Comfortable Being Uncomfortable

I recently ran the Jingle Bell Run 5K, finishing off my racing season for 2011. It’s been a year of learning but my past three races have taught me one big lesson: Racing, if you are doing it right, is uncomfortable.

A lot is written about the value of negative splitting, or finishing the second half of a race faster than the first. Beginning marathon guides go on ad nauseaum about holding back and saving some energy for the end. While I understand the theory, and maybe there was a time I needed to hear it, that advice is not working for me anymore.

The last three races I have gone out in a pace I wasn’t sure I could sustain. I felt like I was pushing myself, breathing hard, not able to talk, and focused on nothing but running. This is not nearly as fun as a casual run while chatting with a friend. This kind of running involves a lot of positive self-talk, and refusing, over and over again, to let up. In short, these runs have been uncomfortable.

As difficult as these races have been, there is no describing the feeling of looking at my watch and realizing I am running fast. That my time at the finish may be better than I thought possible. One quick time-check at a mile marker is incentive to endure the discomfort. Water, rest, a break…none of those things are worth trading for the feeling of being fast. In dieting, it’s been said, “no food tastes as good as skinny feels.” Likewise no comfortable pace feels as good as a PR feels.

I’ve spent a lot of time holding back in races. Saving energy or pacing myself or whatever. I’ve learned holding back is limiting myself. The last three races, I’ve gone out hard and held on. I’ve realized that getting to those mile markers with fast splits is teaching me the value of sustained discomfort. It’s in that space, if we can stay with it long enough, we get better. 

Maybe negative splitting isn’t always a positive strategy. I got to the end of the Jingle Bell Run and didn’t have a finishing kick. My last mile was a solid 30 seconds slower than my first. But my overall time was the fastest I’ve had in two years. I had nothing left at the end. I knew I ran as hard as I could for as long as I could. It was uncomfortable. Hard. And nothing could have been more satisfying.

We play conservative a lot in life. We hold back our best for fear we might lose it if we put it to the test. We wait too long or late in the race to make up time. At that point it’s too late: we’ve settled into comfortable and it becomes hard to imagine we have a better “best.” As long as we are holding something back we aren’t becoming what we can really be.

As T.S. Eliot said “only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.” The thing about going out hard is there isn’t any wondering “what if.” The secret to racing, and maybe more than racing, is finding a way to be comfortable being uncomfortable. To put in enough effort from the start that we risk the certainty that we can hold on or finish. In that uncertainty and discomfort we find out what we can endure for what is most important to us. 

Chasing the Light

Rain poured from the sky. I kept putting my arm out the front door and pulling it back in, evaluating just how wet I might get, and if the rain would stop soon. It was 5 p.m. and dark. I was in my running clothes, keys in my pocket, and headlamp switched on. I played the arm game for 15 minutes before I reminded myself I’d run the better part of marathons in rain and it was time to get out the door, or put on my pajamas. I trudged into the darkness.

About three miles in I realized just how dark, windy and wet it was outside. I entered a neighborhood with narrow roads and no streetlights. Mansions are set into hillsides so even porch lights and living room lamps shining through windows didn’t offer their usual ambient glow. It was only because of the tiny beam of my headlamp that I could see at all.

As I struggled up one of the hills I started to question why I was doing this. I thought about why I chose an eight-mile route on a night like this and even questioned the safety of running in this darkness. As I shuffled these cards of questions in my mind, familiar questions about life came up like pesky jokers in the deck. Where am I going, really? Not just on this run but in my family? Work? Relationships? School? Am I making the right choices? How can I know if I am gong the right direction when it’s so dark?

Just as uncertainty was rising in me like the panic that sets in when you are lost and you know you might have made a wrong turn miles ago, I happened to look sideways at one of the lawns. So close I could have reached out and touched her was a giant doe eating the grass. I caught my breath in my throat and slowed my pace. She looked up at me and right into my eyes. We stood there staring at each other for just a second. I exhaled and continued on and she went back to eating.

The lost, panicked feeling of a moment ago was replaced as fast as it came with calm relief. The darkness now seemed safe, even peaceful. The beam of my headlamp was all the light I needed. When I got home I read this quote:

Life's answers lie within. Life's questions can be answered from within. Running is the medium through which these answers will be revealed. All you have to do is look, listen, feel and trust.

As you advance to greater challenges, you will continue to gain knowledge of yourself. Periodically you will be required to reach ever deeper in to your inner being, seeking out the strength needed to continue the endeavor of the moment. The strength you seek is layered within. The number of layers in infinite. All you have to do is believe, have faith in yourself, and expect to find that which you seek."--Keith Pippin

There may be periods of darkness and rain, and they may last for awhile, but darkness doesn’t necessarily mean stop. Darkness beckons us to look for grace in unfamiliar places—like right next to us, close enough to touch. Grace we could miss in the familiarity of daylight and nice weather. Darkness reminds us to go deeper. To turn inward, breathe deeply, and stay with the big questions until we can look at them long enough to believe the light we carry is all we need guide the way. 

Practice? Or Play?

Somewhere between being a kid and being an adult we lose our focus on having fun and start looking for results. We have a vision for how we want things to be: work, running, creative pursuits, even our rec league softball swing. We start doing things not because they are fun, but because we can achieve a certain outcome.

What I think we often forget is that it takes years of practice to be really good at something. We aren’t going to sit down at a piano and play Mozart the first time. We aren’t going to run a perfect race...ever! We may make some huge and embarrassing beginner mistakes. I know I have.

I wonder what would happen if we forgot about results and returned to play? Yesterday, on a beautiful day, I was running through windy roads lined with piles of crisp and crunchy fall leaves that practically begged me to run through them. Feeling light on my feet, I flew down the hills, abandoning form and letting the wind push me forward, pumping my arms and smiling, mouthing words to the music on my ipod. It was fun. I felt as free as a small child running down a steep hill just because it was there.

What if we just celebrated the joy in moving towards something? Whenever I start something new, I now consciously remind myself that it will take practice. I think of starting the piano when I was 10 and playing something along the lines of twinkle, twinkle little star (and not well) at my first recital. I was so bad at the saxophone when I began, my dog used to bark at me and bite at my ankles. I had to start somewhere. We all do. And there is virtue in the practice of doing something you love. I never wanted to be a professional musician; I just wanted to play some instruments. It’s not always about an end result, but just getting better over time. What if we celebrated, in the way a proud parent celebrates a child’s little league base hit, or first dance recital, the work we have already done? What if we gave ourselves permission to make mistakes, to learn, to grow, and to cherish each improvement?

We are so focused on accomplishment in this society, on the ends. We forget to celebrate beginnings and small achievements. We forget that we practice and play because it brings us some internal joy. I want to remind every beginning runner that it should be fun.  I need to remind myself of this. If you are going so hard you are miserable why would you continue to do it? As my sister once reminded me, “you aren’t training for the Olympics.”  When I remember there isn’t a gold medal on the line, I remember to stop taking myself, and my running so seriously. Running isn’t always about goals or faster times or better conditioning. Sometimes it is just my excuse to “play outside” for a while. We all know what practice makes, but when practice is actually fun? Nothing can stop us.

Forget about pace splits and gadgets, and gear and proper form. Have fun. And by all means, don’t feel like you need to be home before the streetlights come on. That’s what headlamps are for. Play on, friends. 

Self-Doubt's Day Off

I am convinced we are not meant to find the limits of our potential on our own.

A few weeks ago, a friend (C.) and I decided to sign up for the Halloween Half Marathon. I spent the last couple of months increasing my weekly and daily mileage, motivated by the cool fall air and gorgeous days for running. Looking for a race to direct all of this mileage towards, C. suggested this half. We officially registered and began exchanging encouraging e-mails about our training.

On race day, I stepped into the chilly 36 degree air, and wondered if I had dressed warmly enough. I hopped into the car with C. and her husband to ride to the race. Initially a group of people had expressed enthusiasm for running this race, but when the day arrived it was just C. and me running, and her husband to cheer us on.

That was all I needed.

C. and I never ran together before, and I am always nervous about new running buddies. Are they going to want to listen to music or talk? How much talking should we do? What if we’re having different kinds of races? Will I say “go ahead” or try to keep up? Will I feel okay going ahead if I need to? Are we the right pace for each other?

Running with a new person is risky. There is a balance between being comfortable with yourself and adapting to someone else. In some ways it is like dating. You just can’t be sure about the other person, and if it is going to work until you spend some time together. However, if you are willing to risk potential discomfort, the payoff can be huge.

The voice of self-doubt is an annoying, nagging thing that seems to pester us negativity.  “You couldn’t possibly…” “remember this time when you failed?” “no one cares if you do or don’t…” That voice is hard to shut-up, especially in a test of physical endurance when your body is tired and echoing everything it says, or when it would be easier to choose not to try at all.

Running with the right person is the perfect antidote to self-doubt. With the right person, you become a better runner. There is a feeling of being both challenged and supported. There are times when you forget you are running, and times with mutual complaining. Being able to say, “this sucks!” to someone in the same situation keeps away the “I can’t do it” that always seems to follow.

Doubt and self imposed limitation can’t survive when the race is no longer about “what can I do,” but “what can we do together?” I have learned a lot in the solitude of running by myself, but it has only been in the company of other runners that I have seen what I can become. In my quest to be realistic I set up barriers. I wonder how many times I have said to myself or to others “I go this pace, I can’t go that one.” 

Our imaginations are so limited. Sometimes we need someone else to shed light on the potential we can’t see in ourselves. We need someone to just believe in us. Somewhere along the way I forgot to question whether or not and for how long I could sustain this faster pace. I just ran with C., who didn’t question my ability at all. Together we both found our way to new PRs and new understandings of our potential. Together, we gave self-doubt a needed day off. 

Keeping the Channel Open

There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is; nor how valuable it is; nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly of the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.—Martha Graham

Lately, I have wondered why it is I keep running? Why do I keep chasing the distance when I am not particularly good at it? I am pretty slow and there are limits to how much I can improve. I’m not interested in beating anyone else, or even whether or not I beat my own best times. While goals give me something to strive for they aren’t at the heart of why I do this. So why keep going so long, and so hard, all of the time?

I have always known I was never running away from anything. Somewhere along the way running became a spiritual need. It wasn’t just about exercise or marathons or calories burned. It became an essential part of my existence. Running is my life force translated into action.

Running keeps my channel open. It is an expression of me, whether I always believe in it or not. This quote explains why the distances, and faster times are not enough. That blessed unrest keeps me going and it refuses to be satisfied by momentary accomplishments: finisher’s medals and PRs.

No, running is not about a sport for me. It is about being alive. There is a certain kind of sadness, and loneliness that will take over if we let it. That sadness has been at my door, threatening to consume me. There are days when I feel like I am throwing my entire body weight against the door to keep it closed, and still feel hopelessness fighting back, pushing through, the door bulging at the hinges. This constant fight is exhausting. There are times when I want to give up. Let the door swing open, and despair take over. I want to succumb to that monster that tells me no one would care very much if I just quit believing in myself and in love. Those days, I go for a run.

I have to run to process the ache and emptiness in my soul. Those long distances with just my feet to carry me help tame the monster of despair that just waits for me to forget that I am alive, and that I have something to give this world that only I can give.

Running for me isn’t about running away. It is about freedom. It is about throwing off the chains of doubt and remembering that no matter how broken, lonely and lost I might be, the world still needs my life force. With every deep breath and foot strike, I find a little more strength to keep the channel open. The world depends on it. So I keep running.

The Limits of Measure

How do we measure progress? With running it’s easy. Mileage tracked, distance covered, pace, speed etc. There are stopwatches, heart rate monitors, GPS devices, and computer programs. If you are a pen and paper person there are journals specifically for recording your runs. You get official times in races, and there are tracks with distance measured to the meter.

With all of these tools it should be easy to set expectations. Run X number of miles to ensure you reach X distance goal. Run at X pace for X many times and you will hit that 5K PR you were after. But running just isn’t that predictable. I can go for 10 miles on one day and feel great, and an “easy” 4 miles another day will leave me with shin splints, and gasping for air. Some days I charge up hills without a thought. The same hills next week might seem like mountains. Are there variables for which I am not measuring? Certainly. But I doubt any of them would tell the whole story. The mystery to running that gets most of us out the door is until we are a couple of miles into it, we just don’t know what kind of run it will be.

This weekend, while on some of those great runs and simultaneously reeling from a relationship disappointment, I thought about the parallels between the two. Relationships, especially romantic ones, are full of mysteries similar to those of running. Everywhere people are trying to give us tools to explain how relationships work. There are hundreds of books on how to succeed at winning and keeping the person you want. Advice on how to find “the one” abounds and bombards us.

I realized trying to find the magic formula for either is impossible. As one friend said “it’s not like once you figure it out, you win.”

Running and relationships are instinctive, and our way of going about them is unique to us. Sure, we can learn from our mistakes and grow over time…I know I have in both cases. I know what works for me and what doesn’t, and have benefitted from the wisdom of others. But I haven’t “figured it out.” I don’t know the one way to ensure I have a great run or beat my marathon PR, and I don’t know how to have a perfect relationship.

What I do know is that the only way to find out is to get out the door and go for it. Maybe it will hurt this time. Maybe it will be effortless and filled with joy. I would love to say that even the hard ones teach me something but sometimes they are just hard. In those moments, I am just thankful that I tried, knowing the feeling of sitting on the couch and wondering “what if” is so much worse than any disappointment that comes from entering the race.

We’ll never know the magnitude of the love or joy we can experience, or our capacity for healing if we aren’t willing to risk the unknown. We can’t ever really be prepared for the moment until we are in it, despite our best efforts and planning. We can’t know what a new run or relationship will bring until we are already invested. Sometimes life is about having enough trust and faith in ourselves to begin; to put a little bit of our heart and soul on the line and see where it takes us. What we may find, if we are willing to take the risk, are experiences that can only be measured by the human spirit.

False Summits

Back in my pre-running days I had a tough encounter with Mt. Marathon in Seward, Alaska. Though it’s only 1.5 miles to the top, the incline is steep; a 54% grade (by comparison, the famous hills in San Francisco are a mere 20% and a typical flight of stairs is 30%). It’s an exercise in crawling the entire way up. Of this whole miserable experience, what I most remember are the false summits. As you near the top of the mountain the surface changes to loose shale. It’s like trying to get footing on a bed of gravel. It’s more sliding down than climbing up. I remember looking up many times in that part of the climb and thinking I could see the top just above me. My arms and legs burning, I would bear-crawl my way up, quickly before I slid down again, to what I thought was the point, only to discover another one right above me. This happened half a dozen times before I reached the actual summit of the mountain.

Finding out that what I thought was the end was actually trick of the landscape is one of the most demoralizing experiences I’ve had. It actually isn’t over. The suffering you just went through to get here? Yep, you have to do it again. This time more fatigued than the last.

I thought about that climb in Seward as I was running up hills this week. As I climbed hills I have since chosen to climb many times, it occurred to me that life is full of false summits. How many times do we look ahead on our path and think just getting to the next point will mean our suffering is over, only to find out we have more work to do? Or we find out this point isn’t what we thought it was?

The false summits of life often reduce me to tears or shouts of profanity. I don’t handle them with the grace and strength I would like to. But these are the turning points that define our character. In my best moments, I look at the top of a false summit as a testament to what I am capable of. If I could make that climb, then I can surely make the next one. I am still going the right direction.

I wonder if I would have made it to the top of Mt. Marathon if I had seen the climb laid out in front of me without those false summits in the way. Perhaps we need those illusions to break the climb into manageable parts for us. So much of who we are is not made up of the real summit moments, but how we handle the disappointment of not getting the mountain top experience we hoped for. Do we keep believing the top exists? Do we keep going despite our disappointment? Or do we turn around and go back down the mountain, never knowing its real peak?

Real summit moments are rare and beautiful and often surprising. We don’t get there when we expect to. We are called to these moments, but getting there means more than saying yes to the glamorous idea of a mountain climb. It means saying yes to hope when we have been let down by false summits over and over again. It means digging deep into our resolve, and our faith, and believing that our unseen mountain top is up there, somewhere, and that our agony in this moment will only magnify the joy in that one. Real summits wait for those who have the courage to keep saying “maybe this will be the one…”

view from the top of Mt. Marathon to Seward and Resurrection Bay below. From wildnatureimages.com