Stepping Out

I've talked before about how I have anxiety stepping out of my comfort zone.  It amazes me how far it reaches.  I mean, why should I care what anyone thinks of me in a town that is 600 miles from where I live.

Why do I care what anyone thinks of me anyway?  Why do I even think people notice the things I do?  Pretty sure they don't.

So I flew to Chicago on Sunday, by myself, for work.  I don't fly much.  I fly by myself even less.  I'm not scared of flying, but it does make me nervous.  And every little bump we hit, I'm praying - begging - to make it out alive.

I got there in the afternoon with nothing really to do until dinner time.  I was starving because I had missed lunch.  I found an Irish Pub, but as I stood at the door...I felt the anxiety start.  What if this isn't what it seems?  What if there's no bar to sit at by myself?  What if it's full?  What if people stare at me for being alone?

In my head, right now...all those What if's seem so stupid!  But in that split second, where I almost turned around and went to the Chipotle around the corner and then back to my room to eat, they were extremely valid.

I made myself go in, sit by myself, at the bar, and order a beer and french fries.  They had Sam Adam's Cherry Wheat on tap!!!  I could have missed out on that - one of my favorite beers - ON TAP!  And the french fries were so amazing.  Especially with the homemade BBQ sauce they served for dipping.

I had decided before I left that I would go jogging Monday morning before my meetings.  I was so excited to be in a brand new city, see new things, and jog along Lake Michigan.  But then, as it got closer, I started doubting myself again.

What if the path was dangerous?  What if I got lost?  What if I end up in a bad part of town?

I almost backed out.  Almost didn't go.  Almost missed some amazing skyline views of a beautiful city.

Almost missed a chance to walk on the beach.

Almost missed a beautiful sky over a beautiful lake.

In that moment when my anxiety creeps in and almost takes over, all I want to do is stay in bed.  I'm finally getting better at putting it aside and pushing through.  Maybe one day I'll actually be one of those people that doesn't think twice about a comfort zone or stepping out of it. 

Okay, we all know that probably won't happen but a girl can dream can't she?

Um...I Don't Do Grassy Hills

It had been 2.5 tough miles.  I was used to running 2.5 miles, but 2.5 miles of mostly hills?  Um, no.  My legs were on fire and my breathing was quick and raspy.  But finally we were on flat surface and I knew the end was near.  I just had to push through the last half mile or so.

I rounded the corner and saw the racers ahead of me going off the road and down into the woods.

What?!?!  No, no, no!  I did not sign up for an off-roading race.  I have touch and go knees.  I have an ankle that's been sprained 4 or 5 times.  One misstep and I'd be out of commission.  I do not run on grass.

But what could I do?  Just stop.  No way.  I'd been training for months.  It had been years since I ran a race.  I couldn't just stop.

So I did it.  I stepped up on the curb and headed down the grassy hill.  The path wasn't too far, but my first thought as my foot hit the damp, leaf-covered ground was "I'm going to fall.  Oh man, please don't let me fall."

And then it happened.  Almost before I finished the thought, a hidden root jumped right up and pulled me down.  I tried to stop it, but at some point I realized my effort was futile.  So I gave in and let my body crash to the ground.  I was stunned.  I couldn't remember the last time I had fallen so hard.  I was face down in the leaves, my hands and legs covered in mud.  A few runners stopped - checked on me, helped me up, found my iPod.  I don't think I even thanked them.

Suddenly, I was fighting back tears as they asked if I was okay.  I just nodded.  I knew if I spoke I wouldn't be able to stop the flow.

I walked to the path and started running again, slowly.  My legs were like jello.  Every step was shaky and cautious...and then another hill.  I couldn't do it.  I stopped.  I walked.

"No, no!"  I heard a voice come up on my left.

I looked over.  A woman about my age, blond and in a pink shirt.

"You can't stop now.  We're almost done.  I've been trying to catch you the whole race, you have to beat me."

I ran again, we crossed the finish line together.

And that's how I ran my first 5K in 5 years.

Me and a purple cat...I mean, Ainsley.  She ran the Kid's Fun Run after my race.

My dirty, ripped pants.

It looks worse than it is...just a scratch really.

A Learned Passion

5AM

The sticky heat from the day before has been replaced with a slight drizzle.  It falls soft but steady and cools the steamy sweat beads trickling down my cheeks and along my jawbone.  The sky is a grayish blue as the sun tries to break through the dense cloud cover.

It's too early for commuters and the drizzle has kept the dog walkers at bay.  Days like this, I leave my iPod at home, preferring to absorb the sounds of my solitude.  Rather than listen to The Black Eyed Peas, I hear only the steady cadence of breath and the quick pound of a sneaker on asphalt.

These are my favorite mornings.  The best way to start my day.  If I can begin it running my mind will clear and my body will relax.

It wasn't always a passion.  I remember the uphill battle to arrive at this pleasure.  Sore joints, twisted ankles, chafed thighs.  I couldn't imagine what people were saying when they spoke of a runner's high, but then suddenly, one day I got it.  I no longer had to force myself to roll out of bed and perform this torture.  It became a joy and a necessity.

And then...I lost it.

I remember the last time I ran.  I was about 4 months pregnant with Ainsley.  I was already showing and the pressure on my pelvis was just too painful.  So I stopped, promising to pick up again once the baby was born.  I registered for a jogging stroller and bought larger sports bras to accommodate my new girth.

I never imagined that pregnancy would wreck havoc on my knees.  So Ainsley came, and I tried.  Multiple times I tried.  But my knees just didn't seem up to the task.  I saw doctors, did exercises, wore braces.  Nothing helped. 

And then I was pregnant again, and then I had two kids, and then we moved, and I started a new job, and, and, and...

Time slips away.  But I remember those summer mornings in the rain.  I remember speeding up as my favorite songs pumped through my headphones.  I remember how I felt after running my first 10K.  I want that high again.

So, I'm trying again.  The knees are better...as mysteriously as the ailment struck me, it seems to be subsiding.

Only now...

8PM

The air is hot and heavy.  The clouds move slowly over the rising moon as the day's last drops of light fade away.

My breath is shallow and quick, my footsteps are hard and slow.  My legs are moaning, my chest is screaming.  My body is already tired from a day of working and mothering and cooking and cleaning.  The difference between me as a 33 year old runner and 25 year old runner is astounding.  But, this is my time, it's only for me.  No breaking up fights, or wiping little bottoms.  No cleaning sippy cups or planning direct mail campaigns.  No bedtime stories or Dora the Explorer.  Day 2 of my comeback is tough, but not as hard as day one.  Although, I think I'm still going to be sore tomorrow.