "in".

Just as I was about to back away, my friend, The Flash, appeared. I'm fairly certain that he has never, in his whole life, met a stranger. He has an open and friendly nature and immediately strikes up conversation with anyone around.

No leaving now...

We continued to wait, as he talked to a few folks he already knew. While we were waiting, a 10 year old girl came over and commented on my bracelets. We had a brief conversation and then I turned to what I assume was her mother and introduced myself. Which, for me, was a really big step.

Before long, we took off, lighting up the night and the back streets of central PA. The Flash and I chatted idly for most of the time, so I didn't really interact much with anyone else...but I was *there*. I was *present*.

As we finished up the 4 miles, the group made ready to pour inside of the restaurant that we had used as our starting an stopping point. (It is a "Beer Runners" group...) I didn't stay...but someday, maybe just maybe, I will.

Slowly, timidly, cautiously I am finding that, while I may not have a tribe to call my own right now, what I do have...what I can build for myself is a life "pace group". We may not connect on many things...but when we are running, we are a community. It's terrifying and wonderful.

Since (I've) Been Gooooooone....

I kind of promised myself that I wasn't going to do this kind of a post...the whole "let me apologize for neglecting my blog and provide an explanation from for my absence, then make promises about how I will be better this time" schtick...because, I mean, at the end of the day, this is *my* blog. I owe nothing to anyone but myself...and I already *know* the reasons and seasons that have kept me from writing. ...but then, sat down and went to write. I read the last entry. And the entry before that. And it seemed somehow...rude to just barge in and start talking as if nothing had happened. And, while I may be a great many, less than perfect things, I am not rude. My mother raised me better than that. So, hi. I'm back. At least...I think I am? I dunno. We'll see.

 Life has been...well, it's been life. It's been good and bad and then good again. It's been, above all, busy. I've run - a lot. I've traveled - a good bit. I've raced - more than ever before, but less than I eventually hope to. I've sort of found my groove...or at least my current groove. It could turn out to be more of a rut than a groove, but I'm not going to waste the time to analyze it. I'm just going to go with it.

My focus is a lot different...and a lot the same. My kids are now enormous. 7th and 8th grade. Both over 5 feet and quickly bearing down on me in that category. Both enjoy healthy, busy, hectic schedules, filled with their favorite activities and friends.

He's so looong now.

For TBC, that includes soccer and soccer and soccer. And cross country. And video games. And video games of soccer.

For TGC, that means soccer and band and chorus and musical and color guard and sleepovers and Doctor Who and Marvel and becoming a teenage girl. Gah.

Cymbal girl

Mr. Man continues to be amazing. And fallible. And I continue to love him for being both of those things. He's playing more soccer these days...and forging a more grownup flavor of relationship with TBC. Sometimes they are just father-son. Other times they are thick as thieves. I wonder how closely this echoes the relationship he had with my FIL as a young man. I'd venture to say pretty close, as it is remarkably similar to the relationship that he has with him now.

My parents moved to the sunshine state. As did my in-laws. Which often makes me wonder if we just should have stayed put, nearly 10 years ago. But then I look around, at the life we have carved out for ourselves, and I know that Florida isn't our home any more.

I still work for the same company. Although it is evolving into something different. In a good way. I love the shifts that I am seeing and I love being right in the thick of the action.

Our fur babies are still providing a steady stream of entertainment, aggravation and love for us.

We had to say goodbye to Skorja, our eldest, over the summer, as she had sunken into a world of silent darkness. Our hearts broke and still ache from the void she left.

Duchess's first run

Duchess, now the matriarch of the pack, is still as loyal and protective and loving and silly and smelly as ever. I'm teaching her to run with me...though, at nearly 8 years old, I'm not sure whether she'll ever get much past the 1-2 mile mark...but we'll see. She *wants* to come with me, so I'm not counting her out yet. Besides, her mom was 15 when we said our goodbyes this year...so she's got a lot of living left to do.

Sunbathing weenies

The weenies are needy, cuddly, lovable, stubborn little assholes. So, basically, the same as they ever were. Jasper knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he belongs in my lap, at all times. Hera knows, with absolute conviction, that she is going to steal that pizza off of the table.

And then there is the immortal cat. Shalom is still kicking around. He'll be 18 this year. He still drools when you pet him. He still has zero fucks given when it comes to the dogs. He still enjoys following me around and criticizing my every fart, turn and twist.

Running is still my passion. I went through a phase where I was bound and determined to try and become *fast*. To prove to myself that I could be a different kind of a runner. Or something. Mr. Man made the comment, at one point, that I wasn't a "serious runner"...I think that got in my head and I felt the need to prove him wrong. Which, for reasons that mystify me now, I interpreted as serious=FAST.

I spent the last months of last year and the first months of this year, working on my speed. For the first time in my life, I set actual, challenging time goals around races. I met both of those goals...it was a push, but I did it.

Funny thing though, I didn't enjoy those successes near as much as I would have hoped. I also didn't really enjoy training that way...or racing that way. Focusing on a PR means (for me) that I am focused on my watch. On my pace. On pushing a bit harder for a bit longer. It means I am focused on what the quickest way around this next little clump of runners is, rather than on what their shirts say. It means blowing past the water station and the volunteers, because "ain't nobody got time for that." It means consulate doing runner's math..."how fast do I need to run the next 5 miles to break 1:50?" and "if I am running at 'X' pace, and I have 'Y' miles left, what is my projected finish time?" Bleh.

Beginning of the rain soaked experience

A funny thing happened though. After the second PR, I got sick. (I intend to go not more detail about that in another post, as I intent to recap the races I've run over the last 24 months...but that may or may not ever happen. There, I said it.) It wasn't a *surprise* that I got sick...I'd been out on the rain and the cold and whatnot for way too long. And I had been doing a run streak for a very long time. My body was pooped. So, I got sick. I couldn't breath. I coughed and I hacked. There was no way that I could run, because I couldn't breathe deeply enough to support it. So I didn't run, for 2 weeks.

Can you believe how beautiful this is?

My next race, which I had set a time goal for, months earlier, was looming fast and hard on the horizon. And I was wheezing in bed.

It was the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler, in DC. Which is one of my favorites. It's a pretty course - especially at peak bloom...which the race fell smack dab in the midst of. You run past so many monuments, that it's practically a tour of who's who in American Presidential history. It's a relatively *easy* course. My bestie (the PIC) would be there. And I had an awesome Cherry Blossom themed outfit all ready. Priorities, man.

As I gingerly laced up for the first time, post plague, to log a few miles, I could feel that I just didn't have 10 miles at my goal pace in me.

I shed a tear and then made peace with it. And let it go.

I decided that I was going to run this race, and every race after it, for the sheer joy of running it. I was going to just run the mile I was in. Smile, talk to people, take pictures, read shirts and just be present in the moment. Screw the PR. Screw my pace. I needed to take back my race.

 And that is exactly what I did.

Over the next several months, I started running with other people.

I stopped worrying about whether they were faster or slower than I am.

I started instead focusing on just enjoying the shared experience.

I embraced my whimsy and quirks and brought them to the road.

I found (and am still finding) my tribe...my *life pace group*.

Runners run. It's what we do.

When we can share that experience with other runners, we swell with joy.

My faster friends are easily able to keep my pace and are happy to do it, for the sake of running together. We run when we want to, just for the fun of it. f they need to run race pace for training...well, then they do that, and we run another time.

I can run my slower friends' pace. And I am willing and ready and able to do just that. Sometimes I can help push them along to greater distances and greater speeds than they knew they had in them. Others we just chat.

And this is the beauty of the running community. Running is a solo act, but can be a shared experience.

A morning "run" on the AT

I've also started to dabble a bit in trail running. And running groups. Both of these things are completely outside of my comfort zone.

There is a real story here...

The trails because, hi, I'm clumsy on a flat surface. Remind me to tell you about the time that I tried to dent the pavement with my face.

The running groups because groups of people, especially those I do not know well, are terrifying. I can handle a large meeting, because I have an agenda and a persona to hide behind. In a social situation?
Cue anxiety...

Me: "who will I talk to? What will I say? Can't I just watch them? What if no one talks to me? What if someone talks to me? Ugh. Maybe I'll just stay home and run on my own. It'll be at the same time as they are running, so that's sort of the same thing, right?"

Other Me: "No. No, it's not. Pull on your big girl panties, lace up your shoes and just get out there, already. They're runners. We all have salt in our sweat."

 And so, I do it. And it's always hard. And it's always scary. And it's always infinitely better than I thought it would be.

Ever since I have embraced these changes in philosophy, I've been happier. I've expanded my social circle. Both IRL and online. I've taken some risks, put myself out there, asked to "join in"...and I have yet to be turned away.

I am modeling the behavior that I want my kids to internalize. It's ok to be afraid, but you have to keep moving.

Be present, in this moment, and run the mile you're in.

Weight, Weight...Don't Tell Me...

Everybody has their demons…some people just hide them better than others. To the casual passerby, you may appear utterly carefree and well adjusted, while on the inside, an epic battle is waging on, that sometimes threatens to tear your heart, your soul, your sanity…or maybe just your afternoon…asunder. Society tells us to chin up and mosey along…don’t let it get you down…mind over matter…but what do you do when your mind is exactly what is the matter?

I like to joke. I’m snarky and ironic and oh-so tongue-in-cheek. I’m a proud mother and will gladly bore you with endless stories about my kids. I’m a happy wife, and can regale you with tales, both good and not so good about my spouse. I’m a runner, and will drone on and on about this race or that, until you have snuck out of the room, and I may not even notice. I can prattle on endlessly about my job, Doctor Who, the weather and the newest trends in hair care. All the while, a silent battle is waging on in my head.

I don’t suspect that this is all that different from anyone else. It’s not like I believe that you are sitting there, listening the whole time, without thoughts of something else running through your head. I know you are thinking about what you need from the grocery store. And that’s just fine. Or maybe you are fighting your own demon.

I have been wanting to talk about my demon here for some time…but I just couldn’t quite figure out how to introduce it. Maybe because I am afraid it would seem trivial…or self-serving. Or maybe because I am afraid that you will think it is something brought on by vanity. Maybe because by owning up to it, I would somehow seem…”less”. But then, I got to thinking, this is my space. This is my voice. If anyone is allowed to sing the blues here, and sing them off-key, it’s me. I’ve already relinquished the space in my head to this little monster for too many years, why let it win here too? So instead, today, I am calling it out…ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to today’s sponsor, Body Dysmorphic Disorder. Body Dysmorphic Disorder, this is everyone. Now, play nice.

Body Dysmorphic Disorder is a mental illness wherein the sufferer obsesses over a perceived defect, or collection of defects, to the point that it causes a great deal of distress and can inhibit occupational and social function. It doesn’t matter what the sufferer does to change or improve the perceived defect, to their perception, it never goes away. It’s like there is a tiny chorus of voices in your head, telling you lies, all of the time…sometimes they are relatively soft, and you can drown them out with common sense and logic. Others they bellow loudly, drowning out any other thought. On days when they are screaming, they may even spread out and tell you horrible, malicious things about other aspects of yourself…and it is next to impossible to not hear them. You find yourself looking around, wondering if everyone else knows what they are telling you…and if not, how long until they do.

In my particular case, it is weight. No matter what the numbers on the scale – which I don’t have…it’s much too dangerous and tempting to have one…I’d hang out by it, weighing myself nearly hourly if you let me… - say, no matter what the size on my clothing label reads, no matter what my husband, my friends, complete and utter strangers on the street may say to me…I always look the same to myself in the mirror. And the reflection? Is not a pretty one.

Everybody has “fat days.” I occasionally have “not fat days.” Every once in a blue moon, I will catch a glimpse of myself, from just the right angle, and think “hey, wait…that’s not so bad…” It’s fleeting though. The actual, honest truth of the matter is that I have no idea whatsoever what I look like to you. I cast about constantly, looking at other women, constantly wondering “Am I as big as her?” In some of my weaker moments, I drag my long suffering husband into my crazy and point out other people, asking him, “Am I that size?” I can only imagine that, on some primal level, this feels like a trap…”wait, you are *asking* me to check out other women and compare you? Duuude, no way am I falling for *that*!” Really though, I just want a sense of reality. I am trying to calibrate.

Not that attempting to level set against anyone else really works for long. Friends and acquaintances that I have mentally associated as being “thin” don’t remain so in my eyes, as I approach their size. Instead, I start asking the poor hubster…"Is it me, or has so and so gained A LOT of weight?” Maybe they have…but more often, they have not. It is just my voices telling me that, if I am smaller than they are, they must be practically pre-diabetic.

At my largest, about a year and a half ago, I was a size 12. From what I read, that is about the national average. Completely and utterly normal. Far from obese.

I knew I was bigger than I had ever been…and the labels on the clothing I was buying agreed with that assessment. The scale, not safely hidden away at that time, boldly confirmed my suspicions, proclaiming a number that made me want to cry.

At current, depending upon the brand, I wear anywhere from a 0 to a 4…and sometimes girl’s sizes…where I can wear as small as a 12 in some articles of clothing. I have no idea what I actually weigh. I won’t know until my annual physical, which is still several months off. I have my estimates, but I know that *knowing* would only lead to me needing to constantly monitor whether or not I was maintaining that number.

In the mirror, I am just…heavy. Lumpy. Kind of a big girl. Exactly as I have been for as long as I can remember. My stomach is too “squishy”. My thighs are too thick. My butt is too rounded and jiggly, and my hips too wide. You would think that, being an at least marginally intelligent human being, I would be capable of looking at the change in size and be able to intellectually make the distinction. But I can’t. You would guess that, putting on articles of clothing that were once snug, and having them literally fall off of me would trigger some sense of recognition. But it doesn’t. Instead, this is what the demon tells me:

Those pants stretched out.

They never fit as well as you remembered.

You’re not really a 4, this brand just runs big.

You’re not really a 2, this is just vanity sizing at its worst.

You’re not really a 0, this item must be irregular.

Yeah, it came from the girl’s department, but my how sad that there are girls *this* big...Childhood obesity really is an epidemic.

They have a field day, doing everything that they can, using my own imagination against me, to convince me that I am super-sized. On days that they manage to chisel away my outer layer of confidence, they then start in on a whole host of other traits, both physical and otherwise, and leave me wanting to hide in the back of my closet.

…it all just sounds so…terribly, terribly vain. A first world problem.

“Awwww…poor skinny bitch is afraid her size 4’s are too big…here, let me get you a sandwich.”

Or…”stop fishing for compliments.”

The fact is, I don’t want anyone to say anything about my size. Or theirs. It makes me horribly, terribly, wildly uncomfortable. My perception is so skewed that I haven’t the slightest idea what is real and what is not. And I hate that. It is exhausting. I try to take all of the wonderful things that friends, family and more than anyone else, the hubster say to me and internalize them. More often than not, I let him be the judge of what looks good and what does not, because I know that my own eyes just cannot be trusted. I force myself to look at myself in the mirror and try to find something positive to “say” about what I see. Sometimes, I am there for a very long time. ..but eventually, I find something. And I use that as my talisman for the day…and remind myself that the demon lies. I cling to that, all day long, and try to see what you see…tell myself over and over again that I’m not as bad as they would have me believe.

Maybe someday, I will even believe it.

TBC 1, Mom 0

Scene: Grocery Store
The Boy Child begins meowing.

Mom: "Can you please stop meowing, and just be an 11 year old boy?"

TBC: "What do you mean?"

Mom: "Well, so far this shopping trip, you have been a trusty steed, a ninja, Cthulhu and a cat...can you *please* just be an 11 year old boy until we leave the store?"

TBC, looking at me gravely: "But mom, this *is* what 11 year old boys do."

O_o