Running For My Life

This spring marks a major milestone in my life. It has been 10 years since I joined the ranks of runners, those nutty souls who brave wind and rain and cold, pounding the pavement just to break a sweat (and keep sane.)

I was late coming to this madness, well into midlife before the running bug got hold of me. It wasn’t as if I’d never been active. As a child I took swim lessons and diving, modern dance and ballet. Mostly I did the kind of non-structured activity—i.e. play—more popular back in the old days. I rode my red Schwinn around our cul-de-sac, and played kick-the-can, hide and seek and four square with the neighborhood kids from dawn till dusk.

Though active, I was never a real athlete. While I made my eighth-grade basketball team, I spent all but a few minutes of the entire season sitting on the bench. When I think about it, my stint as a bench warmer was the beginning of my more-or-less sedentary lifestyle that carried into adulthood.

I made meager attempts at establishing an exercise routine. In college, I joined a group of friends on weekend runs around the reservoir near Boston College. That lasted a few weeks. Senior year, my roommates and I took a jazz dance class. After some initial self-consciousness—it was hard dancing in front of a wall-sized mirror wearing a body-hugging leotard—I actually enjoyed it. Jazz dance, though, was not something I continued on my own, so after the class ended I reverted to my slothful ways.

In the early ‘80s I wore my Flashdance outfit, complete with white Reeboks and leg warmers, for my twice-a-week aerobics class. I jumped and kicked and sweated and twirled to the tunes of Wham. I felt the Jane Fonda burn. That routine lasted a few months.

Years later after the birth of my second child, I finally reached a day of reckoning. I knew I had to do something to get in shape. I began by walking—not the arm-pumping, power crazed sort—but the old-fashioned kind, one foot in front of the other. I’d finally found a routine I could stick with, and for years I was fairly consistent, walking several times a week. One day out of the blue, I persuaded myself to run to a tree in the distance. I walked for a few minutes and then ran to the next tree. By the third day of my walk-run routine, I was running three miles without stopping.

Once I had some running success, I actually enjoyed it. I felt energized, fit. Unlike all my previous attempts at exercise, running didn’t feel like a chore. It had become a part of my life. A few months later, I ran my first 5K race, and ran several 10Ks after that. Four years later I trained with a group of runners for the Boston Marathon raising money for a community mental health center.

Since I was sidelined with a knee injury six weeks before the race, the longest training run I was able to complete was 16 miles. When I stood at the starting line on Marathon Monday I hoped to run a few miles while taking in the excitement and cheers of the crowd. Somehow I managed to finish—a mind over matter thing, I suppose.

Though I’ll probably never run another marathon, I haven’t ruled out some shorter distance races in the future. Mostly I just feel lucky to have found a physical activity that I love. On cold or wet or oppressively humid days, I sometimes have to talk myself into getting out the door. I usually manage to do it, especially when I know my running partner is waiting for me. I run for all kinds of reasons—my health and my heart and my head. Mostly, I run for my life. Sometimes I regret all I missed out on in my younger, sedentary days. But being a late bloomer has its advantages. Spared from years of pounding the pavement, I may just have another thirty years of running left in me.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)

Getting a Kick Out of Soccer

A few weeks ago my running partner and I were jogging past Lake Massapoag, chatting away about the usual events of the week - kids, work, husbands - when suddenly a car pulled over to the side.

"We play soccer at ForeKicks in Norfolk, 9:30 every Friday," a friend said, leaning over so we could hear her through the rolled-down window. "A bunch of women, play as you go - 10 bucks. It's really fun, informal. You should come." And then she drove off.

As I readied myself to resume our discussion about our boys' high school homework, my friend had a different thought. "It might be kind of fun," she said, in between strides. Now I could think of many words to describe what playing indoor soccer would be for me at this point in my life, and I have to tell you, fun wasn't one of them.

Sure enough, a few days later, there was an e-mail in my in-box. "Are you up for our run next Friday at 8:00? And then we can check out the indoor soccer game at 9:30. What do you say?"
Some background is in order here. Though my running partner had also never played soccer, she is an athlete who played Division I volleyball in college.

Other than my pathetic stint as a fourth string bench-warmer on my eighth grade basketball team, I've never, ever played a team sport. The reason I like to run is that it requires zero athleticism. I was determined to not get talked into this soccer thing. But then I got thinking.

I did make a New Year's pledge to try new things, so the following week, after our run around the lake, we headed over to ForeKicks, meeting another friend (also a former college volleyball player), who my running partner had talked into coming. While our other friend had come equipped with shin guards, we had to borrow them. Mine were a miniscule pair - no doubt left behind by some fourth-grader - that barely covered my legs.

Walking onto the indoor court, I eyed the regular players, checking for evidence of fitness and skill. Someone quickly explained the rules of the game -"We play three 20 minute periods, and rotate positions every five minutes. We don't keep score. That's about it." Responding to my confused, worried look, a player offered words of reassurance. "You'll be fine."

It took less than a minute for me to have renewed respect for my son and his friends who play this game so well. Who knew how hard it could be to dribble, kick, work the boards, and win the ball? As clumsy as I felt at defense, it was even more horrifying when I moved up to offense. The other women were amazing, dribbling, defending and passing like pros. But they were also incredibly nice-setting us newcomers up for goals, offering words of encouragement. Just when I felt like I was getting it, though, I'd do something really stupid, like totally miss the ball, leaving my leg suspended in mid-air. I just may be one of the few people to ever "swing and miss" playing soccer.

When it was my turn at goalie, I was almost paralyzed by the thought of getting smacked in the face with the ball. But then something happened. I jumped high, stretching my arms to make a save, and a few minutes later had another one, rolling on the ground, securing the ball between my knees. As I stood up, and was greeted with cheers and high-fives, I started to think that maybe this position was made for me. And then the ball - kicked by one of my friends, no less - rolled right in the goal behind me.

As we moved into period two and then three, I started to feel a little less stressed. My friends fared better than I did, scoring goals, making great plays on defense. I was, though, quite proud of my one stellar moment - a perfect left-footed pass in front of the goal, kicked in by my running partner.

Later that day, I began to feel the effects of the morning, every inch of my body throbbing in pain. When my son got home from school, I told him about my adventure. I was sure he'd be mortified at the thought of his mother running around an indoor soccer field. His reaction, though, took me by complete surprise. He smiled widely and patted me on the back. "I know," he said. "I heard. I can't believe you played indoor soccer. That is so great."

I went on to tell him about it - my stumbles, my missing the ball, my aches, my pains. He then proceeded to give me advice, demonstrating the correct way to dribble and which part of the foot to place on the ball when kicking.

Though I've not ruled out another go at it, truth be told, I'm not anxious to return to the soccer field anytime soon. Like everything, I suppose, the more you practice, the better you get, the more fun it is. If there is a next time, I'll do some things differently. For starters, I'll bring my own shin guards, and maybe wear something other than running shoes. And I'll definitely follow the advice I ignored the first time and take those three Advil when I get home.

Signs of Being Behind-the-Times

On a recent clothes shopping trip with my daughter, I suggested a type of shirt that would go with her newly purchased pants. “Something simple, like a nice little shell,” I said. “A what?” she replied. “You know, a shell, a sleeveless shirt,” I said, running a finger across my shoulder to show where the edge of the shirt stops. “Oh, you mean a tank top,” my daughter answered, laughing. A similar incident occurred a few weeks ago when I said I would pick up some creme rinse at the drug store. “Some what?” she said. “Creme rinse, you know, the stuff you put on after you shampoo,” I said. “Oh, you mean conditioner,” she said. More laughing.

I’m slowly getting used to the outward signs of aging—the slightly expanding waistline, the crow’s feet and sags, the graying hair. And though it’s distressing, I’m not surprised by ‘mind-pause’ things like forgetting where I put my car keys, going off on a tangent when telling a story and the sporadic inability to retrieve names for common objects.

But this business of feeling old simply by what I call things is a whole new realm of aging. It’s not like I always call conditioner creme rinse—I haven’t bought Tame since I was a kid—but sometimes the words just slip out. Though I refer to pants that hit mid-calf as capris, I have to admit I secretly think of them as peddle-pushers. In addition to finding that names for things have changed, meanings for names of things have changed. To me, thongs will always be casual sandals (i.e. flip-flops), not some ridiculously skimpy, horribly uncomfortable-looking undergarment.

Clothing is another sure-fire way to show age. I know this because up until a year ago, I owned a pair of those high-waisted, straight-legged, front-pleated, baggy old age-broadcasters known as “mom jeans,” until my daughter kindly pulled me aside for some much-needed fashion advice. Thankfully, she also talked me into replacing my comfortable but unsightly square-toed, thick-soled shoes with something a bit more modern.

These days, age is also revealed in the products people use. Using a regular (non-digital) camera, paper appointment book or Sony Walkman will instantly add 20 years to someone’s age. Even buying CDs is becoming dated. A recent New York Times article, “The Graying of the Record Store” was all about this kind of thing, how independent record shops, especially in big cities, are closing because kids are downloading music and no longer buying CDs. Even something as innocuous as wearing a watch is becoming old-fashioned. With digital clocks built into cell phones, many young people—phones affixed to ears—no longer feel a need to wear one.

On top of what I wear and use, every now and then, I’ll say something that I know instantly dates me. Though I’ve never been known to utter anything as Draconian as “you silly goose” or “if I had my druthers,” I have been known to talk about having a “conniption fit” and needing to “keep my eyes peeled.” And I know I’m guilty of telling my kids more than once that “money doesn’t grow on trees” and “it’s better to be safe than sorry.” These old sayings just pop out of my mouth—unrestrained, automatic. I suppose it’s just another all-too-obvious sign that I wasn’t born yesterday.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)