In my dreams, I am Kenyan.

I picked up this headband at the post-race expo after my first half marathon. It is made out of COOLMAX, a performance fabric that I had hoped would solve my little problem of being blinded by my own torrential downpour of sweat.

Turns out, I just look like a complete ass in a headband. I might as well throw on some shiny leggings and thong leotard, but I am so not going to go there.

This headband has, however, become part of my pre-race ritual. In the privacy of my own home, I put it on, lay back, and visualize myself as a “real” runner, the runner of my dreams, crossing that finish line with ease, victoriously.

OK, I really bought it because I thought it was funny. I thought the idea of me wearing it was freakin’ hilarious, not just because I look like Olivia Newton John’s (circa Let’s Get Physical) dowdy older sister, but because I am the polar opposite of Kenyan.

Kenya is well known for it’s production of super-elite runners. I’m pretty sure their training regime goes something like this:

1. Wake up
2. Start running
3. Up steep mountains only
4. Repeat steps 1-3 over and over

Now in fairness to myself, I am much more well-rounded than my Kenyan runner brethren. And by “well-rounded”, I don’t just mean in that fleshy way that a forty-something woman of sturdy anglo-irsh stock is well-rounded. No, I mean that my life doesn’t actually revolve around running. For all the time I think about, talk about, read about, and write about running, I still only actually run 4-5 hours a week, 20-25 miles per week (and I may or may not be exaggerating those numbers in any given week).

The other 163 hours per week I am sleeping, eating, working, housekeeping, reading, writing, teaching, relationship tending, traveling, going to church, class, games, parties, Tweeting, Facebooking, and so on. I have a very full life, so not completing a sub-4 hour marathon is just going to have to be OK for me.

People ask me all the time if I really like to run. Sometimes I can honestly say “yes“, but more accurately, the answer is that I love NOT running, but the running part makes the not running parts way better.

Paying it Forward

This morning I had a little “show and tell” time with my running group. This was hard for me. Even though I am feeling pretty proud of what I’ve accomplished over the last year and a half, it is still hard to look at those pictures – and embarassing to share them.

I posted this on Facebook last night: “Getting ready to share some of my ‘before’ pictures with my running group. Even my kids don’t recognize the ‘old’ me.” One of my high school friends (that I haven’t seen since high school) asked, “What was wrong with the old you?” Gosh, what to say? He hadn’t seen the wreckage of the in-between years.

 The “original” me was a girl that was pretty bold and confident, despite never recalling a time I wasn’t acutely aware of my weight. I was cute enough, smart, popular, captain of the cheerleading squad – all with the pluck of one who may have been genetically burdened with short legs, thick thighs and wide hips, but wasn’t going to be held back by them.

Then some years of hard livin’, poor choices, plummeting self-esteem, and babies – all those damn  babies – and the “original” me disappeared inside the “old” me. One of my dear running ladies asked, “Don’t you feel like a new person?” My answer was, “No, actually, I feel like who I used to be,”  the point being: I feel more like my authentic self.

So it’s not about being fat all my life and then thin, or thin-then-fat-then-thin-again, or fat and not quite so fat now. I run to move closer to who I really am. I coach and write and share my experiences – funny, embarrassing, painful, hopeful, triumphant – for only one reason: gratitude. I’m not exceptional or genetically gifted or the great overcomer. I’m just a woman willing to let it all hang out in the hope that someone else will find the courage to run or walk towards her real self again.

Why I Run

Saturday was my debut as a running coach.

So I’m out on the road with my group for their first one mile run. I pull up alongside one woman to check in. We chit chat a little and she asks me, “So why do you do this?”

I wasn’t quite ready for that question. You’d think that as prone to introspection as I am, I might have a ready answer for this one. My reply? “Well, I used to be 100 lbs overweight, and now I’m not.”

I couldn’t believe I just said that out loud. Not only was it rather blunt and inelegant, but it was startlingly honest in a way I didn’t think I could be. And I think she understood that I really wasn’t talking about running for weight management.

I’ve thought a lot about what I’ve gained from running – all the benefits, growth and “character building” opportunities it has afforded me. Running may have started out as a tool in my weight loss efforts, but both the weight loss and the running have become larger than wanting lose pounds and dress sizes. They have become instrumental in regaining a sense of who I really am, what I’m really made of. The strategies I employ in running I apply in almost every other area of my life: boldly pursuing a vision, setting and achieving a goal by putting one foot in front of the other, getting the right support system and team in place, knowing when to push harder and when to rest, ordering my life so that all its components support my larger objective.

I am awake now. I run to keep from becoming numb and drowsy and disoriented. I don’t ever want to forget who I am again.

I love my thighs.

I love my thighs – seriously.  I love waking up in the morning and reaching down to feel my legs firm beneath my fingers as I stretch and flex. But it hasn’t always been this way. In fact, for most of my life I’ve hated them. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t acutely aware of my thighs; they have always been – well, let’s use the word zaftig, here. When I say always, I mean always- from birth, from the womb. I arrived in this world with charming rolls of fat on my legs, and they remained plump in that way that is only pleasant in young children.

And while I never knew a time that my thighs weren’t in constant contact with each other, it didn’t become a full blown ego crisis until I hit puberty. It was then abundantly clear that I was genetically destined to have wide, child-bearing hips propped atop really sturdy thighs. And thus began a lifetime of ill-fitting clothes, fear of shorts, and the sure knowledge that I would never measure up to those other girls with long, lean, and what I like to refer to as “tree trunk” legs (and I mean that as a compliment). No, I would forever have short legs that looked like turkey drumsticks – super meaty.

Oh, did I mention the birthmark? I have a half dollar-sized, irregularly shaped, discolored patch planted right on top of that extra fleshy bit of inner thigh. It’s like a graphic call-out that says, “Get a load of this, people!”  I was so disturbed by this disfigurement, that when I used to sunbathe on my silver tanning blanket (fully lubed with baby oil), I had prepared a paper cut-out to place over the offending spot to mask it in the hope that eventually the rest of my leg would tan and the birthmark would just disappear. This never actually worked.

This thigh problem also meant that I spent most summers in a standing position. Why? Well, I might be able to casually masquerade as NOT A FREAK while standing, but as soon as I sat down, do you know what happened to all that thigh? That’s right – it spread. It spread with the same predatory intensity as that gelatinous B horror movie icon The Blob – or for those not old enough to remember that gem – think Nickelodeon slime.  Any illusion that my leg was normal disappeared into the ooze as my thigh enveloped whatever surface I was sitting on.

These were the memories that came back to me this morning during my run. It was early in the morning as I came around a curve with the low morning sun at my back and my shadow stretching out before me. For a moment I was long – even if I did still possess the same basic shape I always have: pear. I was wearing loose fitting running shorts, and with every strike of my foot on the road, a little puff of air would disturb the hem my shorts. I watched this shadow dance with interest and thought to myself, “Is that my shorts or my thighs billowing like that? I actually had to look down. I am happy to report that it was only my shorts that were fluttering. My legs, however, were pleasingly solid in their work. 

Running has, of course, made me physically stronger and my legs leaner, but the real benefit has been the appreciation of the blessing of strong legs. They may not be the best looking gams in world, but they have carried me around for 44 years despite my constant bitching.  I mean, really! Imagine carrying someone around piggy back for years while they told you how ugly and embarrassing you were. My legs really do deserve more respect. So, I am no longer ashamed to say it – I love my thighs.