When Running Loves You Back

Running is my teacher. She is patient and forgiving, but also relentless and rigorously honest. She welcomes me back, even after a long absence, but she never forgives snow days, and she never gives extra credit. Her grades are hard to earn, but hard lessons have a way of rooting  more deeply than the easy ones do. 

I love to run long distances. Love it. Love. It. Two miles? Four miles? Six miles? Yeah, they can feel like work sometimes. Those routine runs that you squeeze in before dawn or over lunch or after work, just to keep up your conditioning. The ones where you have one eye on your watch because you're shooting for the right training pace, or you're checking your cadence or you have a time goal to hit... they can be a chore some days. 

But the long ones... oh the Long Slow pleasure of ten or sixteen or twenty miles on a Saturday morning... whether you're watching the fog burning off the hills, or dodging the bread trucks as they make their deliveries... The initial warm up as your heart begins to race, then calm itself to find its steady rhythm. The mindful attention to every curve and bend, each hill and rise making your eyes widen with anticipation or narrow with delight. The fire deep inside that flares or smolders, fueling muscles and nerves as you stride silently along the road, feeling texture and temperature through your feet, your hands, your face. And ultimately comes the moment you disappear. You are no longer breathing; you are breath. No pain. No will. No thought. You are pure presence. You are no longer running. You simply are.

Once you've been there, you want to go back. You dream about it. It's a holy place. But the chances to get there are rare. And they don't come cheap.

It takes time. 

Lots of time. You have to invest the hours. You have to earn the miles. You don't run twenty-six point six just because you want to. You have to earn it. You have to run eighteen first. And fifteen. And ten. Not just once, but many times. 

Running rewards respect... Disrespect her and she will humble you. With pain. With setbacks. With injuries. You're going to doubt yourself. You don't have the strength. You don't have the legs. Too slow. Too fat. Too far behind. Your heart will break along the way. It will break. And when that happens, you have to learn to keep running.

You have to learn to run with a broken heart.

And that takes trust.

You have to trust yourself. You will get stronger. You will. Every step will make you stronger. Believe it. Your heart will learn to beat again. Injured joints will mend. Burning lungs will clear. They will. You have to trust that. You have no choice. You can trust, or you can quit. Because only your trust will keep you out there on the road. In the weight room. In the whirlpool. Going wherever you have to go, doing whatever you have to do to earn HER trust. 

She has to learn to trust you, too. Because you see, she is more than a teacher. She has secrets you can only guess at... and stories you've never heard before. She will show you things inside yourself that you didn't know were there. And she will give you parts of herself that you never imagined could exist. She will tease you, amuse you, frustrate you, lead you on, and shut you down. And one day, if you are faithful and lucky, she will open her arms, and give you the most sacred part of herself.

In my life, running and I have gone to heaven together. But always on her terms. She has no use for my good intentions or heartfelt desire. She doesn't care about what I've written or the books I've read. She needs to know me, and needs me to know her. She needs to know that I will be there. That I will give her my time. That I will honor her trust.

Only then will she open her arms to me and welcome me into her heart. 

There is a place out there on the road. Marathoners call it "The Wall." Physiologists will tell you that it's the place where your glycogen stores are exhausted and there is nothing left in the tank for the engine of your body to use for fuel. You hit the wall and you crash. You bonk. You fail. Nothing but will, training, and insanity can get you past The Wall. 

But if you are lucky, she will be there waiting for you. She will let you keep going. You don't earn those miles. . Those are the ones she gives you. They come from her heart.

That's when you've learned your lessons. That's when running loves you back.

#479: Leg Day #Rebooted

Never Skip Leg Day

Leg Day. Speak the words above a whisper, and watch weight lifter's faces turn pale.It conjures memories of hugging the squat rack until the room stops spinning, staggering like a disconnected marionette among the benches, praying you can get to the sauna without crashing to the floor in a heap. Clenching your jaw and your fists tight, as you desperately scan the walls for a trash can to throw up in.

Leg Day. 

It isn't for the faint of heart. 

But Dude, you can't spend your whole week doing bench presses and bicep curls in the mirror. You'll turn into a  Macy's parade baloon. The above picture may be photoshopped, I don't know, but I've seen this boy's kin folk all over town. The guys who only work the pretty muscles, the mirror muscles, the ones that show up in selfies. It's kind of sad. 

Real lifters do legs. Hard. Brutally hard. And the results can be amazingly beautiful. Maybe you find her sexy, maybe you find her creepy, but I promise you, Oksana Grishina didn't get legs like that without working hard at it. She earned every cut and curve. And definition like this does not come cheap.

A body builder's legs may be awe inspiring, but they are not really ideal for a distance runner... and they are not really attainable for a 53 year old man without the genes, the training, or the little bag full of steroids that make them happen. 

Pushing deep squats till you puke may feel macho, and it will make you strong as a bull, but it won't get you to mile 26 without a lot of pain, fatigue, and, to be honest, chafing. That much bulk just isn't built for distance.

Consequently, runners don't train their legs like that. Lifting gigantic weights with the biggest muscles in your body takes a lot of strength, and runners kind of need their strength... you know... for running. You aren't going to get much training value from road miles if you've left the best of your legs in the weight room.

Still... Dude... you gotta work legs. Not for bulk, and not for brute strength, but for muscular endurance. And just a little vanity. Cause, I gotta tell you,.. my biceps may resemble sausages hanging from the ceiling of a Brooklyn Heights Deli, but when the light hits them right, and you look from just the right angle, the Fat Man can have some badass looking gams. Hey, it isn't much, I admit, but you play the cards life deals you.

So here's how I'm doing Leg Day, now that racing season is upon us.

The organizing principle here is "Do More with Less." Low weight, high reps. My goal is to execute each rep with perfect form, through a full range of motion. 

After a quarter mile on the treadmill and some prisoner squats facing the wall to get the juices flowing, I hit the rack.

Supersets, 3 x 10, 30 sec rest

Barbell Squats, Barbell Split Squats

3 x 10, 30 sec rest

Romanian Dead Lifts with Barbell

Machine Leg Curls

Machine Leg Extension

2 sets, 30 seconds each, 30 sec rest

Plank (side, front, side)

Bird Dog

Dead Bug

It's a quick workout, and left me feeling pumped but not burned, so I thought I'd get a little creative with a finisher. Usually I'll finish with some vigorous cardio on the rowing machine or a bike, but since I knew I'd be running with the kids at the Y in a couple hours, I decided to finish with 20 minutes of kettlebell swings. 

Better make that 15. 

It's been a long time since I rang the Bell, and I forgot two things: what an intense workout it is; and how badly out of shape I still am. The good news was, I didn't drop the weight through the studio floor, or slip and fling it through a mirror. But it's going to take me a while to work back up to those 30 minute swing fests I was enjoying out in the sunshine, back when I was in racing shape. 

Finally, I spent about 15 minutes on some yoga and stretching, hoping to diminish some of the soreness I'm sure I'll be feeling around 3:30 this morning.

Oh yeah. Then I went for a 2 miler with a 10 year old girl who kicked my butt every step of the way. She pushed me as hard as I could go. But she never dropped me. That's right. I'm bragging. I am as tough as a 10-year old girl. Maybe you aren't impressed by that? Maybe you've never met a Kentucky girl.

All in all, a pretty good workout that burned an absurd amount of calories. Might even make up for the pizza I ate yesterday...

And, Dude... even if I do say so myself... The old legs do still look pretty good when the light is right...

Peace,

Pennsy

To See and Be Seen

I've been contemplating this guy for a few days now. In the waning days of winter, I used an old lion for my profile picture on Facebook. But with the first day of spring, I wanted to make a change. I have always identified with these beautiful animals. Their strength. Their ferocious loyalty. When you grow up big and maybe a little too sensitive for your own good, you don't really connect with the cheetahs and the rabbits. So you can either resent the "big ape" thing, or else embrace it and make the best of what you have. I was never very good at chest pounding or swatting fighter planes out of the sky, but the dark browed, broad shouldered scowl came in handy on the subway a couple of nights. It's good to have it in the repertoire when you need it.

But ferocity isn't what attracted me to Old Silverback here. It was his eyes. They seemed to see. As much as I would love to be the kind of guy who sweeps the pretty girl off her feet and carries her to the top of the Empire State building, I think I'd rather be one who can look at her the way this fellow is looking. To see. To regard. To accept. To respect.

He isn't seeing himself in her. His failures. His fears. Those aren't eyes that imagine and project. They are eyes that embrace and perceive. He isn't afraid to know the truth. He isn't afraid to see what's really there.

Maybe that is because he isn't afraid to be seen. When I consider those strange, yet familiar eyes, I see open windows that let the truth pass through in both directions. He is able to know, because he is willing to be known. His strength is his defenselessness. 

He seems like the kind of guy who isn't afraid to take the time to get to know you. Or to give you all the time you need to do the same thing.

I want to be that kind of an ape. One who can look without staring. Who can see without judging. Who regards each detail with curiosity and reverence, and treats your love as a sacred trust, a holy exchange of personhoods.

Too often, instead of a gorilla I have been a chattering carnival monkey. Grabbing and snatching. Clinging to scraps and squirrreling them away as if I were certain that the supply could never last. Too many times, I have blurted and blundered my way out of love with impatience. "Take this," I cry. "Take me. All of me. Now. Today." As if love were a desperate race against time. 

But the monkey isn't pressed for time. He is haunted by fear. "Take me or leave me," he cries, " But for god's sake, get it over with. Don't make me wait for the rejection that I know is coming anyway." He thinks he's being brave, stripping naked for you to see. But really, he is a coward. He doesn't have the courage to wait for you to undress him yourself.

So I chose this beautiful old Mountain Gorilla to be my spirit guide for the spring. I hope he teaches me to see and be seen. I want to learn his courage and confidence. I want to learn his quiet strength and his tender patience. 

When I contemplate those eyes, I see... I suppose the word I'm looking for is "Presence." He isn't thinking about what's next. He isn't a million miles away. When Old Silverback looks at you, he says, "I am here with you. I see you. See me." 

If that isn't love, what is?

#478: Reasons To Race

A friend recently advised me, "Write in the morning, and revise in the evening." So tonight, I revisited and revised a post I put up earlier today. I don't take a lot of mulligans on FMR, but I'm making an exception in this case. I this comes closer to what I want to say... Pennsy

Lexington is getting a Marathon! I was so excited to learn about it that I registered on the first morning. Haven't run more than 2 miles in months, 40 pounds heavier than the last time I raced, and I just registered for a Marathon. The good news is, it isn't until May of 2015.

Fifteen months. That's a long time to prepare for a Saturday morning run. You need some good reasons to do something like that. Here are some of mine.

As 2013 came to an end,  I reflected on my own values, and how they should guide me, I decided that I had to start by practicing Strength. The Strength to take action. The Strength to respond. The Strength to do the things God is calling me to do. To serve. To help. To teach. To learn. To run. I took this very literally, focusing my workouts almost entirely on the weight room and building muscle and flexibility. My body felt weak, slow, tired, and fat. My spirit felt the same way. I let the squat rack and the dumbbell bench be a metaphor... every rep was another ounce of potential realized.... every stretch was another inch of increased readiness and flexibility. And as my body begins to change, I feel my spirit changing, too.

After strength, comes Courage: doing what's right. It means living with honor and personal integrity. Being the man I want to be... the man I say I am. It means accepting that I'm not in control, and that I don't need to be. As I reflect on my life's greatest stumbles, I think a failure of personal courage may be the common denominator. Why? Lots of reason, probably. But the one that comes to mind right now is that I've never really known or believed in my own strength. There's always been a voice, I call him my "Toxic Passenger" in the back of the bus, heckling me. "You're going the wrong way." "You're going to come up short." "They're going to laugh at you." "She's going to dump you when she figures out who you really are." He's always been there. Probably always will be. But what's changing is that I don't take his word to be gospel so much anymore. He tells me I'm weak and that I never follow though. Time was, I would just nod sadly in agreement with him. But now, when I hear him grumbling, I remind myself of all the deadlifts. I remember the miles. I touch the finisher's medal from the Pittsburgh Marathon, and I just smile. I'm stronger than the Toxic Passenger thinks I am. I've proved it. And I didn't do that by being the fastest or the smartest or the best. I did it by lifting one weight at a time. Taking one stride at a time. Running a race I could be proud of, and letting the results take care of themselves.

If strength is the bow and courage is the arrow, then Compassion is the bulls eye. Study alone? Yes. Run by yourself? Certainly. Pound out one more set in the weight room after everyone else has hit the shower? Every time. But do it because someday, someone is going to need that strength and courage. Somebody will have to be ready to run for help. To push the car out of the ditch. To go "the extra mile," whatever that mile turns out to be. To serve with compassion. When I read the story of Jesus,compassion is the defining quality I see in his character. Here was a man of unlimited strength and courage, whose every move was guided by the joy and the suffering that he shared with each person he met. The Incarnation is the story of a God who walked among us and shared not only our lives, but our hearts... our passions. The Creator became a creation and chose not to rule, but to serve. My most gratifying races were the ones I ran with a purpose that was bigger than myself. To honor The Five. To support Actors' Guild. To raise money for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. I am still settling on how I will use this race to serve, but rest assured, I have no intention of doing this one alone.You don't run fifteen months just so you can get the tee-shirt.

And then, there is Joy. You don't make joy. You don't earn it. You can't coax it along. You can't force it. You can't expect it, plan for it, demand it, and you sure as hell can't guarantee it. Joy is rare, like a perfect, spring afternoon. You don't create it. You receive it. Joy is Grace. It is God's gift to you, not because you deserve it, but because every now and then, the universe peeps open and gives you a glimpse of the heart of God and for that moment, you bear witness to the Image in which you were made. Joy isn't payday. Joy is... everyday. All in an instant.. And somewhere along the road, I know there will be times to smile, to weep, and to laugh out loud for no other reason than the joyful knowledge that a life lived with strength, courage and compassion is a life that pleases God... and the gift of Joy is God's testimony to that pleasure.

You know what? 2014 is gonna be a great year for a run.

Peace,
Pennsy

Lenten Littany of Thanksgiving

Because there is no bad time to say "Thank You..."

Especially Ash Wednesday...

I give thee thanks, oh Lord.


For this sun shining, snow melting, eye blinding, face warming, gawd-amighty beautiful day after the last winter storm of the year...

For people whose hard work and joy inspire and infect me, even on my darkest days...

For a car that runs...

For a snug, warm hat, given to me by a friend...

For locker room talk that isn't what you think it is at all...

For a heart that keeps on pumping...

I give thee thanks, oh Lord.


For the touch of the Doc who first laid hands on my throat and knew that something very, very wrong...

For the friends who text you while you're in the waiting room to let you know they're thinking of you...

For the almost-secret parking lot for the walking almost-dead that lets you step out of your car and almost-right into the lobby of the Markey Cancer Center, instead of having to hike from a garage somewhere...

For an amazing device that lets the surgeon slip a video camera down your throat and shows you all the pink healthy tissue where the cancer used to live...

For insurance that lets me get the treatment and medicine I need to stay in the game...

I give thee thanks, oh Lord.


For Mediterranean Lentils at the Good Foods Cafe...

For the itty bitty bars of verrrrry dark chocolate that you can buy at the register on the way out...

For the chance to hang around and live this wonderful, ordinary, unremarkable, unforgettable day...

I give Thee thanks, Oh Lord.


Peace,

Pennsy

#477: Snow Day

After dinner last night, I needed to burn off some calories, so I headed off into the sleet for 4.5 slow, slippy miles. It was not the most fun I've ever had on the streets, but the payoff came this morning when I stepped on the scale. I'm down 13 pounds from my still unpublished but trust-me-its-awful maximum weight at the start of my current reboot.

Several inches of snow followed the sleet overnight. Woke up to some serious weather and road conditions. The Y cancelled classes, but I wasn't sure how many of my LIVESTRONG at the YMCA participants could get the news, so I volunteered to drive in and help make the calls to everyone. The Honda was not happy about having to be out and about this morning, and expressed her displeasure with a door latch that froze OPEN after I managed to pry the thing open without busting any of the door seals. I sent out a call for advice, and my friend C suggested dousing it with WD-40... which worked, of course. I believe that anything that's worth fixing can be repaired with a can of WD, a roll of Duct Tape, and a 12-inch pair of judiciously applied Vice Grips.

At the gym, the boss and I sat down and called everyone. My favorite response: "Are you crazy! I wasn't going to tread a foot out in this!" Something tells me I have failed to instill an appropriate level of fear in my charges. Since I was already there, and the crowd was decidedly thin, I decided to hit the weight room for my "Never Skip a Monday" workout.

Conventional wisdom says that you do your hard cardio AFTER you lift weights. Otherwise, you are too tired to give the iron your all. I was able to validate that today. Started out with 30 hard minutes on the treadmill. Longest jaunt so far. Also my quickest. I was able to sustain 12:00 miles for nearly the whole workout. That's almost 3:00 slower than what I was doing a year ago, but you know... it was quite a year. So I felt pretty spent, but encouraged by my progress.

After a little walk around the hall and some water, I checked my print-out... Deadlifts. Naturally. And my legs were already feeling puny. Then of course, there was someone using the power rack. Now, you don't actually need the rack to do deadlifts, but that's where the free barbells live. I hate taking one from the bench press boys... especially on Monday which is the high holy day for Cult of the Pecs. So I stepped over to the New Thingy. 

I don't remember the New Thingy's real name. It isn't a Smith Machine. The video shows you one of those. I don't like the Smith. The New Thingy has lots of rods and slides and bearings that allow the weight to move forward and back, not just up and down. I don't trust the straight lines that the Smith machine forces you to track through. Especially on big lifts. I hate squats on the Smith, and I would never use one for Deads.

Since I was already tired, and using an unusual apparatus, I switched from full Deadlifts to straight legged Deads. Here's a pretty good demo of that variation.

This lift still hits the hams and glutes, but doesn't require the same full body effort of a Deadlift that pulls from the floor. To be honest, I didn't think I was up for too much iron anyway. After the Deads, I took advantage of the open space to do some walking lunges with dumbbells, then arm work, including a very unimpressive three sets of assisted pullups.

 

I really like this machine. One of my life goals is to someday execute 10 unassisted pullups. This is a tool I'm using to get myself to the first one. I have a loooong way to go. (note to other pullup aspirants... weight gain make this a much harder goal to achieve.)

After finishing up with some of what I think of as "vanity work"... curls and presses designed to make my pathetic upper arms look big and strong... I did my core exercises on the mat, then staggered back out for a 10 minute wring down on the Vario... another very cool and versatile machine. Here's a pimped out promo from the manufacturer... lusicious patio companionship not included with the family friendly YMCA model...



Its basically a sexier version of an AMT, and I like it for the range of motion and what feels like zero impact on the joints.

And as a special added bonus, guess what came on my iPod as I was finishing up?


Even with the Inferno, this snow day workout wore me out. Once I had stretched and cooled down, I came home, had some leftover spaghetti squash, and crashed. In the long run, I'm hoping that exercise will give me more energy, but for the time being, these long workouts take just about all I have.

Woke up feeling fidgety. I would go for a walk,but the streets are still hazardous, and even the best citizens are having a hard time keeping their sidewalks clear. And the truth is, I'm still feeling spent. So I'm writing instead. And you know what? You've really helped me to feel better. Thanks for listening.

Peace,
Pennsy

God Bless You, Old Lion

There's a slogan I've been seeing a lot on Facebook lately. "The lion does not trouble himself about the opinions of sheep," or words to that effect. I find it arrogant and disrespectful. I have pretty low self-esteem, but even I can't imagine how badly you have to feel about yourself before you find comfort in the thought that you are the lone, brave, strong creature surrounded by flocks of cowards and followers. And the Lion deserves better.

I was born under constellation of the Lion at the end of a hot July in Pittsburgh. I've always been inspired by the fire of the Lion. The sharp eyes. The rippling shoulders. The sandy color. The strength. Devotion to the Pride. I've always wished I could be more like the Lion of Summer.

But today is March 1, and there is another Lion on my mind. Ferocious. Powerful. Deadly. And dying. Whenever I picture March coming "in like a lion," I never see the mighty hunter, leader of the Pride, dreadful and courageous, standing on a rise roaring out his claim on everything he surveys. The Lion of March is an old lion. A few weeks ago, he could freeze the world with a low rumble from his mighty chest or a puff from his nostrils. Not long ago, a swipe of his giant paw brought whole cities to a standstill. Today, he is still dangerous. There is still power in those broad shoulders, but there is grey under the chin. His vision is still sharp, but he has to squint a little to see into the distance. There is still power in his stride, but he rises stiffly. He is still the King. But no longer the King he once was.

Last night, I was feeling pretty agitated. I had left the house early that day with an ambitious list of tasks... things that I had chosen and that mattered to me... and seemed to hit roadblocks at every turn. Procedures. Attitudes. The things I wanted were so simple. The people I needed to help me were so unwilling. Finally, I went home, too angry and frustrated to trust myself in public. I know when my temper is close to boiling. I start swearing to myself. I've learned that if I don't get away from people pretty quickly once that starts, I end up saying things that are stupid and cruel.... sort of along the lines of "the lion does not trouble himself..."

So I went home. Locked the door. Grabbed the ice cream. Screw it. I'll get drunk in a minute. Right now, I'm going to eat. Whatever the hell I want. As much as I want. I don't care.

I was angry. I wanted to hurt someone... so I decided to hurt myself.

I really don't know what changed my mind. I've been working on a new habit. I've been keeping a food diary. So without really thinking about it, I took the open half gallon of Mint Chocolate Chip and the spoon and walked to my computer to log them. Curious, I entered the value that would add the calories, fat, sugar, from half a gallon - 8 cups - of ice cream. And I stared at the number. Just under 3000 calories. Just about what I burned during my last Marathon. Was I really that angry? Did I hate myself that much? Enough to erase a Marathon's worth of progress in a 20 minute binge of self destruction?

It wasn't the sheep's opinion I had to worry about, you see. It was the lion's. It was my own opinion.

I put the carton back in the freezer. Chopped some peppers and onions. Cooked some beans and rice. Printed the workout I had decided to put off till the weekend.

After supper, I went to the gym. Treadmill. Weight room. Stationary bike. Almost two hours worth. Around 1600 calories burned. As I walked out into the corridor, drenched, with my clipboard in one hand and my empty water bottle in the other, my soaked towel draped over my head, a woman said something to me that I didn't hear. Headphones. I pulled them out and said, "Sorry? What?"

"I don't know how you do it." She looked like she might be around thirty five. Very pretty. Very heavy. Was she somebody's mom? Was she here on a Friday night to watch her kids play basketball, or to try to keep her New Year's resolution, or just to be someplace besides home alone? I didn't ask.

"I don't have any choice. I can either do this, or die a fat old man."

I didn't add, "like my father." But that's what I was thinking. I may be an old lion. And I may be so filled with anger and hate sometimes that I have to go hide before I bust... but I am not ready to die.

Not yet.

So, roar on, you old Lion of Winter. The weather prophets say you have a few more good fights in you before March goes out like a lamb. Bring 'em on. Don't give up, you old Lion.

Because every time you find the strength for one more hunt, one more fight, one more shout over the frozen ground that tells the world that you aren't dead yet... you give this old lion hope.

Roar on, Old Lion.