I believe my first foray into the sports world was softball in 2nd grade. I played softball for several seasons and liked it okay. I played soccer also. I was the only girl on an all-boy team and I had a blast. I was a defender and good at what I did. But my real passion (almost from the beginning) was swimming.
One benefit to my mom telling the same stories over and over again is that they are burned into my memory--like my brain has been branded in several spots. She tells me that the first time I took swim lessons, I didn't get into the pool until the last week of the session. "She would have done great," the instructor told her, "if she would have gotten into the water." My love of all things swimming blossomed from there.
I swam on a team for the first time when we lived in Streamwood. I was a Stingray. We had practice Monday through Friday, every week during the summer. The meets were in exotic locations like St. Charles, Oswego and Elgin. I was amazed by the older kids, the ones who were in high school. Some took me under their wing, which was helpful because swim meets can be intimidating places. I missed a few races because I wasn't paying attention. I got disqualified my first time swimming breaststroke because I didn't touch the wall with both hands at the same time. (I didn't make that mistake ever again.)
I didn't swim year-round. That would have required a huge time commitment on the part of my parents and I was busy enough with school work. But every summer, I was so excited to start swim practice. I am not a morning person. I would prefer that morning start at noon, honestly. I really only get up when I do now because of my kids. Swim practice was early in the morning, though, and I was there. I lived some summers for the occasional rain day. This meant I could sleep in. Conference meets were like parties. You were there all day, hung out with your friends, goofed around and occasionally swam a race.
I got pretty good at breaststroke and swam in a relay for a few summers. Jill Bastian and Erica Hillenbrandt (sic) swam with me--I can't remember the fourth girl. I met interesting people, I took part in crazy traditions (I was told that you should bite off a corner of your swim card before the race) and I generally had a good time. In middle school, I still swam, but I tried volleyball and enjoyed it--except for the running.
There was something magical about me being in the water. I felt like the awkwardness and clumsiness that plagued me on land (two broken arms, a foot and a finger) melted away when I dove into the water. I was graceful. I sweated, for sure, but it was easier to sweat when I was immersed in the water. So when I started playing volleyball, I was disappointed to find out that running was involved. I wanted nothing to do with running. When I ran, my lungs burned, sweat ran into my eyes (I've always sweated like a man, always), my legs screamed at me and I just didn't feel good about it. I was not quiet about my disdain for running either. I yelled at a coach in high school while trying out for volleyball because I didn't want to run anymore. I loathed it.
I swam all through high school. I never won a lot, but I enjoyed swimming because I was always swimming against myself. I could beat my previous times. I didn't have to worry about first or second place if I was bringing in a PR.
As high school ended, so did my swimming career. I ultimately was smarter than I was physically gifted and that suited me just fine. I went off to college with a continued love for swimming, but what I discovered was that it was a time-consuming hobby. I know that some people may disagree with me, but it's tougher to fit in a 60-minute swim than a 60-minute run. There is more equipment involved. You can't just swim on the road in your neighborhood. So I fell out of the habit of swimming and didn't replace it with anything else. In my mind, all other forms of exercise were inferior.
About five years later, I started walking for 30 minutes every day. Rain or shine, I walked. I didn't speed walk, but I tried to keep it brisk. I was still smoking at the time (that's the subject for another blog entry) and overweight, so this was the most I could do. It was a manageable amount of time, it didn't have a high production/logistic value and I enjoyed it.
No one was more surprised than I when I decided to use a program called "Couch Potato to 5K." For years, I had said I hated running. I loathed everything about it. The problem was, I had reached a plateau with walking. I wasn't seeing results anymore on the scale and I wasn't as winded as I had been in the beginning. I could have increased the time, but I figured I could increase intensity and keep it at a manageable time.
I wish I could say it was love at first sight, but my passion for running came in fits and starts. I initially ran on a treadmill. I am a control freak to the max and I wanted to know how many calories I was burning, how far I was going, how long I had been running, etc. I found out the hard way, though, that running on a treadmill or indoors in general has shortcomings.
On March 17, 2003, after 7 years of smoking, I was done. In honor of that achievement, I decided to train for the North Shore Half Marathon. I should mention that I know little to nothing about geography or topography. I picked this half marathon because it was at the right time--12 weeks from March 17. I was following a Hal Higdon training regimen and it all fit. I literally just pulled it out of a hat. I trained hard for the race, but I was still afraid to run outside. The few times I ran outside, I had been bombarded by wind and couldn't go nearly as far or as fast as I could at the gym. Being young and egotistical, I wanted to see good numbers.
What no one mentioned to me was that Highland Park, the setting for the North Shore Half Marathon, was built on a ravine. It is a beautiful course and there's some great scenery. However, if you have only trained on flat surfaces, look out. There is very little of the course that is flat. Mostly, it's ridiculously steep hills. My friend Julie ran part of the race with me. There is a section of the race where you are running almost straight downhill. All you can see at the bottom of the hill is Lake Michigan; calm and serene. It's a stark contrast to my heart pounding in my ears and my legs trying to tell me to stop, lie down and go to sleep.
The real heartbreak, though, is hidden. At the bottom of the hill, you turn left to continue the course. I looked up to see what appeared to be Mount Everest. I felt like, if Steven Spielberg were directing a movie about it, he would have shown the reaction on my face first. That told the story. My shoulders slouched as I tried to see the top of the hill; it is also hidden. I didn't know how I was going to make it. Julie, who hadn't been running, was ridiculously upbeat, jumping up and down on her fresh legs. I wanted to punch her. I had to walk up that hill, but even that was no small feat.
Mercifully, the last few miles are relatively flat and lead into a finish around a track. I was never so glad to see my family and sit down. I missed two days of work because I simply couldn't walk. It was some of the worst pain ever, but that's when I discovered the true joy of running. I felt awful. My body ached and everything felt tender. Underneath that, though, was a feeling I had never experienced before. I had trained my body to do something my mind had always told me I couldn't do. I felt like I imagine babies do when they finally start walking. It's something akin to finding out that the boy you have a crush on likes you. It's driving in the car on a summer day, windows down, eyes closed and feeling the warmth of the sun on your eyelids. Once I realized how I could tap into that feeling on a regular basis, the sky was the limit.
I floundered after that race. I didn't know how to structure my running if I wasn't training for a race. It was kind of a frustrating summer because I didn't know what to do with myself. I spent the next several months trying to find a rhythm to it, but it's tough to do. Even now, years after my first major race, I struggle to find that ideal structure.
I am happy to report that I ran that same half-marathon a year later and shaved 21 minutes off my time; no small feat. It was also that year, 2004, that I tackled the marathon. I picked the Chicago marathon because it was close to home and (thankfully) was a flat course. Whatever elation I felt in completing the half-marathon quadrupled for the marathon. I loved all of the support I received on the course, the cheering throngs of people, seeing my friends and family at different points on the course and getting to see some world-class athletes.
I belong now to a community of people. I love to talk about running. I was so proud when I lost my first toenail and sustained other common running injuries. I started running again five months ago, with another Couch Potato to 5K program, and it's been great to rejoin the community. I love my running peeps because there's no judgement. Some may run faster, some slower, but I've never felt ostracized because of my running time. Every milestone, every improved run, is celebrated. I am to running what I was to swimming; someone who enjoyed the sport but didn't spend a lot of time in the winner's circle. Luckily, in running, the winner's circle follows me around.
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