What Does it Mean to Hire a Personal Trainer?

Shameless self promotion...

Recovery from any illness takes many small steps, and a few big ones. I was blessed to be able to take a big one this week when I received clearance to return to my work as a personal trainer. By way of celebration and shameless self-promotion, I want to spend some time talking about why hiring a trainer might be right for you... or not... b


First, last, and always, wellness is a commitment that you make to yourself. Training partners and classmates might count on you to be there. Teachers and trainers rely on you for their vocation and income.  Your loved ones depend on you to be present and alive and strong for them. Your country and community might even call upon you to be fit enough to serve in war or peace. Many hold a stake in your wellness, but there is only one person to whom you are really accountable. You are the only one who knows the difference between 98% and 100% effort. Others can help to motivate and educate you, but ultimately, the only person you have to answer to for your wellness is the one in the mirror. Will a Personal Trainer help to hold you accountable? Sure. But sooner or later, you have to decide to save your own life. A PT ain't gonna "take you to raise."

Let's be clear: a PT works for you. You rely on them for expertise and good judgement, but if you don't trust them, you need to sever the relationship with all loving haste. Neither of you should ever forget who does the hiring and firing in this business.

At the same time, hiring a PT involves certain promises from you that you owe it to yourself to keep. You promise to pay your bill, but chances are that your Trainer is working for a gym or club who won't pay them until they have provided you with service. In other words, when you fail to show up for a session, the gym still gets paid, (you probably paid them up front anyway,) but your Trainer doesn't. The doctor can bill you for not showing up. A health club is much less likely to do that. It's more than just common courtesy... it's helping your trainer to pay their bills and stay in a profession that is probably more about passion than wealth for them. Even as you ask them to honor your commitment to wellness, your promise to honor their commitment to professionalism and to your best interest.

But enough about your Trainer's pocketbook... what about yours? Hiring a PT isn't ever cheap. You owe it to yourself to get your money's worth. That means more than just showing up on time and ready to work. It means putting the things you learn to use between sessions. Unless you're meeting with a trainer several times a week, 90% of your workouts are going to be on your own. Your Trainer is there to supplement your wellness program, not to be a substitute for it. Meeting 30 or 60 minutes a week with a trainer is not going to get you where you want to be all by itself. When I worked with Coach Carrie, I knew that I would endure 30 minutes of hell most of the time, but I also knew that she was teaching me workouts that I needed to repeat several times during the week if I was going to see any real benefit from them. If you show up for your Thursday session with your PT knowing that your last real workout was the previous Thursday... you're breaking a promise to yourself and being a pretty lousy steward of those dollars that you spent when you signed up.

Hiring a Trainer costs you a lot more than money. Is it worth it?

In exchange for my investment of time and money and effort, here are some of the benefits I received from my own Personal Trainer:

• Scientifically designed workouts based on the knowledge and experience of a certified professional.
• Initial assessment and monitoring of my progress based on my own performance.
• "Teachable moments" when Coach took the opportunity to educate me about the art and science of the fitness business.
• Exposure to new exercises  that I would not have found on my own.
• Careful, specific observation of my technique with feedback to make my exercise safer and more effective.
• A professional motivator, cheerleader, task master, and fan who shared my goals and worked with me to achieve them.

Look, I'm a very motivated guy. I work hard. I go the extra mile. But my Trainer helped me to levels that I would not have reached on my own. Maybe that's because I wanted to please her. Maybe it was just because she believed in me and convinced me to believe in myself. Whatever the reason, I know that I am faster, stronger, and healthier because I worked with a Personal Trainer. My work with Coach was time and money well spent.

I believe anyone can benefit from working with a Personal Trainer, as long as they are willing to keep the promises that relationship represents.

• To be present
• To work hard
• To apply the things you learn
• To trust your trainer's judgment, and your own
• To accept the responsibilities of stewardship for your own money, time, and wellness
• To end the relationship and find another solution when you are not seeing tangible results.

You may not be ready to keep those promises. In that case, congratulations for being self-aware enough to know it. You can still work out, educate yourself, ask questions, and get fit. Maybe you're just starting out. Maybe you've been working hard for a long time and really need to dial it back a little. Or maybe you have some other reason that's keeping you from taking the Personal Training plunge. There's not a thing wrong with that.

But if you are ready... if you feel like you could do better for yourself if you had some help, then hiring a PT might be just the right step for you.

Just be sure you hire a good one. (Insert coy self-reference here...) In our next session, maybe we'll spend some time considering just how you can tell if you've found a good one. 'Till next time...

Sleep well. Eat clean. Lift heavy. Run hard.

Peace,

Bob

Thoughts on "Eating Clean"

A friend has asked me to reflect a bit on what I mean by the exhortation to "eat clean" that is part of my closing for RBR. Since I'm not a nutritionist, and not even really a very good role model in this regard, I'm going to throw a little shopping list of thoughts down on paper. Pick the ones you like, and pass on the ones that don't ring any bells for you.

• If it's good for you... eat it.
• If it comes from a garden instead of a factory... eat it.
• If your great-great-grandmother would recognize it as food... eat it.
• If you have to wash it first... wash it... then, eat it.
• If it isn't particularly bad for you, and you would never make it yourself... go ahead and eat it if you want to.
• If it isn't particularly good for you... but eating a little bit of it would make you really happy... for heaven's sake, eat it!

• If it has a long list of ingredients... careful.
• If it comes in a jar, a box, or a can... careful.
• If it requires no expiration date... careful.
• If it contains things you would never put in there if you made it at home... careful.
• If Dr. Oz or Jillian or some other celebrity guru says it's the next big thing... do your homework... and be careful.
• If the label says it's "natural," "light," "organic," "healthy," or in any way good for you... be very careful.

• If it comes in rows, stacks, or tightly uniform, geometric shapes... pass.
• If it has a theme song, a cartoon mascot, or a marketing budget... pass.
• If it includes ingredients that you can't recognize, identify, or pronounce... pass.
• If you have a hard time envisioning the process by which it made its way from the farm to the shelf... pass.
• If is is served in a cardboard cup, a Styrofoam clam shell, or out a drive-through window... pass with extreme prejudice.
• If you just kind of have a funny feeling about it... pass without shame.
• If it hurts your teeth, rots your gut, damages your brain, or gives you cancer... don't be stupid.

Those are some of my thoughts about eating clean. What are some of yours?

Sleep well. Eat clean. Lift heavy. Run hard.

Peace,

Bob

Who must confess that before his 16 mile run this morning, he had a cup of coffee with skim milk, and half a dozen glazed donut holes. 'Cause rules are made to be broken...

Love: The Glorious Maybe

In a month, I will be 53 years old. And in many ways, it feels like I'm starting my life over from scratch. I'm full of questions.

How much money can I save before I'm 65? 70? Will it matter?

Am I ever going to have a full time job again?

What other changes am I going to have to make in order to live below my means?

Am I ever going to have a wife again?

Will I ever make love?

And just how does a post-middle aged gray-beard meet women who are single, sane, and not young enough to be his daughters?

Will my ability to learn and remember ever come back?

Will my energy?

Will my cancer?

Will my faith?

Worries? I don't think of them as worries. They don't keep me up at night. They don't make me anxious or angry or afraid. But these questions... they are on my mind. I know a man who spent weeks after his divorce sleeping with a loaded rifle next to his bed. He was waiting to work up the courage to put the barrel in his mouth. Thankfully, he never did, and before long, he met and married the love of his life. I know another, well into his 70s now, who still refers to his ex as "my wife." He has no rifle, but he has a bottle and a pack of cigarettes and has been using them both like a gun for years. I am not there. And I'm not going there. That's a cliff whose crumbling edge I have explored quite enough in my life, thanks. Whatever life has in store for me, I intend to be around to drink it it.

They are not worries... more like puzzles. Like the Rubic's Cube that used to be on coffee tables or the little wooden triangle with the golf tees that you try to solve before they bring you your dinner at Cracker Barrel, these questions occupy my mind from time to time, then I put them down and move on to whatever is next in the present.

My shrink calls it mindfulness. It's being aware of what's happening now, acknowledging the difference between what's real, and what's only in my head. I read one of those Facebook pearls last night that hit home: "Worry is a waste of imagination." It's true. If God is our role model... if our goal is to imitate our Creator, then worry is misuse of the most important creative tool we have. Even the dullest of us is blessed with imagination. using it with love may be our most important goal.

The truth is, we can not help but see possibilities in our world. It seems to me that the trick is looking for possibilities for love rather than fear. God did not create us out of fear, but out of love. Our universe is not a hiding place, it is a work of art by the great Artist. My life can be a tragedy, a comedy; an epic poem or a joyful song. It all depends on how I choose to apply my imagination, the glorious ability to see more than what is here and now.

It isn't about turning my back on reality. It's more like seeing things as they really are, then looking deeper for the loving God who set them in motion. It's asking the What If questions that lead toward love.

What if I stay strong and excited enough to keep working for the rest of my life?

What if I can simplify my life so money doesn't matter quite so much?

What if I learn to live at peace with myself, so I can be a more complete part of my next relationship?

What opportunities will my health and my history offer me for service and inspiration to others?

How much stronger will my faith be when I have passed through this dark valley?

It isn't just changing the words... it's changing the intention. I intend to live. To love. To stay sane. To serve God.

There are a lot of circumstances in life that I can't do a thing about. The way I treat life isn't one of them.

How many times have I wished for one more chance in the last 53 years? Good news... I just got it. They say youth is wasted on the young. "If only I had known then what I know now." OK, life, old chum... now I know. I may never be young again, but I can look at you through young eyes. My heart will never be unbroken; the scars will heal, but never disappear; but that doesn't mean I can't love with all the passion of my youth. The years are slowly wearing down my joints and muscles and synapses, but I can fight them every step of the way by keeping strong and fit and active.

Some people respond to tragedy by dying prematurely, then waiting for their body to catch up. I choose another path. I'm going to live every second I have left, seeing what is, and imagining what could be, always trying to see life the way a loving Artist sees it.

We can focus our eyes on impossibilities, or possibilities. It's our choice. This morning, I'm choosing life. Love. The glorious Maybe. What if God really does have more in mind for me than I can possibly ask or imagine?

Peace,
Bob

Glorious Summer

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer...

So begins Shakespeare's telling of Richard III, and so begins my own summer of 2013.

Lord, but this was an ugly spring.

Not outside. Been great running weather. The flowers were and are still beautiful. The lawns and trees are lush and verdant. Kentucky has been wearing her Derby best since long before the race. But my heart has taken a beating.

Lost my mentor and dear friend.

Lost my grip on emotional and mental stability during a bipolar episode that lasted for 6 weeks or more.

Set my new career back by months or maybe years.

Lost my personal trainer.

More funerals than I can keep track of.

And I'm writing this morning in a one bedroom apartment where I now live because I've separated from my wife, perhaps for good.

I'm not sure at all that I wouldn't prefer to repeat the spring I learned I had cancer over the one I just finished. It has been ugly. But by the grace of God and the love of God's people, I'm still standing.

There is a scene in The Raging Bull where Jake bellows across the ring at Sugar Ray Robinson after taking a beating from the great champion. "I never went down, Ray. Never went down." He took everything that the champ had, and lost the fight, but he stayed on his feet. Well, I don't mind admitting that I went down. Hard. Dropped my guard. Took one or two or ten to the chin. I saw stars. I heard the count. But by God, I never stayed down.

When you pray the stations of the cross, you walk along with Jesus as he travels from his betrayal to his death. And three times, he stops and falls. Three times, Jesus has to decide whether to give up, or keep going. And by God, he keeps getting back up. Taking more blows. Making his way to the death that will ultimately bring redemption.

There are times when I would like to be able to point my bruised and bloody finger into Life's face and say, "I never went down." But failing that, I guess Jesus isn't such a bad role model. It sounds crazy, but this dark season hit me harder and from more directions than cancer ever did. Still, the lessons cancer taught me keep paying dividends. That disease knocked me down, too, but it also taught me how to get back up. How to lean on the people who love me. How to fight for my life when my life doesn't seem worth the trouble. How I am never alone. How God will never stop sending me the love I need to survive, often from places and people I would never have expected to find it. How much a run in the cool of the morning can reconnect me to my Creator and the Creation of which I remain a valued, if deeply flawed part.

As I sit here typing, I'm looking out my window onto North Broadway in Lexington. Ambulances scream down from the outer counties toward the hospitals on the "good" side of town. Cars zip by carrying people on their way to work. A neighbor who looks for all the world like a transvestite hooker from the West Village in Manhattan struts in hot pants as drivers honk at her. And above, the sugar maple glows gold and green with the light of a new morning. So much has changed. So much of what made up my life a few months ago is gone. But some things remain.

It is still a funny, inspiring, beautiful world.

Life is still worth fighting for.

There is still a chance for my dreams to come true.

There are still people who trust and depend on me.

God is still faithful.

And always, always, always...

It's a Great Day for a Run.

Peace,
Pennsy

Program Building: Balancing Stress and Recovery

2012 Iron Horse Half Marathon
Recovery isn't always pretty...

Building a training program is about balancing stress and recovery. Allow me to over-simplify for a second here. You ask your body to do something that's hard... much harder than it's used to doing. Something like running a mile or lifting a heavy iron bar with weights on the ends. Once that task is over, the second it is over, in fact, your body starts a conversation with itself. "That was hard. We might have to do that again. We better divert resources to making those muscles and blood vessels bigger and stronger and more up to the challenge."

And that right there is the whole of exercise physiology in a nutshell. Everything else is details. But here's the tricky part. Your body needs the right amount of work to trigger that process, and the right amount of recovery time to allow it to happen. Too little time between workouts, and you never get the chance to rebuild what exercise tears down. Eventually you reach a state called "over-training" where you are actually getting weaker as your body fails to keep up.

So what is the right amount of work for you? Depends on your current condition and your future goals. Right now, I'm trying to run about 25 miles a week. Pretty modest by some runner's standards, but consistent with who I am, what I can do, and why I'm doing it.

And what is the right amount of rest? For me, it's every other day. I run both days on the weekend sometimes, but I don't make a habit of it. Other runners can be out 5 or 6 days a week. I'm not one of them. I start to get tired, I slow down. I don't stop hurting, and worst of all: I stop enjoying my runs. And remember, running is a keystone of my mental health. It's pretty important that I not hate doing it.

Right now, I'm not training for any particular distance. I want to be ready to run any 5K or 10K that comes along, and I have a half and a full Marathon in mind for the fall, but this month, I'm in maintenance mode. To allow for the every-other-day pattern I prefer, I write my own programs on a 14 day cycle that looks like this.

	Sunday	Monday	Tuesday	Wednesday	Thursday	Friday	Saturday
Week 1	XT	5 miles	XT	5 miles	XT	5 miles	Rest
Week 2	13 miles	XT	5 miles	XT	5 miles	Rest	13 miles

XT means Cross-training. Those are the days I swim or ride my bike or walk. I also use those days for strength training. The point is, I don't use the same muscle systems in the same way two days in a row. Recovery happens on a microscopic level. That's why you can run on Monday and walk on Tuesday. You are not challenging the same muscles in the same way. 

I think of the weekday runs as "Purpose" runs. They always have a purpose and there are lots of possibilities. Recovery runs are light and easy, a great way to wring out the joints after a race. Tempo runs help you to learn your ideal speed and to know it by feel. Speed runs are designed to make you stronger and faster. Hill runs... well, they are just what they sound like. Awful. And beautiful. As in, "It feels so good when I stop."

The long runs on the weekend have a purpose too, but it's always the same: to build endurance. The short runs train your legs. The long ones train your will.

When I'm training for a long race, I stretch the distance on one of the long runs and shorten up the other. I've found through experience that I can add about 2 miles every 2 weeks to my long run. When I start training for my next marathon, I'll take that Saturday run out to 15 miles, and drop the next Sunday one down to 8 or 10. The week after that, I should be able to go 17 on Saturday. The following weekend, I'll run 10 or 12. A really long run requires more recovery time. That's why I won't try to run 20 miles two weekends in a row or to run 28 miles the week before a marathon. 

There's a lot of art and science involved in building a program, and I am not going to pretend to understand more than a sliver of it, but this is the way I train myself. Serious runners might scoff at these tiny numbers. Newcomers might despair at them. To the former I say, "Screw You! Don't you people know I'm a natural wonder?" To the latter I say, "Don't compare yourself to anybody. I once thought that a 5K was an unimaginable distance to run. I got to this place one step at a time, and so will you."

Find your own rhythm of stress and recovery. Your legs will tell you when it's time to test yourself, and your heart will tell you when you're ready for the test. Other runners will offer advice, some good, some not. Some authors will speak to your soul and others will talk right over your head. Your job is to listen and learn. And to keep running.

Sleep well. Eat clean. Lift Heavy. Run Hard.

Peace,

Bob

#469: Race Report: 2013 Capital City Stampede 10K

Kentucky's State Capitol Building in Frankfort

Downtown Frankfort rests beside the Kentucky River, in a lovely valley. Driving from Lexington, you approach the city down a long hill, past historic Northern Kentucky University. Yesterday morning, a thick fog rose from the river and rested just above the rooftops giving the whole town a mystical canopy. At the Capital Avenue Bridge, where a sharp left turn usually offers a magnificent view of the domed capitol building, there was only a long climb toward the clouds making the great edifice seem more like something from a storybook than a stone and marble temple of government in what was once the wildest part of the western United States.

Runners and cyclists had already started to arrive when I parked my car. There was a century ride scheduled in another part of the city, and I drove in with several cars laden with zillion dollar bikes and people in those crazy jerseys that cyclists wear. I do enjoy riding my bike, and I admire their sport, but I don't think I'll be joining them anytime soon. Running gives me more than enough challenges. It would have several in store for me before this day was over. 

Here in cloud-land, high above old downtown Frankfort, the sun was doing his best to burn through the morning haze. I walked down to the foot of the steps and collected my packet. This race supports the Frankfort YMCA, so it was particularly special to me. I am always proud to race in my yellow Y singlet, but that was especially true to day as I ran to represent not only my LIVESTRONG at the YMCA family, but the whole YMCA of Central Kentucky association. It was like being at a family reunion. You may not know a lot of the names, but there is comfort in knowing that they're all your cousins, somehow.

I started to warm up, and was reminded just how rough those picturesque hills can be on a runner. They make for great views, but there's a lot of climbing up and down to do when you race in Frankfort. I did a light jog or two up the big hill that leads around the right side of the capitol, past the floral clock, and behind the annex where the supreme court sits. This was to be the last half of mile 6 in the 6.2 mile race. We would all be feeling it the next time we saw that colorful clock.  (Come to think of it, I don't remember noticing it during the race.) At the top of the hill, I realized the beauty of the course. The last quarter mile was a steep down-hill sprint. Our finishing kick was going to be more like a finishing free fall as we tore down the road around the left side of the building. This would be a blast. 

By now, the sun was making some headway against the fog, so I trotted back to the car to change from my amber to my dark glasses. The pause gave me a chance to admire the assembly of the tribes. There were the Pear Shaped, the Lean and Mean (aka the "real" runners,) the Aging Hippies, they Callow Youths, and of course my own people, the Fat Men. I love these guys most of all. Fat Men haven't been running all their lives, and running isn't easy for them. Somewhere along their journey something made them say, "I really need to be running." A Fat Man Running is a man who is trying to make a change. I love that about my tribe. I watched one fellow in his baggy shorts and XXXL tee shirt as he paced around the grounds, stopping now and then to stretch, a little awkwardly maybe, but with as serious an intent as any Olympian. I loved him in all his middle aged glory because I felt as if I knew him. I knew he had great things in store for himself.

The starting area was strangely quiet at 7:50. There is usually a big crowd assembled 10 minutes before start time. Music was playing, but no local celebrity was at the mic making announcements and shouting encouragement. No pace group signs. Nothing at all to indicate that a race was about to start. At 7:55, I decided that I had the starting time wrong. Must be an 8:30 gun. Cool. No sense standing around cramping. I started to jog up the hill, running backwards on the course, away from what would be the finish line. I was probably 200 yards away when I heard the horn blow and uttered a word that was not appropriate for the uniform I was wearing. I had just missed the starting gun.

It was a good thing I had been warming up for 45 minutes, because I'm not sure I could have completed a 200 yard dash without the EMTs otherwise. Of course, I did have that long, steep hill to assist me. I managed to cross the start/finish line with the last of the walkers and began the long, slow process of weaving my way through traffic. In the excitement, I forgot to start my Garmin, and so did not start timing until about a block into the race. I'm still waiting on the official time to tell me how fast I ran.

The start of the course is a long descent from the Capitol steps to downtown and the river. The easy slope gave me a chance to recover my legs and my composure. It's tempting to exploit this long stretch to build up some speed, but racing down hills can wear you out too. I chose a conservative pace as I started finding runners who were more or less in my league. We wove around the downtown streets, along the railroad tracks on Broadway, and then turned into the long slow climb back up toward the start. These first two miles are an out and back loop, but they are also a down and up loop. All that glorious downhill run now had to be paid for. That's how Frankfort works. It's all long rollers. You enjoy one, then pay for the next one. Half-way back up the hill, we made the sharp left turn toward the river again. The Kentucky winds through these mountains and you never know where she's going to turn up next. Slipping down hill again, all you can think about is what a long climb this is going to be on the way back. And a long climb it is. The second leg of the course is another out and back and as you approach the turn, you realize that you have been going down just about the entire way. You're about to finish the last third of a 6 mile race and it's almost all uphill from here.

Of course the beauty of an out and back course is that you get to see runner's faces as you are heading back toward home. One of them was my brother Fat Man. He was the very last runner. Walking along, soaked to the bone with sweat, but his face hardened with determination. I said a silent prayer for him. I know what he feels like. He's going to have a great race when he comes back next year.

I had been tracking another runner for quite a while. A long haired, middle aged fellow with dark blue shorts and a gigantic beard was about 30 yards ahead of me, where he had been since the downtown loop. He was slow but steady, like me, and taking more frequent walk breaks than I was. I could tell he was tiring and decided to try to reel him in. That was going to be harder than I thought. I was as close as I had been all day when we hit the hard left turn that started the steepest part of the climb around the capitol building. Up we went. I had planned on 1:00 walks every mile, so my last one was done. He was taking those random breaks that tell you a runner is too tired to hold his rhythm. The dude was gassing. I turned my eyes down and chugged along. Every time he walked, I closed a little more. By the time we reached the crest of the hill, I was close enough to hear him breathing hard. I swung out to pass... the sucker had been playing possum! We both started to kick, and I watched with delighted amazement as this hairy old dude pulled away from me like a dragster. I don't know if I could have caught him or not, but I was in no mood to try. Instead, I settled into a hard run just short of "go for broke" and concentrated on not letting anybody pass me on the way to the finish line. And nobody did. 

It was a pretty race. The humidity was high, but the combination of the morning dew and the shady roads kept things feeling a lot cooler than they actually were. I felt strong at the end and I like my conditioning as I prepare for the Bluegrass 10,000 on July 4th. I don't know if I'm ready to hit that 60 minute mark just yet, but I'm confident I'll be beating last year's heat soaked time.

Today, I'm resting. I'm not a racer, not really, but running hills in a race does funny things to your head. You don't want to be passed, and you want to catch the next runner. You press a little harder, a little longer than you might if you were running on your own. My batteries need recharging. But tomorrow? That asphalt better be ready. The great big feet of the Fat Man tribe will be out pounding again.

Peace,

Pennsy

The Father Who is There

I loved his company. He was a Vietnam war vet and a skilled poker player and a man of the theatre. We toured together for a brief, happy time back in the 80's. My friend had three kids. Three different women. Three different states. He never saw any of them.

I judged him pretty harshly for that. I wanted to be a father so much, almost more than anything else, and I couldn't understand how anyone could just walk away from such a gift. 

One day, he got the phone call. His oldest son who lived far away in a big city down south had been shot and killed on the street. My friend was dry eyed and ghostly as he told me the few sketchy details the boy's mother had shared with him. "When are you going down?" I asked. "Nothing I can do there," he answered, shaking his head numbly. It wasn't as if he didn't care, exactly. It was more like he knew that a moment, a lifetime had been missed and that there would not be a second chance. 

I got a glimpse of how that felt on a day, weeks later, during a poker game at the table in the back of the tour bus. We were on a country road, on our way to some little college someplace, and we passed a cemetery. As is so often the case, there was a lot next door where stones were sold. For some reason, we both looked up from our cards at the same time. There, by the side of the little two-lane road, we saw it. A granite stone, smaller than the others, cut into the shape of a teddy bear. Grotesque. I heard him whisper softly, "Oh, no. No." My friend put down his cards. Folded. Walked away from the table. I judged him a little less harshly after that. He should have been there for his son. Seeing that stone, so ridiculously inappropriate for the inner city tough guy his oldest had grown into, must have touched something in my friend. A memory. A dream. A hope. I don't know. We didn't talk about it at all after that. But I saw a big man cry that day. Tears of shame and of loss for an opportunity that would never be coming back. I believe that at that moment, my friend would have willingly traded places with his son. Laid himself in that grave and put his boy on the bus, laughing, drinking, singing songs and playing cards and enjoying playing Shakespeare to a different town every night. 

And that is the insane, radical vision of God that Jesus offers: not a king, or a cosmic force, but a father. When Jesus taught the Lord's Prayer, he prayed "Our Father," but he used the word abba. It's the word tiny children use to address their dads. The closest English equivalent is "Daddy." 

A cynic might read that and think it's just one more example of the way religion infantilizes us and tries to keep us helpless as children under the authority of the church. But they've never seen what I saw that day in the back of the bus. My friend didn't want to turn his son into a child again. He just wanted him to live. He should have done more. It took the boy's death to teach him that. He had lost the chance to be that boy's "Daddy." Jesus' message on this Fathers' Day is that God does not pass up that chance. God does not walk away. And God suffers with us, God does what no human father could ever do... God takes our place. God dies so that we can learn to love before it is too late.

That is the lesson of Fathers' Day, to me. I remember ugly ties and walks in the woods and hard lessons taught with gentle firmness... but I also remember sacrifice. My earthly father was willing to give everything for his children. In doing so, he was a minister to us from our heavenly Father. Nobody could have ever loved me like my Dad did. And I loved him so much that now, almost 20 years since his death, my heart still aches to remember him. 

And Jesus says that's the kind of love the Creator of the universe has for me. Like the preacher said, "Ain't that good news?"

Peace,

Bob

Program Building: Goals are the Bridge

For all but the most self-satisfied among us, there is a gap between where we are and where we want to be. Goals can help us to bridge that gap. I'll offer a couple of my running goals as examples in the hope that they may help you to set your own.

Remember the steps that led me here.

• Know who you are: I'm a runner whose mental health plan includes regular workouts, whose age and condition requires frequent recovery days, and whose tendency toward over-training can lead me to wear myself down.
• Know why you're running: I love the peaceful feeling I get when I'm running, no matter how tough the hills or how much my body hurts. I love the way my leg muscles feel when I flex them. I love the solitude of running, but I also enjoy the company of runners. I love the feeling that I keep getting better. Running makes me feel more alive.

It's pretty clear that my running isn't about competing. I'm not really thinking about winning when I run. There aren't that many people I can keep up with, let alone beat in a race. My goals are much more internal. I want to be faster. I want to be stronger. I want to run long distances without hurting myself. I want to keep doing things I've never done before. I've set three goals for 2013, with all that in mind.

• Run a sub 60 minute 10K
• Finish two marathons in under 6 hours
• Log 1000 training miles

Each of these is pretty ambitious for me. Each meets the SMART goal criteria. And they are just far enough out of my comfort zone to be a little scary. Reaching them is going to require me to make a serious commitment to running for the next 6 1/2 months. My program is what that commitment looks like in practical form. The details of that program will be the subject of our next episode. 'Till then:

Sleep well. Eat clean. Lift heavy. Run hard.

Peace,

Bob

Program Building: Why Are You Running?

You can approach running as a scientist or an artist or a little of both, but whatever your approach, you need to know why you're running to set goals and build a program that will get you there.

• Maybe you're trying to get yourself into shape, (or back into shape!) You don't want to compete and you don't want to spend hours and hours pounding the asphalt. You do want to strengthen your heart and burn some fat. You want to get yourself a pair of those fantastic legs. 

• On the other hand, maybe you think you'd like to test yourself. You like the idea of running fast or even piling up some distance. You've watched as other people run organized races and thought to yourself that you'd like to try.

• And you might be an experienced runner who wants to go farther, but isn't sure how to break through the plateau you've been on for a while 

• You might hate running, but you think it's the best way to get yourself fit. You have put it off for years, but you're finally ready to get serious.

Everybody is going to have their own reason for running, but it's important for you to know yours before you start. That will tell you how much you value running, and where it fits into the rest of your life.

You're wanting to get fit? You need a program that is tough. A little light jogging isn't going to cut it for you. You need to burn calories.

Your goal is distance? You might need to take the opposite approach. Don't get me wrong. You'll still have to work plenty hard to get up to those 3, 5, and 10K events, but your priority is going to be efficiency. The fat burners want to use up energy fast. You need to learn how to go fast and far and still have gas in the tank for the finish.

Stuck on a plateau? It may be time to try something different to your training. You could be missing out on the benefits of long-slow runs, or of short, hard intervals. The other possibility, and a dangerous one, is that you could be over-training: burning yourself out by running too hard or too frequently and breaking down your strength instead of building it up.

Are you a running hater? There might be good reasons for that. Maybe you've hurt yourself running in the past. Maybe somebody used running as a punishment in practice or gym class. You might prefer team sports and not like the idea of training as an individual. I want to be clear: you can work around some of these, but the bottom line is if you really hate the idea of running, you shouldn't run. You will quit. No sane person will commit to doing something that they hate when they don't have to. The reasons to run might seem strong now, but once your feet start throbbing and your eyes burn from the sweat in them you will start finding much more compelling reasons not to run. Look elsewhere for your fitness life. Walk. Lift weights. Take a class in Yoga or Spinning or Dancing. What matters most is that you find a way to move that you enjoy. You won't get Marathoner benefits from bowling, but you won't get any benefits if you stay home and watch poker on the TV. If running doesn't do it for you, keep looking. Something is going to appeal to you.

Knowing who you are, and why you're running are the foundation for your program, but you need to build a bridge that takes you from where you are to where you want to be. Choosing the right goals, SMART goals can make your program just that. And that's what we'll talk about next time.

Till then, sleep well, eat clean, lift heavy, run hard.

Peace,
Bob

#468: A Legacy of Love

Edna Givens
1940 - 2013

I attended another LIVESTRONG at the YMCA sister's funeral yesterday. It was a joyous, sometimes even raucous celebration of a life well lived. Edna Givens didn't waste a minute of her life.

She was a nurse. She was a wife and a widow. A mother and grandmother. Edna didn't just go to church, she lived the church. Sunday morning service was just the beginning for her. She was a leader for a group of women who served in their community. Feeding. Clothing, Healing. After her time as a participant in the program at the Y, she served as a mentor for other survivors. Her two sons are leaders in their own rights. The church was packed with mourners who seemed motivated more by thanksgiving than grief.

Cancer had to take three shots at her before she lost her life, but as the preacher said, her loss was a victory.  She lost this life, but gained a place with her Savior. We lost her company for a time, but will never lose the inspiration and the power she gave to the world. Love is her legacy.

There isn't a second to waste. Not in a life that can end so quickly. One of the things that the past few weeks (!) has taught me is that life happens all of a sudden. Yes, sometimes things change gradually, but sometimes it happens in a flash. A conversation overheard. A piece of news that slips out. A driver who misses the light changing. A word that turns your life upside down.

For God's sake, you could lose everything you have before you finish reading this sentence. Don't waste a second on anything but love. Don't spend a drop of your life fighting for the things that death is going to take away from you. Love. That's what Jesus did. That's what Edna did.

Build a legacy of love. What better use can you make of your short time on this earth?

Peace,
Bob

Program Building: Knowing yourself

I want to talk about how I build a training program for myself. And let me make that clear as spring water. This is how I lay out plans for ME. My approach is very specific to 1) my physical condition and 2) my running goals. This approach could be perfect for you, or it could put you in a world of painfully slow times (or worse, painful injuries.) It really benefits you to learn from an experienced runner, or even better, an experienced coach as you make a plan to suit your own body and personal goals.

First, know what kind of shape you are in. This is the surface stuff. I'm 52 years old, (but not for much longer!) quite a bit over-weight, and prone to fatigue and stubborn over-training. This is stuff I know about myself. Some of it is quite obvious, but some of it is the fruit of hard lessons learned from past mistakes.

One other thing: physical exercise and running in particular are the core of my treatment plan for my mental health. When I don't run, I get depressed. When I get depressed, I don't feel like running. And so the bipolar monster feeds itself.

When I stack all this data together, I come to some conclusions:

• My program must involve frequent, moderate workouts that give me the emotional boost I need without wearing me out so badly that I have to take a long break to recover. 

• Frequent recovery days are as important as workout days... maybe more so. 

• I have a tendency to push myself hard, so I need a disciplined approach to workouts that allows me to test my limits without breaking myself down.

And that is step one in program building. Step two is a little more introspective. Why do I run, and what do I hope to achieve? I'll take a look at those questions in our next installment. Till then...

Eat clean, Lift heavy, Run hard, Sleep well.

Peace,
Bob

#467: Morning Run

Rack Face: the reason Pennsy doesn't
run in the morning.

It may be because I grew up making theatre, but I am really not much good in the morning. I'd make a lousy swimmer. Early morning runs are the exception for me, unless I'm meeting someone for a long one or the summer weather makes afternoon runs impossible. This morning, I broke that pattern for a couple of reasons.

First, I was two miles short yesterday. I wanted to do five, but the heat sent me home early. Second, according to my friends on Facebook, it is National Running Day, (whatever the heck that is,) and I wanted to show solidarity. So after my coffee and PB&J, I pulled some shorts and a shirt off the clothes line on the porch, (another thing I love about summer,) and hit the streets for a short one.

Nice, nice morning. 58° - 62°. depending on which bank thermometer you believe. just a little overcast. at 7:00, people are heading to work, but the traffic is still light. It's safe to run out on the side streets and avoid the uneven seams and low hanging branches that can trip you up on even the nicest sidewalks.

Once I get started on one of these Up At Dawn affairs, I always wonder why I don't run early more often. I just love seeing the neighborhood from a different, more peaceful perspective. The birds have a special music at this hour of the day. There are fewer voices, and they seem respectfully aware of the fact that most of the world isn't ready to enjoy them in full voice just yet. The people you encounter are generally out and about because they have to be. There's a particular sense of freedom you feel when you're the only one on the street who has chosen to get up and out rather than being compelled by a job or a class schedule. I ran fairly hard. Just two miles in just over 10:00 per mile... a decent training pace for me. I concentrated, when I thought at all, on my posture, keeping my core strong and my shoulders back and relaxed. I almost never think about form on a long run, so these short ones during the week are a good time to teach my body what a nice stride feels like.

Got home with a good sweat, and fresh legs, ready to start the day. Took a short nap, which is my habit since I've started waking up after just 6 hours of sleep for some reason. And now I'm ready to get to work having finished my workout with gas left in the tank.

I'd like to say I'll remember that good feeling and want to run more often in the wee hours... but I think we both know Pennsy better than that. These imaginary national holidays don't come along every day, you know.

Peace,
Pennsy

#466: What Has Running Done for Me Lately?

It's been a rough spring for me, in case you haven't noticed. Personal loss, mental illness, professional set-backs. I am really looking forward to the summer of 2013 with hope. Through all this trouble, my one faithful companion has been running. When it seemed like every other rug in my world was being pulled out, I always knew I could lace 'em up and hit the road. Running has become more than exercise, more even than therapy for me. It has become my touchstone. When things are at their worst for me, running has reminded me just how much I love being alive.

When I learned that my friend was going away, I spent a couple of days holed up in tears, then I went for a run. I ran so hard and so long that I wound up in the ER with dehydration... but running reminded me that I was still strong, even without Coach.

When it seemed like my fundraiser was going to crash and burn under the weight of my emotional breakdown, I went for a run. I ran 28 miles one day and people were inspired to give so generously that we not only reached our goal, we surpassed it.

When I felt  my friend's pain as she lay critically ill in a nursing home with a relapse of the cancer she thought she had beaten years ago, I wrote her name on my bib and went for a run, busting a new Marathon PR and lifting her spirits along the way.

Yesterday, the weight of all the grief and loss and changes and frustrations seemed ready to crush me. There are times when I am so close to despair that I could almost give up. Instead, I went for a run. Nice and slow. Hot and humid. More of a jog, really. I heard the birds, felt the wind and the sun on my face and legs. The tap of my feet on the pavement kept time as the music of my breath drew me along. Gritting up hills. Smiling at strangers. Loving every second of what seemed to be a terrible life just an hour before.

That's what you've done for me lately, Running. You've kept my heart beating. Helped me blow off steam. Let me taste the air mixed with clean, salty sweat on my lips. You got me through the rain and mile 26. You got me out of my bed, off my ass, and out the door. You reminded me that there is a God who loves me and who in the middle of all this loss is still giving me one precious gift... life... and the ability to run toward it.

Thanks for the reminder, old friend. It's a Great Day for a Run.

Peace,
Pennsy

Saying My Beads

The Rosary was never a part of my religion when I was growing up, but it was always a part of my life. Our neighborhood was almost exclusively Roman Catholic, and in the late afternoon, the older folks used to go to  their quiet corners and pray the Rosary. I saw them everywhere, but I was probably 20 years old before I even touched one. I loved the feel of it.. The smoothness of the beads, The light, but barely perceptible weight. The gentle discipline of the circle. The rhythm of the beads as they flowed from 10 to 1 to 10 again. Much later, after I had joined an Episcopalian church, I learned how to say these ancient and simple prayers. When I pray the Rosary, I feel connected to God. I also feel connected to all the people across the world, across the ages who have ever "said their beads." at the beginning or the end of the day. It is a true act of communion to pray the Rosary.

Traditionally, the prayer is a devotion to Mary. The Hail Mary is repeated again and again. Each row of 10 beads is called a decade, and there is a specific mystery upon which you meditate for each decade. Another part of the tradition is the flexibility of the prayer. St Francis changed the Rosary from 5 decades to 7 so he could meditate on a specific set of mysteries from Mary's life. The Rosary I use is one of these Franciscan Crown style, and while I often pray the traditional prayer, I have recently taken to including other subjects for my meditations.

Yesterday, I prayed for myself. That I might find God's will for my life at work, at home, in my community, in my family That I might grow in my spiritual life. That I might increase in wellness. Today, I prayed for others. For Mrs P. For the people at the Y and church. For my fellow survivors and fellow runners. For the animals I have known and loved. For my friends, my sisters, my mom. I had lit incense before I started praying out on the back porch, and as my fingers walked slowly along the string of beads, my thoughts rose like the smoke. In my imagination, I see that smoke travelling across the miles to touch the people I love like the Holy Spirit, the sweet, life-giving breath of God.

The words of the prayers, the circle of the beads: these are the discipline of the Rosary. To begin is to make a commitment to the devotion. I'm not sure I've ever started one and not finished it, though I have lost my place from time to time, and even nodded off to sleep. My fingers know the path, and my heart follows. As I make my way out of the recent darkness where I found myself, I will travel this ancient road, a little wooden bead at a time, back toward light and faith. Remembering Francis. Remembering his faith and child-like devotion to his heavenly Father, I try to trust God to guide my prayers and my life. It isn't always easy to trust, But having a few simple rules to start the day helps to focus my spirit a little. I choose the rules of the beads. They begin and end at the cross of Jesus. I pray that the same may be said of my life.

Peace,
Pennsy