Running! (Finally)

Kass, my trainer, used to call me an endurance athlete. I loved it when she’d say that. I’d roll my eyes and shake my head, wondering how that could be true? Me? An athelte? Then I’d remember the 9 or 12 or 15 mile run I’d done recently and realize she must be right. At least, she was right until I got diagnosed with breast cancer.

I don’t know why I stopped running. I wasn’t sick. Other than a twingey feeling in my right breast, I was fine. Since I was unemployed too, I should have been able to find the time. True, I didn’t have my company car anymore, but that shouldn’t have mattered. From my front door I could easily jog to a number of gorgeous trails. And, if I hopped on my newly borrowed bicycle, I could reach even more. I loved that about Los Osos. I miss it now and lament those lost days.

I don’t know why I stopped eating right, either. Suddenly the oatmeal-cookie-and-ice-cream-group dominated my personal food pyramid. Before cancer, I planned my meals with a balance of fresh vegetables, whole grains, lean proteins and unsaturated fats. After cancer, I planned them with a balance of crunchy, sweet, greasy, hot, cold and creamy. I weighed 10 pounds more at the end of July than I had at the beginning. I wasn’t just stuffing my face; I’m pretty sure I was stuffing my fear.

After my surgery in August made me cancer free, my eating habits changed again. Healthy food regained its appeal. Sugar and fats stopped driving me and resumed their rightful place in the backseat of my diet. I felt so much better emotionally, so relieved and clear, that I might have started running again. I might have, if I hadn’t had a huge bandage over half my chest and circulatory system flushed with pain-killers.

Recovering from the mastectomy took far longer than I’d expected. For weeks I didn’t have anything approaching a normal energy level. I was exhausted every day. Even after I stopped sleeping half the day away, I was in too much pain bear the impact that physical activity placed on my chest. The jostle of even a gentle trot would have collapsed me. Also, because the slightest pressure on the skin from my collar bone to my lower ribs made me cry out in agony, I was terrified of falling.

As August ended, I started going on little hikes, just to get outside and get moving. I stepped gently, and rested afterwards. In September I went to a yoga class, but it was too hard. I couldn’t move my arm right and was completely unable to lay down on my stomach for the floor poses. It’s October now, ten weeks since my surgery. I went running for the first time yesterday.

There’s a beautiful park just a couple of blocks from C.’s new condo in Denver where I am staying. The center of it is open and grassy. Locals play frisbee, touch football, and throw balls to their dogs out there. All around the edges of the park are beautiful big trees. This week they are changing color with the seasons. When the wind blows, golden leaves flurry through the air on their way to the ground. It reminds me of snow; something I haven’t seen in years.

The dirt path that travels the perimeter of the park is 1.5 miles long. My plan was to do the loop three times, running for a mile and then walking for half each time. I thought I could run easy for the first mile, steady for the second, and push it on the third. Being a heart-rate-monitor-junkie, this would mean keeping my HR between 140 and 150 for the first mile, raising it to 150-160 for the second and keeping it above 161 for the final, fastest loop. Boy, was I in for a surprise.

I had gotten so out of shape that even a sludgey, slogging pace skyrocketed my pulse up past 170 beats per minute. I usually reserve this kind of effort for an serious sprint. I was out of breath after the first 10 meters. Worse than that, I was embarrassed. My runner’s ego was taking a dive…or maybe a canon-ball, or a belly-flop.

It’s silly to be embarrassed while I’m running, I know that. It’s not like any of the other park-goers are looking at me and wondering, “Why is that girl running so slow?” If they are, they’re not going to say anything outloud. But, just in case they do, it makes me feel better if I have a comeback ready. Yesterday, my planned snappy retort was, “Hey! Give me a break! I’m recovering from surgery!” I’m sure you realize, as I do now, that I was really talking to myself.

I listened. I gave my self a break and stopped worrying about my speed or my heart rate. Instead, I scrounged around in my brain for every scrap of advice Kass or anyone else had ever given me about how to run well. I held my head high and straightened my posture. I loosened my wrists and increased the distance between them. I imagined angling my elbows inward as they passed behind my back. I took quick small steps, about 90 of them per minute. I focused on getting all the used air out of my lungs, but let the in-breath come naturally. I relaxed my shoulders and strengthened my core. Pretty soon, I felt pretty good.

It didn’t matter that my belly was jiggling a lot more that I remembered, and that my chest was jiggling a lot less. It didn’t matter that I finished my first mile 4 minutes later than I would have been able to back in June. I think running is not the only part of life where good form makes up for a lot of other shortcomings.

My assumption that strangers wouldn’t actually comment out loud on my fitness activities turned out to be mistaken. As I rounded the north-east corner of the park, a homeless-looking man shouted at me across the green. “Hey! Keep smiling! You’re beautiful! And you’re getting a nice workout!” I did have one high-spirited sprint when my playlist finally shuffled around to Jem's peppy song Just a Ride. But this didn't happen during the sprint. This happened during one of my walking breaks.

It was a good reminder. It really doesn’t matter how fast I’m going. It’s just about getting out there and having the best run I can have, whatever that looks like. That’s what I did yesterday and I felt like a champion once again. Apparently, I looked like one too.