Antelope Canyon Training, Week 1

I don’t know what I’m doing. Mechanically, I know what I’m doing. I am running, sort of. I am on a training run and I am training for a half marathon. The race is in two months. I won’t be able to run all of it, but I hope I can run at least half of it.

I don’t want to let my thinking dictate or influence my reality. I think that’s possible, like “You are what you eat,” only “You are what you think.” I should say: I may not be able to run the whole thing. My thoughts push and pull between acceptance and inevitability, realism and hope. When you have a disease that people say is incurable, you have these conversations with yourself.

This is what I think during the last mile of every run: I really don’t want to fall. I feel like I am going to fall. I focus on picking up my feet.

Here’s how it is when I run. For the first mile or two, everything feels normal. A flash of hope that this run will be like running used to be, despite the widely accepted belief about my condition: that things only get worse, never better. But pretty soon, my legs get tired and uncoordinated. My feet slap down on the ground, gently at first, then with more gravity. Below the waist, things feel increasingly out of my control. My legs are not numb, but they are not my legs. Soon my toes hit the ground first instead of my heels. I start walking and running in intervals. I walk because I might trip if I keep running. I don’t like to fall. It feels like failing.

When I’m done with my run, I sit for a few minutes and when I get up, I walk like a toddler who is just getting used to being vertical. And then, in a few more minutes, my legs are mine again.

This week was my first week of training for the half marathon. I ran four times; three 3-mile runs (I ran all of these), and one 5-mile run during which I walked about three-quarters of a mile. I did the 3-milers on subsequent days; the first one was great, the second one was a little harder, and the third run on the third day was very slow but I managed to run the whole time. On the 5-miler, I walked a little bit at miles 2 and 3, then about half a mile up a hill. (Once I get tired I don’t try to run uphill because it rapidly increases how tired I get and therefore how far I can go.) It was a good week of training, even if it doesn’t look like the training I used to do.

I think I’m proud that I’m still running, but sometimes I feel foolish. I wonder if running is not meant for me anymore and if I should accept that more gracefully, but I value perseverance and positivity too. I’m not ready to stop running, but it’s difficult to take myself seriously as a runner now. Maybe this is what every aging runner encounters when she slows down. Maybe I shouldn’t give it so much power. I still want to run, so I do. That should be all that matters.

Birdcamp!

I just got home from Birdcamp! It was a lot of fun. I know there will be tons of detailed blog posts about it, so I'll just mention a few highlights:

• I did an 8-mile long run (/walk) in beautiful Leavenworth, Washington. This is a pretty long run for me these days!
• I stayed with my wonderful roommates from last year, Kim and Ayesha. I am so lucky to have met these ladies last year and even luckier that we all wanted to room together again.
• We floated down the Wenatchee River, which was beautiful and relaxing. 
• I took my phone swimming. It drowned. I lost all my pictures.
• I got to spend time with 99 amazing women who love running as much as I do. 
• It was inspiring, satisfying, and extremely well-organized (ahem, Lesko). 
• Meditation with Bree of Jasyoga was super satisfying, and it planted the seeds of my little Birdcamp revolution.

I could list 50 more cool things, but Birdcamp is way more than the sum of all these great moments. It is a magical place where dreams can grow without shame or fear. It's a place where you can pry yourself open and not be afraid of what you will find.

I loved the discussion we had about goal setting with Adrienne Langelier and Lauren Fleshman. I used to love setting running goals, but ever since my running has been affected by MS, I haven't wanted to set goals. I still can't run more than about 4 miles without breaks, and I've been stubbornly vacillating between hoping I can run again like I did a few years ago and considering quitting altogether. 

I've been thinking of my running-related MS symptoms to be different from other "normal people" injuries. Like a good drama queen, I've been convinced that my situation is so much worse than a broken foot. But MS has a lot in common with typical running injuries. I am currently unable to run as far or as often as I want to. I am slower than I want to be. The future of my running career is uncertain. On the other hand, a big difference between having MS and a more traditional injury is that nothing hurts, which is a good thing. And I can't make it worse by running.

It seems like I should approach this like any other injured runner would. So here are the goals I set at Birdcamp.

1. Do what I can do

I will find a run/walk cadence that allows me to complete my February half marathon. At camp, I started experimenting. I ran 10 minutes and walked 1. That seemed totally doable until a giant hill kicked my ass. So I will keep experimenting until I figure this out, and at the same time, I will put together a reasonable training plan.

Maybe I won't recover from this injury, but let's consider the alternatives. I could quit running. Um, no. Not until I really can't run anymore. I could stubbornly keep trying to run as if I'm not injured, but that's not really an option. When my legs stop working, I physically can't keep running. It is better to focus on what I can do right now, today, this week, for the next few weeks, and adjust if necessary.

2. Stay positive and hopeful about the future

I often say (cause I'm a drama queen) that I have an "incurable, degenerative brain disease." You can see why I don't do well at parties. But I don't actually believe that it has to get worse, and most of the time, I believe it could get better. I'm not even always convinced it's "incurable." I believe that staying positive is a huge factor in health outcomes, so I will keep hope alive in my mind and in my heart. I will focus on what I can do, not what I can't.

At Birdcamp, I thought a lot about my relationship with running. Me and running, we've been at a standoff, standing petulantly with our arms crossed, refusing to look each other in the eye. I've been angry at my new limitations, and I believed by accepted them, I'd lose something. But now I can see that was wrong. There is no harm in accepting what *is*. If suddenly someday I recover from my "injury" and can run more or faster, that will be great. And even if not, accepting my self puts me on a better path.

This is why I love Oiselle and the Volée. It's so much more than a group of women who wear the same clothes. It's a safe place to find out who you are and what you're capable of. At Birdcamp, I stopped being angry about where I am with running. I realized that I have a massive opportunity to grow as a runner and as a person, and I should take it. 

Don't assume you know what progress looks like

Oh running, you are a fickle one.

Some of my recent runs have been amazing. I have done 4-milers which ended with me running (okay, jogging very slowly) up the 150' hill near my house. I couldn't do this a few months ago. I have done 3-milers that ended with me stumbling up the stairs to my front door, hoping the neighbors didn't think I was drunk. I even ran my first 10k race recently, which (to be fair) included a fair amount of walking, but it felt like a triumph anyway.

I'm still adjusting to being a marginally disabled runner. I say "marginally" because I don't look disabled at the beginning of a run, but sometimes I do at the end. Some days I feel pretty accepting of the whole thing, and sometimes I'm squarely in denial or bargaining mode. In my best moments I learn something from everything, and today on my run I saw a parallel between my intense desire to never be wrong, and my reticence to continue taking myself seriously as a runner.

Lately I hope that every run will be the magic run where I am like the Portia of two years ago who could just run forever. But I also know that it's unlikely, and in my more pathetic moments I think maybe I should just quit running while I still can, to preserve the memories of being a "normal runner," whatever the heck that is.

This morning, as I fished my running pack out of the back of the closet, I was planning for an 8-miler but at the back of my mind I knew that I might not be able to run 8 miles.  I chased those thoughts away, prepped my water bladder and pitted some dates (a whole food gu alternative), leashed up the dog and got going.

Things were going swimmingly at first. It was a beautiful day and running felt easy. But around mile 4 I started feeling the dreaded lazy feet; it feels like I can't pick my feet up, even though the rest of me feels fine. If I keep running, eventually I start tripping over my own toes and even when I start walking, I look a little tipsy. Then, severely drunk.

Instead of getting frustrated, I slowed to a walk and ate some dates. And I started thinking. What's so bad about walking during a run anyway? Why does it feel like such a failure? And then I realized that the act of setting out on an 8-mile run and being unable to finish it makes me feel Wrong. I was Wrong. I cannot run 8 miles. Wrong.

Ever since I was a kid, I have hated being wrong. Being wrong fills me with shame, and to avoid this I constantly fill the air with caveats about how I might be, am probably, could easily be wrong. It feels better to presage every statement with an excuse about how wrong I might be, because that means I will be Right! "See? I told you before, I was probably going to be wrong!" So I get to be right either way. Most importantly, I don't look stupid (a.k.a. Wrong, a.k.a. shameful) in front of other people.

But.

When you avoid putting yourself in situations where you could be wrong, you might maybe miss out on trying something cool. You will avoid encounters with failure, and success. And everything else! Being chronically safe isn't very interesting.

So I'm there walking instead of running and I thought, "Who cares? It's a beautiful day. So I'm walking. So what. I was Wrong, and NO. ONE. CARES." I continued walking and jogging on and off for 7 miles. My mile splits went from 10:00 to 12:00 to 13:00 and then finally 17:00 for the last mile, which I mostly walked. But I did 7 miles, which is my longest run-like-thing since November.

Well.

Behind me is the familiar solid ground of caution, and in front of me is oh-my-god-I-have-no-idea. I have had this important realization with respect to running, which is great, but can I carry it over into the rest of my life? I think it could be quite awesome to live with the reckless possibility that I might occasionally be wrong. I could fail. If I could accept that, maybe I could try more things. See, I avoid trying stuff because it's possible that I could fail. Wrongness awaits. But... maybe... who cares?

Having an incurable degenerative brain disease is not awesome, but it's a fantastic teacher.

If you've read this far, you might want to check out these TED talks, which have no doubt influenced me recently:

• The Art of Asking
• The Power of Vulnerability