I’m not a fast runner. I’ll never win a major race, and I’m not particularly interested in going after a big marathon. I just like to run. Similarly, I’m kind of a lousy reader— slow, prone to mixing up letters and words, easily distracted. Yet, I love to read, and I love to run. I also love to read about running. And I’m in luck: there is lots of great writing on the subject, from technical manuals to memoirs to novels to philosophy. While I love a good geek-out, it’s these latter categories that really grab me. Maybe because running can be so solitary and long miles give us time to think, writing on running is often perceptive and introspective. In fact, much of this writing is really more about living in the world than it is about putting on foot in front of the other.
I certainly haven’t read every book about running (yet). But I find myself coming back to some favorites. The books I return to share a theme of running not just as a sport, but as a conduit for humanity. The first one that pulled me in was Haruki Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Fans of Murakami’s fiction will recognize his voice: keen observation, simple description, slightly magical air. He writes about the routines of running, the suffering, the odd sense of comfort, and how these mirror the writing life. Reading it was meditative for me. Another classic, Running & Being, from the so-called “philosopher king” of running George Sheehan, delighted me in a different way. The chapters are titled things like “Living”, “Discovering”, “Learning”, “Racing”, and “Meditating”. Sheehan, like Murakami, is preoccupied with the suffering of running. Is this the secret sauce? Suffering? I don’t know, but there’s something about it that compels runners and writers alike.
Since my recent relocation to Portland, my commute has changed. A lot. Instead of a mile to campus for teaching, or driving to different neighborhoods in Tucson for the mobile clinic, now I’m heading from NE Portland to Marquam hill most days. It’s no fun to drive, and parking is a non-starter. And I hate spending a lot of time driving in the city anyway. The trip takes a while, either way, so I have to make my commuting time count for more than just transportation. Those two-ish hours every day count against the 24 I’m allotted, no matter how you slice it. Is it coming out of my exercise time? My professional reading time? My sleep?!? So I’ve been testing out my commute options! So far, I’ve been. . . Continue reading
It’s January, and I just moved from Tucson to Portland, OR. Winter is peak running weather in Tucson— sunny in the daytime, and cool in the mornings and evenings. In Portland, it’s. . . dark. From 4:30 PM until 7:30 AM. And wet. I’ll treadmill it if necessary, but it sucks the joy from my life. So what’s a girl to do? Adapt. Here’s what I’ve tried so far:
- Gear. Since Ragnar last year, I haven’t had much use for my reflective vest but now I do. I also needed a better headlamp. Now I’m visible, and I can see. Safety? Check. Add that to toasty tops and tights and something to keep my ears warm, and I’m feeling pretty good. I’m still figuring out which shoes are best for slick sidewalks (any advice??), but I’ve got muddy trails covered.
- Adjust expectations. Yes, I can run in the dark. In the rain. I won’t melt. The rain is often kind of misty and drizzly— almost pleasant, in a way. Portlanders aren’t phased the way Tucsonans are— I used to joke that people stayed home if it looked a little cloudy. Here? Bring it on. People are out there. I also thought it would suck running before it’s light out, remembering pre-dawn runs of yore before early hospital shifts. But 6 AM is way better than 4:45, even if it’s dark.
- Learn to love the mud. Pippi, Max and I ran on some Forrest Park trails last weekend and we had a blast— it was sloppy, but who cares? There’s a distinct joy in getting dirty. Own it.
- Back up plans and cross-training. Some days it’s too nasty. A gym membership was in order— so I got one. I can use the treadmill, sure, but maybe a functional training class (kettlebells! boxes! bodyweight!), a rowing workout, or some cycling, too. Cross-training has its own set of benefits that I’m starting to enjoy, like feeling stronger on hills.
What other tips to you have for me to help me run all winter long?
I’m a health-consious person (but you knew that). I set up my daily life to make it easy— walk/bike/public transit. High-quality food in my kitchen, healthy snacks in my backpack, veggies with everything. Breaks for a stretch/walk. Standing and fidgeting as I work. Runs, yoga classes, gym classes surrounding and sometimes interrupting my work day. It’s easy for me when I have control.
But what happens when, suddenly, I’m stuck in an airport, on a plane, in another airport, in a hotel, in a conference center? No vitamix, no yoga studio, no time to seek out a grocery store even. I’ll tell you how I make it work, but I also have a wishlist for the hotels and conference organizers (I’m looking at you, Hyatt Bethesda).
Let’s start with the stuff I can do, no matter where I wind up:
- Pack workout clothes. No one can take this from you, even if your schedule is tight. If the weather’s OK and the location is safe, an outdoor run is the best— gets you oriented, helps your body clock, just plain feels good. This might mean packing something warm. If not, there’s almost always a gym. You can find out what they’ve got (pool? bikes? kettlebells?) before you go— website or phone call will usually do it. Yes, a hotel gym can be a sad place, but I’m like my border collie mix (hi Pippi!)
and if I don’t get at least 30 minutes of exercise in the morning, I’m a nightmare for the rest of the day. I’m not a treadmill person, but I’ll use one in a pinch. I’ve found I’m better off with a little structure for an indoor workout so I don’t quit out of boredom. I tried Aaptiv this trip, which lets you stream or download audio workouts for treadmill, bike, rower, strength training, etc. It got the job done (meaning, I got a good workout in on the treadmill and didn’t die of boredom). I’d do it again.
Bring your water bottle. Yes, you have to bring it empty through security. But you can find bottle fillers everywhere now, or at least water fountains. If you have access to it, you’re more likely to drink it (plus my pink hydroflask is just plain cute). And if you didn’t pay $6 for the water, you won’t ration it. Planes (and plane wine, let’s be honest) are dehydrating. Indoor air is dehydrating. Packaged, processed food is dehydrating. Too much coffee (guilty), even, could be dehydrating. Let’s keep things from getting too desiccated, shall we? Your skin, digestion, and brain will thank you.
- You can move around, even if the structure of the day doesn’t include it. Stand up at every break and walk outside, upstairs, to the bathroom, around in circles. Go out at lunch time instead of staying in the conference center. Walk to the restaurant for dinner (you can meet them there if you’re the only one braving it).
- Take a routine from home with you. I like to meditate, journal and plan in the morning, so I bring Headspace and my planner with me. It helps me keep some normalcy.
So, what could the hotels do better?
So, I’m moving. Moving from Arizona to Oregon. Moving from one job to a new one.
Transitions engender reflection, and I’m thinking about what I really value.
This effect shows up as I sort my possessions. I’ve thought about this before, but now it’s inescapable. Do I like this? Do I use it? Do I need it? Do I want it? Or, did it just slip into my life somehow and attach itself, without my deliberate attention? Or was it once valuable and is no longer? Is it beautiful? Or, am I keeping it out of some sort of guilt at the idea of selling it, donating it, or throwing it away? I’ve been answering these questions a lot lately, and it’s very revealing.
It also shows up as I visit people and places here. I have beloved teachers and communities at my yoga studio (where I’ve taken over 2,000 classes) and my krav maga gym (where I learned that I can, and should, fight when threatened). I have favorite trails and coffee shops. I have coworkers who’ve taught me and learned from me. Of course I’ve valued these things over the years, but the thought of moving away from them brings my appreciation into sharper focus. Each visit feels significant.
I also think about myself and my life in the ten years I’ve been here. I moved here with Max and took my first job as a nurse. I took my habits of yoga and running from occasional to nearly daily. I went to graduate school and became a nurse practitioner, then a researcher, then a teacher. Max went to graduate school and cycled through jobs. I hosted weekly dinners with Max for years, sharing a love of vegetarian food and socially progressive conversation with smart and loveable friends. I cooked a lot of vegan food, and learned to love eating that way, even when I haven’t made it a firm rule in my life. I’ve travelled from here, to Europe, to Asia, to Mexico, to Montana, to New York, to California, to the Midwest. And then I cam home, to the home I made here in this funny desert city. And now, I’m going. New beginnings are exciting! But still, leaving is sad. What would you miss if you moved?