Subtitled: really not interested in researching psychological disorders at the moment
After a few months of feeling sorry for myself because of my knee/hamstring lameness, it struck me that the real reason I wasn’t feeling better about my running was because I wasn’t running regularly. Funny how that works. I gave myself a dozen or more pep-talks trying to get myself back into that mental space of enjoying my runs. Turns out, talking (self or otherwise) does not activate the production and release of endorphins into the brain. You might think that is fairly self-evident, and I suppose you would be correct. I feel like I have a good understanding of the “if you don’t learn from your mistakes, you are doomed to repeat them” concept. Sometimes I feel like I have a sub or semiconscious need to double-check or triple check to make sure I’m drawing the correct conclusion from my mistakes.
The end of my pity party started when I finally picked up my copy of Run Like A Mother to reread it. The book is written by Dimity McDowell and Sarah Bowen Shea, to whom I was first introduced to in various articles out of Runner’s World. They are writers, wives, mothers, and most importantly runners. Or maybe it’s the combination of the last three aspects (since we all know the first doesn’t apply to moi). The first chapter was all I really needed. It is entitled “Running for Our Lives”. Both authors include essays about what running means to them. I’ll include what really sticks with me from each essay.
Up first is Dimity:
The trip-trap, trip-trap of my heels lulls me into a dreamy space where the reality of my ulcer-inducing life doesn’t faze me. Running is more powerful than any drug I’ve taken, and I’m fairly certain it’s the elixir that has allowed me to maintain a sliver of my former self-and my sanity… I don’t doubt myself in tough situations because I am a runner. I feel almost invincible because I’m a runner.
And now Sarah:
I need to get out and just be me, not the time-out-giver, snack-bestower, or boo-boo kisser. I want to be merely a woman in a running skirt, sweating out the stress so I can return ready for another trip to the playground… I also run to feel alive. To remind myself that I am a corporeal being, that I have a body… All my worries, internal debates, and concerns get tamped down by the rhythmic pounding of my feet. I love it.
There are probably a score or more of other underlined phrases throughout the rest of the book, but I’ll leave it here. Copyright issues and whatnot.
I think the magic is in seeing that, yes, it is a struggle for everyone. I know logically that making myself a priority is beneficial to everyone I interact with, but it is reassuring to see that I’m not the only one that struggles with it. Even though I know we all have our own dilemmas, the closer the circumstances of others are to our own, the more it resonates.
Even with a poopy run this morning, I’m still in love with running. I would really like for my iPod sensor to magically reappear. And I’ve discovered a down side to my Nike Frees. I don’t know what it is with the tread, but the gaps are HUUUUUUGE. I spend about 10 minutes after each run picking out pieces of gravel. Not a deal breaker, but gravel is permanently banned from my “awesome-est uses for rocks” list. Major blow to gravel’s self-esteem, that is.