the psychology of running

Yesterday I ran in my first 5K and it wasn't pretty. I have all sorts of excuses of course: It was hot and I'm used to running in the cool Colorado evenings, it was a very tough course (some runners said it was the toughest they'd ever run), it started at 12:30 instead of the usual morning start time, blah blah blah. It's true that those things played a factor in my crashing and burning but something else played in that I did not expect: My brain.

Now I've only been running for about six months and have never considered myself to be fast, just slow and steady. My goal was just to finish without walking. I had no fantasies of winning anything. After I checked in and got my first race t-shirt, I looked around and saw many people who looked less "runner-like" than I did and felt kind of relieved. There were, of course, the very impressive elite male contestants who let off an aire of confidence and seemed not to even see people like myself in the starting-line gaggle.




And there was the girl I met who seemed to think she was an elite runner, telling me about how she was going to go to Arizona or Alaska to run marathons soon. I actually passed her on the very first part of the first hill because she was walking. That did something for my ego until I decided she was just delusional.

I had run the course the week before to see how bad it was- and it was bad. One hill was a gradual mile-and-a-half of one hundred-foot elevation gain. After that there was a short down-hill jag and then a long son-of-a-bitch half-mile hill. It was also on a gravel trail that made it feel like running in sand. But as bad as it was, I was able to make it without stopping on my "test run". But on race day, it was a different story. As I came down the first hill, usually where I got my second wind, I took one look at the next hill and shut down. The Colorado sun was beating down on me and my throat was parched. I thought there would be a couple of water stops so I hadn't brought any of my own water and that had been a mistake. As I started up the hill, I looked farther ahead and saw that many, if not most, of the other racers were walking. But instead of thinking, "Sissies!" and running past them, I instantly gave myself permission to walk, too. Even though I knew I could do it since I had done it the week before with a hang-over and four hours of sleep (long story).

All the things I had imagined my first race to be went out the window. I run three miles, three times a week with no problem. In fact, I hardly break a sweat. But yesterday there was so much sweat pouring down my legs that I seriously wondered if I'd lost bladder control from exhaustion. I didn't walk for long, but the damage was done. I lost my motivation and just wanted the damn thing to be over. All the happy, upbeat songs in my iPod could not bring me back to the right state of mind. Not even the Hamster Dance. It was bad. Really bad.

I crossed the finish line where my husband and boys were cheering me on. I went straight to the water line and tried not to fall over. My time was 33 minutes, 44 seconds. Just under 11 minutes per mile. UG! My seven-year-old didn't help any by informing me that, "Mom! You were in 140th place!!!" He had counted every runner that came in before me and I totally trust his math. "Well there were some people behind me, too!" I pointed out, but that didn't matter.

After getting home and taking a shower, some Advil and drinking a few gallons of water, I felt disappointed but not heart-broken. After all, I started running to get in shape and can proudly say I've lost 14 pounds and can fit into my "skinny" clothes again. In fact, I'm probably in the best shape of my life. I'm still aggravated at myself for being influenced by the runners who gave up instead of the runners who kept up, but my older boys have begged me to let them run with me next time which lets me know they think I'm cool, even if I was in 140th place.

back in the saddle again

I walked into the classroom feeing excited and apprehensive. I had no idea what to expect. Would my classmates be a bunch of vapid Stepford wives trying to find their artsy side or would they be suburban hippies smelling of patchouli oil? I picked a potter's wheel and began sorting out my tools. My teacher, who looked like she was about twenty, handed me a bag of clay. I looked around the circle and saw that there were only five of us and besides the teacher, I was the youngest one. It looked like a bunch of grandmothers banded together to sign up for the beginner's pottery wheel class.

"Has any of you ever done this before?" the teacher asked. "I took one class in college about eleven years ago," I said. One other person had some experience as well. Ever since college I had wanted to learn more and get better at the potter's wheel. In fact, my dream career would be to have my own studio and create things from clay all day, every day. I would become an old woman famous for her perfect pots and plates and renowned for her glazes. People would come from around the world to watch me work and pay thousands for just one of my pieces...but first, I had to learn how to correctly throw a cylinder, something that always eluded me back in college. My teacher had been so adamant about us learning that basic step she said we were not even allowed to make anything else until we did it. I managed to create a couple of cylinder-like objects but the sides were uneven in thickness and I knew they were sub-par. I wanted to get onto the good stuff- the pots, bowls and other more interesting shapes. But here I was, eleven years later, ready to get to the bottom of my problem.

The teacher grabbed a chunk of clay and plopped it on her wheel. She demonstrated how you make sure it's good and stuck, then you cone it up and push it down to center it, then stick your thumbs in to open it up. She made it look so easy as she pulled the spinning form open and then proceded to bring the sides up into a perfect cylinder. It was mesmerizing. Then, it was our turn to try.

I plopped my ball of clay onto the wheel and took a deep breath. I dipped my hand into my water bowl to grab my sponge and squeezed some water onto it. Pressing on the pedal with my foot, I cupped my hands around the spinning clay. How I had missed the feel of wet clay in my hands! It seemed pretty stuck so I tried to cone it up and down to make sure it was centered. So far, so good. I stuck my thumbs into the center and watched it open up. After compressing the bottom with my finger I made my first attempt at pulling up the sides. It worked! I did a second pull and, lo and behold, I had a cylinder sitting in front of me. I was feeling very pleased with myself until I looked up and noticed my fellow students staring at me with disdain. "Well, she went to college," one of them said in a half-joking yet somehow menacing way. I explained that I was completely shocked and it was a fluke. After cutting my piece off the wheel and removing it from the glare of the grandmothers, I grabbed some more clay and tried again. Viola! It worked like magic. I had no idea what had happened since the last time I tried to make a cylinder that changed me into a cylinder-making-fool but something in my 34 year-old mind had finally clicked and I got it! Somewhere during the last few years of pregnancy, births, nursing and changing thousands of diapers, I actually gained some clarity.

After making four pieces, one of which I allowed to spin out-of-control off the wheel just so my classmates would still speak to me, I cleaned up my area and left the room. On my way out, the teacher said, "Good job, tonight!" "Thanks," I said, trying to not glow from my success.

Maybe it's the beginning of something. Maybe not. But I'm glad I finally tried again. I wonder what else I might be able to do if I put my 34 year-old mind to it?