Against all odds I made it out for a run after work today, running at dusk the route I usually run at dawn. Eager to get home for the evening, I pushed a little harder than usual, zipping along the well-lit streets that I jog when the sun isn’t out. As I turned along the harbor I marveled at the deep navy blue sky and water, both the unreal color you see in paintings, not in real life. I was having a nice run, was feeling good, and started to really push myself. I don’t run to be fast, so that was an unusual thing for me. I’ve always been slow, and I have enough things in my life that I work hard at that it has never occurred to me to work hard at getting faster.
This evening, inspired by warmer temperatures than I expected and a strong desire to get home, I ran much faster than usual. For once I felt my recalcitrant little body shift from a canter to a gallop, and I was amazed. Yet as soon as I did that I became hyper-vigilant, watching each crack in the sidewalk, checking over my shoulder. My heart was racing, and not from exertion. I was afraid.
My reaction to my fear was not surprise - I’ve always been one to ease on the brakes while cycling downhill, not convinced I’d remember the exhilaration of speed while I was having my chin stitched up. As I thought more about it, though, I was mildly baffled. Longtime readers have been regaled with stories of the wages of my recklessness. What made today different from other days that I ran carelessly until I fell?
Caution can be thrown to the wind, not so with fear. There can be something deeply frightening about an accomplishment - we fear we’ll be punished for success, or we won’t know what to do with what we’ve learned. I remember one of the first times I really opened up my voice and let it out the big sound I had inside. I had two thoughts. 1. “Well, I guess I’m not a soubrette” and 2. “What the heck am I going to do with this voice?”
Doing something you didn’t think you could do changes the landscape of your life. The parameters you thought were there prove imaginary, and there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to set new ones. We lament that our boundaries limit us, but how many of us are secretly comforted by the security of those boundaries? For me, at least, freedom is terrifying. If I had fallen down today, it would have been another funny story about something I’m bad at. It would have fit the narrative of my life. I’m still willing myself to accept the uneasiness that results when things go well.
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Lessons from the latest race
One of the reasons I love running is that it gives me long stretches of time alone with my thoughts. I have designed retreats, planned events, and written lots of posts and poetry while thumping along on my training runs and races. Yesterday I completed the Hartford Half-Marathon for the fifth year in a row. Usually finishing races yields some of my trademark Profound Thoughts, but yesterday was an anomaly – a more difficult course added to poorer preparation yielded a distracted and miserable race. Still, there were a few takeaways. What I learned from this race:
1. Spectators never expect you to cheer for them first.
Without going in to great detail, I would like to apologize to the meek young woman in the Boston College sweatshirt who I apparently scared out of her mind. My bad.
2. “The new course moved all the hills to the front of the race” is code for “the first nine miles are hilly as hell!”
So yeah, this course was hilly, and hilly in all the worst areas. We would turn onto a residential street, suddenly be all crunched together, and hill would come up and everyone would change their pace in a different way. Chaos. I honestly don’t know why they even mentioned the hills when they were explaining the new route. What would have just been a more difficult route now feels like a bait and switch since they tried to convince us it was going to be easier. I should admit, some of the blame falls on we runners – did I really think that the run into Asylum Hill between miles 11 and 12 was going to be flat?
3. Sometimes the most trying experiences result in success, not failure.
OK, I know I promised not to get all Profound Thoughts ™ about this, but it can’t be avoided. I was miserable yesterday. Everything hurt. I hadn’t trained enough, I hadn’t done enough hills, my feet, thighs, knees, and hips were all screaming by the mid-point of the race. As I stumbled through Elizabeth Park , what was supposed to be the most beautiful part of the race, I was mad at everyone: myself for not training enough, the people who kept me late at work Friday so I had to miss packet pick up and go in at 6:30 am on race day, those organizers who changed the course, the other runners who kept me from starting off at a comfortable pace, and God for making everything athletic so damn hard for me my whole life. I wanted to show everyone how badly I’d been wronged. I wanted to punish them by failing.
But then I checked my timer. I was making better pace than I ever had, and that tiny part of me that had enough energy to be positive said “don’t waste this by crapping out now”. I did my best to turn my brain off and keep running hard. In the last two years or so I have cut almost a minute off of my mile and my body still doesn’t know what to do with that – it knows it is working harder than it is used to, but also knows it can’t slow down.
I thundered across the finish line without having cried once – quite a feat for me during my most difficult runs. I finally was able to check my time today and it was 20 seconds faster than my time on my last race. Barely a PR, but I’ll take it.
I run because it is hard for me, and when I succeed I know it is not because I am just doing what comes naturally – it is because I am striving to accomplish something in the field that challenges me the most. Sometimes I want an excuse, a reason why I can’t do what I’ve set out to do, and it is tempting to give in to the frustration of not being naturally gifted. Then, just as I think my body and my pride can’t take any more challenge I turn the corner into the park, run through the crowds to the Arch, and have something else of which to be proud.
1. Spectators never expect you to cheer for them first.
Without going in to great detail, I would like to apologize to the meek young woman in the Boston College sweatshirt who I apparently scared out of her mind. My bad.
2. “The new course moved all the hills to the front of the race” is code for “the first nine miles are hilly as hell!”
So yeah, this course was hilly, and hilly in all the worst areas. We would turn onto a residential street, suddenly be all crunched together, and hill would come up and everyone would change their pace in a different way. Chaos. I honestly don’t know why they even mentioned the hills when they were explaining the new route. What would have just been a more difficult route now feels like a bait and switch since they tried to convince us it was going to be easier. I should admit, some of the blame falls on we runners – did I really think that the run into Asylum Hill between miles 11 and 12 was going to be flat?
3. Sometimes the most trying experiences result in success, not failure.
OK, I know I promised not to get all Profound Thoughts ™ about this, but it can’t be avoided. I was miserable yesterday. Everything hurt. I hadn’t trained enough, I hadn’t done enough hills, my feet, thighs, knees, and hips were all screaming by the mid-point of the race. As I stumbled through Elizabeth Park , what was supposed to be the most beautiful part of the race, I was mad at everyone: myself for not training enough, the people who kept me late at work Friday so I had to miss packet pick up and go in at 6:30 am on race day, those organizers who changed the course, the other runners who kept me from starting off at a comfortable pace, and God for making everything athletic so damn hard for me my whole life. I wanted to show everyone how badly I’d been wronged. I wanted to punish them by failing.
But then I checked my timer. I was making better pace than I ever had, and that tiny part of me that had enough energy to be positive said “don’t waste this by crapping out now”. I did my best to turn my brain off and keep running hard. In the last two years or so I have cut almost a minute off of my mile and my body still doesn’t know what to do with that – it knows it is working harder than it is used to, but also knows it can’t slow down.
I thundered across the finish line without having cried once – quite a feat for me during my most difficult runs. I finally was able to check my time today and it was 20 seconds faster than my time on my last race. Barely a PR, but I’ll take it.
I run because it is hard for me, and when I succeed I know it is not because I am just doing what comes naturally – it is because I am striving to accomplish something in the field that challenges me the most. Sometimes I want an excuse, a reason why I can’t do what I’ve set out to do, and it is tempting to give in to the frustration of not being naturally gifted. Then, just as I think my body and my pride can’t take any more challenge I turn the corner into the park, run through the crowds to the Arch, and have something else of which to be proud.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
To reach the goal is nothing else but the will to go
“Too late have I loved you, O Beauty of ancient days, yet ever new!” Yesterday was the Memorial of St Augustine, one of Christianity’s most celebrated theologians, who had quite a way with words (who could forget “Lord, make me chaste, but not yet”!). His Confessions is considered the first autobiography, and the honesty with which he writes about his sordid youth and spiritual growth is quite moving.
Just over a year ago I rhapsodized about Ted Kennedy, and how rare it was in modern politics to find someone who was able to reinvent himself and improve while in the public eye. Because I can be such a silly, foolish person, I take great comfort in the examples of people who accomplish great things despite being real dopes sometimes.
Augustine is really my kind of saint. Give me someone messy over somebody neat anyday. Don’t get me wrong, I hold the precocious little saints like Dominic Savio in high regard, but I’m not sure I would have wanted to be friends with him. So many people want saints to be neat and tidy – born with some sort of magic that allows them to be heroic. Does that let us off the hook a bit, if we were born without the magic?
I was greatly disturbed in spirit, angry at myself with a turbulent indignation because I had not entered thy will and covenant, O my God, while all my bones cried out to me to enter, extolling it to the skies. The way therein is not by ships or chariots or feet--indeed it was not as far as I had come from the house to the place where we were seated. For to go along that road and indeed to reach the goal is nothing else but the will to go. But it must be a strong and single will, not staggering and swaying about this way and that--a changeable, twisting, fluctuating will, wrestling with itself while one part falls as another rises. (Confessions, Book VIII.8.19)
You don’t live with a mouth like mine for as long as I have without learning how to apologize. For sure, sometimes my apologies are just words, crafted to get me out of something. But the upside of frequent apologizing is that it causes me to really evaluate my thoughts, words, and actions, and occasionally to do what true conversion requires: to change.
On separate occasions over the last two weeks people described me as “athletic” and “happy all the time”. I was really touched by those observations, because they are both things that I had to work so hard for. (I feel the same way when people say that my top notes are easy – not always so!) More than a magic blessing or earth-shattering conversion, I think that most of our change is as simple as deciding who we want to be, and working on it. I wanted to be athletic because I saw all my friends having fun at races, I wanted to be happy because I knew that negativity was a drain on the people around me. (I wanted to have an easy top because I wanted to get hired). Every time I get on stage I try to improve one thing from a previous performance – making those baby steps is all we can do. I wish I didn’t need so much improvement, but like Augustine (and Ignatius, and both Francises, and Dorothy Day, and...) I’m imperfect. Luckily, like them, I too am graced.
Just over a year ago I rhapsodized about Ted Kennedy, and how rare it was in modern politics to find someone who was able to reinvent himself and improve while in the public eye. Because I can be such a silly, foolish person, I take great comfort in the examples of people who accomplish great things despite being real dopes sometimes.
Augustine is really my kind of saint. Give me someone messy over somebody neat anyday. Don’t get me wrong, I hold the precocious little saints like Dominic Savio in high regard, but I’m not sure I would have wanted to be friends with him. So many people want saints to be neat and tidy – born with some sort of magic that allows them to be heroic. Does that let us off the hook a bit, if we were born without the magic?
I was greatly disturbed in spirit, angry at myself with a turbulent indignation because I had not entered thy will and covenant, O my God, while all my bones cried out to me to enter, extolling it to the skies. The way therein is not by ships or chariots or feet--indeed it was not as far as I had come from the house to the place where we were seated. For to go along that road and indeed to reach the goal is nothing else but the will to go. But it must be a strong and single will, not staggering and swaying about this way and that--a changeable, twisting, fluctuating will, wrestling with itself while one part falls as another rises. (Confessions, Book VIII.8.19)
You don’t live with a mouth like mine for as long as I have without learning how to apologize. For sure, sometimes my apologies are just words, crafted to get me out of something. But the upside of frequent apologizing is that it causes me to really evaluate my thoughts, words, and actions, and occasionally to do what true conversion requires: to change.
On separate occasions over the last two weeks people described me as “athletic” and “happy all the time”. I was really touched by those observations, because they are both things that I had to work so hard for. (I feel the same way when people say that my top notes are easy – not always so!) More than a magic blessing or earth-shattering conversion, I think that most of our change is as simple as deciding who we want to be, and working on it. I wanted to be athletic because I saw all my friends having fun at races, I wanted to be happy because I knew that negativity was a drain on the people around me. (I wanted to have an easy top because I wanted to get hired). Every time I get on stage I try to improve one thing from a previous performance – making those baby steps is all we can do. I wish I didn’t need so much improvement, but like Augustine (and Ignatius, and both Francises, and Dorothy Day, and...) I’m imperfect. Luckily, like them, I too am graced.
Monday, August 9, 2010
All the drawers are wide open, all the doors are unlocked
Apparently it is Monday.
My system is so thrown off from travel and change of scenery that I am not entirely sure what day it is, and I don’t think that really matters. The next few weeks involve going where I’m told when I’m told to.
I was surprised at how easily I jumped out of bed this morning when the alarm went off. Despite fears about altitude sickness I wanted to run the first morning I got here, so I drank lots of water, had a banana and tied up my running shoes, heading down the path towards the road in the still-cool morning. Luckily the road we are on isn’t too hilly, and I was able to run down the road and back without having to scale the side of the mountain.
I warmed up in the shower, which I absolutely hate to do because I feels like it bothers people around me. But we were told that our cabins were our warm-up spaces, and I wanted to give myself a proper warm up after last night’s middle-voice-less raggedy aria debacle. I was very relieved to hear that my voice still worked. I had been raspy the previous two days, and I am still paranoid enough to think that my voice is never coming back every time I can’t sing perfectly for an hour or two.
Coaching was exhausting. I have a few coaches back in Boston with whom I work, and they know me very well. To go in and work with a stranger changes the dynamic, because you are trying to reveal yourself to a new artist even as you are trying to work on character and phrasing. Working on something like Steal Me Sweet Thief, I felt like I was exposing everything about my voice - the most personal, sensitive thing about me - and trying to communicate deep need and longing - because that’s what the piece requires, all the while cognizant that we were only about twenty minutes past “Hi, my name is Margaret”. I guess that’s no different than in an audition, but in an audition you have that extra layer of competition (or is it antagonism?) to keep yourself from being so vulnerable.
Afternoon chorus rehearsals were very long, and I was ready for a bowl of soup, a nap, and a Fudgesicle. Unfortunately when I finished my nap and grabbed a Fudgesicle it was completely melted, and I, appropriately, had a meltdown myself. Now at least my roommates know what happens when you come between me and my delicious icy chocolate treats.
Sang Steal Me Sweet Thief one more time in the evening for a dress rehearsal for tomorrow night’s concert. Because people tend to hate Menotti I feel like I really need to sell it, and I get myself all worked up in to a lather about dying alone in order to find an appropriate emotional state. Good times, eh? But the more I sing (and the more I watch others sing) the more convinced I am that if you don’t need to lay down by the time you are done singing, you haven’t left enough out there. Go big or go home.
My system is so thrown off from travel and change of scenery that I am not entirely sure what day it is, and I don’t think that really matters. The next few weeks involve going where I’m told when I’m told to.
I was surprised at how easily I jumped out of bed this morning when the alarm went off. Despite fears about altitude sickness I wanted to run the first morning I got here, so I drank lots of water, had a banana and tied up my running shoes, heading down the path towards the road in the still-cool morning. Luckily the road we are on isn’t too hilly, and I was able to run down the road and back without having to scale the side of the mountain.
I warmed up in the shower, which I absolutely hate to do because I feels like it bothers people around me. But we were told that our cabins were our warm-up spaces, and I wanted to give myself a proper warm up after last night’s middle-voice-less raggedy aria debacle. I was very relieved to hear that my voice still worked. I had been raspy the previous two days, and I am still paranoid enough to think that my voice is never coming back every time I can’t sing perfectly for an hour or two.
Coaching was exhausting. I have a few coaches back in Boston with whom I work, and they know me very well. To go in and work with a stranger changes the dynamic, because you are trying to reveal yourself to a new artist even as you are trying to work on character and phrasing. Working on something like Steal Me Sweet Thief, I felt like I was exposing everything about my voice - the most personal, sensitive thing about me - and trying to communicate deep need and longing - because that’s what the piece requires, all the while cognizant that we were only about twenty minutes past “Hi, my name is Margaret”. I guess that’s no different than in an audition, but in an audition you have that extra layer of competition (or is it antagonism?) to keep yourself from being so vulnerable.
Afternoon chorus rehearsals were very long, and I was ready for a bowl of soup, a nap, and a Fudgesicle. Unfortunately when I finished my nap and grabbed a Fudgesicle it was completely melted, and I, appropriately, had a meltdown myself. Now at least my roommates know what happens when you come between me and my delicious icy chocolate treats.
Sang Steal Me Sweet Thief one more time in the evening for a dress rehearsal for tomorrow night’s concert. Because people tend to hate Menotti I feel like I really need to sell it, and I get myself all worked up in to a lather about dying alone in order to find an appropriate emotional state. Good times, eh? But the more I sing (and the more I watch others sing) the more convinced I am that if you don’t need to lay down by the time you are done singing, you haven’t left enough out there. Go big or go home.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
How the morning feels
For as long as I have lived in Boston, leisurely Saturday mornings have had a unique effect on me. For some reason, when I walk down a neighborhood street in the cool of morning everything is right with the world and I am where I am meant to be. Maybe it’s that I am walking anywhere - where I grew up nothing was close enough to walk to, and any jaunt on foot implied a nature walk. Not that I didn’t love Saturday mornings growing up too – some of the most consistent memories of my childhood involve my mother making pancakes in the sunny kitchen while we all padded in and out, in our slippers or bare feet.
This morning I woke up with nothing to do. This is not a common occurrence. This academic year in particular has been extremely busy, as my singing and conducting have become less a hobby and more a second job. I won’t complain; being paid to do music is what I always wanted. Still, there’s a loss there, and the loss of leisure takes a toll. So today I slept in (to an hour which is still terribly early to most people) and then wandered out to get breakfast.
As soon as I hit the streets I got that feeling again. I live in a city! I sometimes think excitedly to myself. Not only do I live here, I have made it my home, and am friendly with the can lady next door, the guy with the construction truck, the folks who work at the funeral home around the corner. And on these quiet brisk mornings I am on the same pace as everyone else. I am not leaving the house in an audition dress and prom hair like I usually do on weekend mornings. I am in flip-flops and a ponytail, just like everyone else, easing into the day.
On my way home, egg sandwich and coffee in hand, I was passing near the post office and my stomach tightened up. My brain started racing: aren’t there applications I should be sending off? Do I need to be shipping a demo today? What’s next? What’s next? I remembered the competition application on my kitchen table, and that it’s not due until late May, and relaxed a little bit.
There’s a pithy adage that singers throw around when someone is spending too much time working: they don’t write songs about being in a practice room. In other words, if you want to make art, live a little. Similarly, they don’t write songs about being overworked, or about obsessive self-promotion. The artistic spark needs oxygen to flame.
That application sits next to me on the kitchen table now. I don’t have to sing until 3:30 today, so I’m not going to fret about the state of my voice until lunchtime at least. I’ll probably run today, but I might wait until the morning warms up a little. It’s a lazy Saturday, and there’s no hurry.
This morning I woke up with nothing to do. This is not a common occurrence. This academic year in particular has been extremely busy, as my singing and conducting have become less a hobby and more a second job. I won’t complain; being paid to do music is what I always wanted. Still, there’s a loss there, and the loss of leisure takes a toll. So today I slept in (to an hour which is still terribly early to most people) and then wandered out to get breakfast.
As soon as I hit the streets I got that feeling again. I live in a city! I sometimes think excitedly to myself. Not only do I live here, I have made it my home, and am friendly with the can lady next door, the guy with the construction truck, the folks who work at the funeral home around the corner. And on these quiet brisk mornings I am on the same pace as everyone else. I am not leaving the house in an audition dress and prom hair like I usually do on weekend mornings. I am in flip-flops and a ponytail, just like everyone else, easing into the day.
On my way home, egg sandwich and coffee in hand, I was passing near the post office and my stomach tightened up. My brain started racing: aren’t there applications I should be sending off? Do I need to be shipping a demo today? What’s next? What’s next? I remembered the competition application on my kitchen table, and that it’s not due until late May, and relaxed a little bit.
There’s a pithy adage that singers throw around when someone is spending too much time working: they don’t write songs about being in a practice room. In other words, if you want to make art, live a little. Similarly, they don’t write songs about being overworked, or about obsessive self-promotion. The artistic spark needs oxygen to flame.
That application sits next to me on the kitchen table now. I don’t have to sing until 3:30 today, so I’m not going to fret about the state of my voice until lunchtime at least. I’ll probably run today, but I might wait until the morning warms up a little. It’s a lazy Saturday, and there’s no hurry.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Road Race, by the numbers
Miles: 4.75. Sightings of Whalers gear: 18. Kids from my high school running in kilts: 3. Drunks on rooftops: 9. Runners behind me with bullhorns: 1 (and believe me, one was enough).
I can't really see the allure of running in costume, but that's probably because running is hard enough for me. I can't imagine adding a pair of wings or a native headdress to my usual running accoutrements. I don't know for whom I felt worse today: the guy in the Buzz Lightyear costume that couldn't have been very breathable, or his girlfriend dressed as Woody, running in jeans.
After the race: latte, shower, TV, pleasure reading, and soon dinner. Lots to be thankful for today! Happy Thanksgiving to all.
I can't really see the allure of running in costume, but that's probably because running is hard enough for me. I can't imagine adding a pair of wings or a native headdress to my usual running accoutrements. I don't know for whom I felt worse today: the guy in the Buzz Lightyear costume that couldn't have been very breathable, or his girlfriend dressed as Woody, running in jeans.
After the race: latte, shower, TV, pleasure reading, and soon dinner. Lots to be thankful for today! Happy Thanksgiving to all.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
What I've learned from running
As I’ve written many times, I started running out of stubbornness. I didn’t turn to the sport for revelation, edification, or other forms of improvement. As tends to be the case, revelation found me without my seeking it. Long runs, both training and racing, have been revelatory for me. I have said countless prayers, cried my eyes out, planned retreats and recitals, written poems and blog posts (ahem) while plugging away on the open road. Yesterday I finished my sixth half-marathon (with a time 35 minutes faster than my first!), and if the good Lord has chosen not to reveal to me how to finish in a respectable time, at least God has taught me a few other lessons in the course of my training.
It is hazardous to my ego for me to compare myself to other people while running, which is why I just put my tunes in my ears and focus on the road in front of me. I’ve learned not to look behind me, although I always want to know for sure I’m not last, and I not to even look in front of me, because it doesn’t matter what everyone else is doing. My body is calibrated to do a certain pace in a certain way, and that has nothing to do with the people around me.
So what have I learned from running? That when you’re exhausted and you think you can’t push any farther, you can always push a little harder – but if you collapse and cry (or vomit) there will still be people who will be nice to you and help you out. That it’s better to push to the top of the hill and then take it easy on the way down. That when it hurts in one place a tiny adjustment can take the edge off – although you’ll just end up hurting in another. That there’s benefit in doing the things which embarrass you the most.
When I was younger I would get jealous of the success of others, especially when I felt it came at my expense: the other singers getting the leads in the school plays, the classmates earning scholarships and accolades, the athletes feted for their skill, the girls with nicer hair and clothes being treated well. Now I see it doesn’t do me any good to size up the people around me or envy their success. I can’t do anything about the way gifts are divvied up, and even if I could I wouldn’t shuffle around the ones I’ve received for any others. When it comes time to work hard and use those gifts, all that counts are me, my feet on the pavement, and the music in my ears.
It is hazardous to my ego for me to compare myself to other people while running, which is why I just put my tunes in my ears and focus on the road in front of me. I’ve learned not to look behind me, although I always want to know for sure I’m not last, and I not to even look in front of me, because it doesn’t matter what everyone else is doing. My body is calibrated to do a certain pace in a certain way, and that has nothing to do with the people around me.
So what have I learned from running? That when you’re exhausted and you think you can’t push any farther, you can always push a little harder – but if you collapse and cry (or vomit) there will still be people who will be nice to you and help you out. That it’s better to push to the top of the hill and then take it easy on the way down. That when it hurts in one place a tiny adjustment can take the edge off – although you’ll just end up hurting in another. That there’s benefit in doing the things which embarrass you the most.
When I was younger I would get jealous of the success of others, especially when I felt it came at my expense: the other singers getting the leads in the school plays, the classmates earning scholarships and accolades, the athletes feted for their skill, the girls with nicer hair and clothes being treated well. Now I see it doesn’t do me any good to size up the people around me or envy their success. I can’t do anything about the way gifts are divvied up, and even if I could I wouldn’t shuffle around the ones I’ve received for any others. When it comes time to work hard and use those gifts, all that counts are me, my feet on the pavement, and the music in my ears.
Friday, October 9, 2009
I had a nice run
It had been over a year since my most recent tumble (which came merely 5 days after another, during the summer of my bi-continental clumsiness). My streak ended yesterday.
I had set the alarm for 5:25 yesterday morning. Since I put my alarm on the other side of the room I don't consider myself in danger of oversleeping, but yesterday was an exception. I have no recollection of getting up, weaving through the maze of furniture crammed in my studio, finding the tiny button on my cell phone to turn the alarm off, and getting back in bed. I must have done all of those things, because I awoke 15 minutes later than I usually rise on mornings when I don't run.
Therefore I had to run at the end of a long day. I got home around sunset, changed quickly and got out on the road as quickly as I could, taking a familiar route that I knew would be well-lit. About three minutes into my run I was suddenly on the ground, somehow ending up on my back even though it was my front that was bleeding. I now have a sweet bandage in the usual place of knee-skinning. I have given up on having legs without scars. There is no real reason for my having fallen.
In addition to banging up myself, I also cracked the face on my watch. I looked at my watch before going running, thought "I need to take this off" and then forgot to do so (NB: In my mind, this is my way of being punished for sleeping through my alarm, because if I had gone running in the morning I wouldn't have been wearing the watch).
To confirm my suspicion that I'm better off not running in the evening, while scaling the last hill on the way home I was passed by a man in street clothes, easily over 200 pounds, wearing flipflops. He was obviously fleeing from someone.
I had set the alarm for 5:25 yesterday morning. Since I put my alarm on the other side of the room I don't consider myself in danger of oversleeping, but yesterday was an exception. I have no recollection of getting up, weaving through the maze of furniture crammed in my studio, finding the tiny button on my cell phone to turn the alarm off, and getting back in bed. I must have done all of those things, because I awoke 15 minutes later than I usually rise on mornings when I don't run.
Therefore I had to run at the end of a long day. I got home around sunset, changed quickly and got out on the road as quickly as I could, taking a familiar route that I knew would be well-lit. About three minutes into my run I was suddenly on the ground, somehow ending up on my back even though it was my front that was bleeding. I now have a sweet bandage in the usual place of knee-skinning. I have given up on having legs without scars. There is no real reason for my having fallen.
In addition to banging up myself, I also cracked the face on my watch. I looked at my watch before going running, thought "I need to take this off" and then forgot to do so (NB: In my mind, this is my way of being punished for sleeping through my alarm, because if I had gone running in the morning I wouldn't have been wearing the watch).
To confirm my suspicion that I'm better off not running in the evening, while scaling the last hill on the way home I was passed by a man in street clothes, easily over 200 pounds, wearing flipflops. He was obviously fleeing from someone.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Notes on the tri
Training for a triathlon ranks with learning to play the bass clarinet and moving to New Bedford on the list of most impulsive decisions I have made. I knew this past summer I would be laying low in Boston, and I also knew that I had a nice bike I didn't use enough and a good friend who would remind me how to swim, so I went for it.
On Sunday I took the plunge, literally, into a beautiful lake in the middle of CT wearing a race-issued pink swim cap. The water was colder than I expected, and it took four solid minutes for my heart to stop racing enough that I could put my face in the water. Once I was able to, though, the swimming leg felt great. I had trained hard this summer for endurance (not giving much thought to speed) and was rewarded with a great swim in the race.
Something funny happened while I was swimming that hasn't happened in the dozen or so road races I have done since I started running again: I passed people. I distinctly remember thinking to myself "this is what it feels like to pass people in a race". Racing is usually an exercise in humility for me; that feeling was unfamiliar.
I got over it quickly. As I ran into transition I realized that I had made a mistake that I knew I would make: My sneakers were still tied from the last time I had worn them. That juvenile habit fills me with shame every time I kick my shoes off without untying them, and on Sunday I finally paid the price.
As it turns out some cyclists take riding very seriously. Thus, a lot of people passed me on the second leg of the race. I had spent more time on the bike this summer and greatly improved over the course of my training, but since most of my riding was through Lower Roxbury, I never really had a chance to train for speed. As I cruised back into the race site at the end of my race, some guy screamed at me "smile!" I really could have ran him over. I don't go to women's races so that I can still have men boss me around, thank you very much.
The run was miserable, as is to be expected. Apparently the definition of "flat" for a trail run is different from a road race, because the trail was not nearly as flat as had been promised. I also was not prepared for the aerobic fatigue I felt by the final stretch. Even though I run road races that take longer than the tri took, I don't think I had ever maintained such a high level of activity for as long as I had around mile 1 of the run when I really started to feel worn out.
I was happy to see my mom waiting for me when I crossed the finish line, and was not surprised at all that she teared up during our sweaty hug. After a free bagel and sandwich we got on the road (with a stop at Dunkin). I took the shower of a lifetime at my parents house and drove back to Boston, where I had to conduct at the 9 pm mass. By the offertory I could barely lift my arms.
On Sunday I took the plunge, literally, into a beautiful lake in the middle of CT wearing a race-issued pink swim cap. The water was colder than I expected, and it took four solid minutes for my heart to stop racing enough that I could put my face in the water. Once I was able to, though, the swimming leg felt great. I had trained hard this summer for endurance (not giving much thought to speed) and was rewarded with a great swim in the race.
Something funny happened while I was swimming that hasn't happened in the dozen or so road races I have done since I started running again: I passed people. I distinctly remember thinking to myself "this is what it feels like to pass people in a race". Racing is usually an exercise in humility for me; that feeling was unfamiliar.
I got over it quickly. As I ran into transition I realized that I had made a mistake that I knew I would make: My sneakers were still tied from the last time I had worn them. That juvenile habit fills me with shame every time I kick my shoes off without untying them, and on Sunday I finally paid the price.
As it turns out some cyclists take riding very seriously. Thus, a lot of people passed me on the second leg of the race. I had spent more time on the bike this summer and greatly improved over the course of my training, but since most of my riding was through Lower Roxbury, I never really had a chance to train for speed. As I cruised back into the race site at the end of my race, some guy screamed at me "smile!" I really could have ran him over. I don't go to women's races so that I can still have men boss me around, thank you very much.
The run was miserable, as is to be expected. Apparently the definition of "flat" for a trail run is different from a road race, because the trail was not nearly as flat as had been promised. I also was not prepared for the aerobic fatigue I felt by the final stretch. Even though I run road races that take longer than the tri took, I don't think I had ever maintained such a high level of activity for as long as I had around mile 1 of the run when I really started to feel worn out.
I was happy to see my mom waiting for me when I crossed the finish line, and was not surprised at all that she teared up during our sweaty hug. After a free bagel and sandwich we got on the road (with a stop at Dunkin). I took the shower of a lifetime at my parents house and drove back to Boston, where I had to conduct at the 9 pm mass. By the offertory I could barely lift my arms.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
I cracked my knuckle today!!!
I know what you're thinking: FeliceMiFa has finally plunged into the complete banality. Finger cracking?
This interests you, I swear, especially if you were reading the blog last summer when I fell repeatedly. In August 2008 I ate it while running (a few weeks later I ate it again in a truly spectacular display at Castle Island). I seriously jammed up my hand and my fingers haven't been right since. I figured I would wait a year before I would see a doctor about it.
Excurses: Time and healing in the mind of FeliceMiFa (can you tell I have been reading scripture commentaries all day?)
My ecclesiological inclinations lead me to live on "Roman time". Most major change in the Church that I study and teach happens over generations. Should I be shocked that it would take one year for my hand to heal? I also tend to believe that health problems will work themselves out in time. So I stayed gimpy in the right hand for a few months, unable to open jars.
Anyway, today I was able to crack the knuckle on my right hand by tugging on it. I'm still not quite able to achieve full range of motion, but hopefully by the one year mark I'll be able to!
This interests you, I swear, especially if you were reading the blog last summer when I fell repeatedly. In August 2008 I ate it while running (a few weeks later I ate it again in a truly spectacular display at Castle Island). I seriously jammed up my hand and my fingers haven't been right since. I figured I would wait a year before I would see a doctor about it.
Excurses: Time and healing in the mind of FeliceMiFa (can you tell I have been reading scripture commentaries all day?)
My ecclesiological inclinations lead me to live on "Roman time". Most major change in the Church that I study and teach happens over generations. Should I be shocked that it would take one year for my hand to heal? I also tend to believe that health problems will work themselves out in time. So I stayed gimpy in the right hand for a few months, unable to open jars.
Anyway, today I was able to crack the knuckle on my right hand by tugging on it. I'm still not quite able to achieve full range of motion, but hopefully by the one year mark I'll be able to!
Monday, March 16, 2009
New Bedford Half Marathon
I am please to report that I have completed my fifth half-marathon, running through the mean streets of New Bedford during yesterday's beautiful sunny weather. I had a great day, riding down with a good friend who ran with me and her boyfriend who drove us, and seeing a bunch of the current teachers at the school where I used to teach.
Here's the problem with the NBHM: Not enough slow people run it. Those of you who have seen me know that barring losing 50 pounds or growing 6 inches, I am never going to be a fast runner (have you ever seen a Sicilian track star? Me neither). But I train and I make progress, and I work hard within the limits of what my short little body will do. I always remind myself that if I ran with a random sampling of the population, I would not be so demoralizingly close to the end.
My first half marathon was this same race three years ago, and it was miserable. Most of you have heard my joke about finishing 10th to last (by 'joke' I mean talk about it like it's funny, because it's not a joke, it's totally true). I was looking forward to redeeming myself at least a bit this year, and I cut 21 minutes off my time from three years ago. Still, I came in 30th to last. Where are all the other slow people? They're running races that don't require training through the dead of winter and races that have 5Ks and full marathons to go with them, I suppose.
I was a little disappointed because my time yesterday was about 5 minutes slower than my time last October in Hartford, which had been my best time yet by far. I couldn't figure out why - I felt just as good yesterday as I did last October, I really pushed myself on the handful of hills near the beginning, and the weather was about the same. My best guess is because they cleaned up all the cones off the course and re-opened all the roads while I was running. I GET IT, NEW BEDFORD, I'M SLOW. Usually around mile 9 on any run I start to get angry, and that was the case more than usual yesterday as the trucks came by shouting "runners get up on the sidewalk!" At that point my hips hurt so much there was no chance I was jumping up and down off of curbs at each intersection, plus I was pretty well delirious so I knew I would have trouble remembering where the turn were on the course. I know that I'm not a world-class runner, but I was finishing well within the realm of reasonable times and I deserved to have a good end to the race just like anybody else.
That's my rant on the race. All in all, a triumphant day (my medal is green for St Patrick's Day!) Who wants to run the next one with me?
Here's the problem with the NBHM: Not enough slow people run it. Those of you who have seen me know that barring losing 50 pounds or growing 6 inches, I am never going to be a fast runner (have you ever seen a Sicilian track star? Me neither). But I train and I make progress, and I work hard within the limits of what my short little body will do. I always remind myself that if I ran with a random sampling of the population, I would not be so demoralizingly close to the end.
My first half marathon was this same race three years ago, and it was miserable. Most of you have heard my joke about finishing 10th to last (by 'joke' I mean talk about it like it's funny, because it's not a joke, it's totally true). I was looking forward to redeeming myself at least a bit this year, and I cut 21 minutes off my time from three years ago. Still, I came in 30th to last. Where are all the other slow people? They're running races that don't require training through the dead of winter and races that have 5Ks and full marathons to go with them, I suppose.
I was a little disappointed because my time yesterday was about 5 minutes slower than my time last October in Hartford, which had been my best time yet by far. I couldn't figure out why - I felt just as good yesterday as I did last October, I really pushed myself on the handful of hills near the beginning, and the weather was about the same. My best guess is because they cleaned up all the cones off the course and re-opened all the roads while I was running. I GET IT, NEW BEDFORD, I'M SLOW. Usually around mile 9 on any run I start to get angry, and that was the case more than usual yesterday as the trucks came by shouting "runners get up on the sidewalk!" At that point my hips hurt so much there was no chance I was jumping up and down off of curbs at each intersection, plus I was pretty well delirious so I knew I would have trouble remembering where the turn were on the course. I know that I'm not a world-class runner, but I was finishing well within the realm of reasonable times and I deserved to have a good end to the race just like anybody else.
That's my rant on the race. All in all, a triumphant day (my medal is green for St Patrick's Day!) Who wants to run the next one with me?
Saturday, January 3, 2009
One statistic that was missing from my New Year's Day post was 2008 miles run: 529. That was with some long dry spells, so I am hoping this year will be even higher. I decided, against my better judgement, to run the New Bedford Half Marathon which was my first halffy in March of 2006. Since then all of my races have been in October, which is great because I can train during the summer when I have lots of time and the weather is lovely. This current plan means training all winter, which I kicked off last week.
The first week of training for me is always dismal. I seriously consider, every time, whether or not I am actually incapable of running. Today I did 6.25 outside and it was surprisingly un-miserable.
The first week of training for me is always dismal. I seriously consider, every time, whether or not I am actually incapable of running. Today I did 6.25 outside and it was surprisingly un-miserable.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
2008 by the numbers
I would love to write some eloquent wrap-up to my year, but recently realized that I am not 100% sure which things happened in 2008 and which were another year. I took a look back over my planner to see exactly what this young musician did with her year.
Roles learned: 4
Roles performed: 3
Requiems (requia?) sung: 2 (in the same day)
Auditions: 22
Auditions out of state: 4
Church gigs (as a singer): 76
Church gigs (as a conductor): 44
Rehearsals (as a singer): 79
Rehearsals (as a conductor): 55
Personal days off from work: 2
Blood donations: 1
Dentist appointments: 2
Voice therapy sessions: 8
Voice lessons: 21
Coachings: 14
Cosi fan tutte scenes: 2
Recordings: 2
Concertos learned: 1
Arias learned: 7
Miles driven for music-related events: 2000+
That's an adequate snapshot of my year - and I'm tired of counting things. To more music in 2009!
Roles learned: 4
Roles performed: 3
Requiems (requia?) sung: 2 (in the same day)
Auditions: 22
Auditions out of state: 4
Church gigs (as a singer): 76
Church gigs (as a conductor): 44
Rehearsals (as a singer): 79
Rehearsals (as a conductor): 55
Personal days off from work: 2
Blood donations: 1
Dentist appointments: 2
Voice therapy sessions: 8
Voice lessons: 21
Coachings: 14
Cosi fan tutte scenes: 2
Recordings: 2
Concertos learned: 1
Arias learned: 7
Miles driven for music-related events: 2000+
That's an adequate snapshot of my year - and I'm tired of counting things. To more music in 2009!
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Another half-marathon for the books
I started long-distance running about 3 years ago purely out of stubbornness. I was sick of watching my friends push themselves in these races and always watching from the sidelines, so I decided to train for the New Bedford Half-Marathon with a bunch of friends despite the fact that I am the opposite of a natural athlete (an unnatural athlete? maybe).
Today I completed the Hartford Half-Marathon for the third time, with a time 25 minutes faster than my time in March of 2006. I'm still slow, and running is still hard, but I am walking (limping) proof that you can do most things if you set your mind to it.
Today I completed the Hartford Half-Marathon for the third time, with a time 25 minutes faster than my time in March of 2006. I'm still slow, and running is still hard, but I am walking (limping) proof that you can do most things if you set your mind to it.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Wildlife in the 'hood
Yesterday morning I opened my back door and turned on the light to see an opossum staring me in the face. I have to admit, it freaked me out a bit. Growing up on a busy road in an area full of wildlife, I saw my share of critters, both living and dead. But when I moved to the city, sacrificing the grass and trees of my home for asphalt and walk-ups, one thing I thought I would be rid of would be gross animals like oppossums.
Not so, apparently. After seeing Critter #1 I set out for an early morning run. Around mile 2 I saw Critter #2, small and soft and black, creeping out of the edge of Dorchester Bay with an ominous white streak down it's back. Nothing helps me with my speedwork like the prospect of taking a tomato sauce shower before work, so I swung as far to the left as I could and sprinted past Stinky back toward Dorchester Heights.
Not so, apparently. After seeing Critter #1 I set out for an early morning run. Around mile 2 I saw Critter #2, small and soft and black, creeping out of the edge of Dorchester Bay with an ominous white streak down it's back. Nothing helps me with my speedwork like the prospect of taking a tomato sauce shower before work, so I swung as far to the left as I could and sprinted past Stinky back toward Dorchester Heights.
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