Fat Girl Running

Do you know what is worse than fear of failure? Actually failing. I signed up for a sprint triathlon. I was working hard, training, eating right. I could feel myself getting stronger. I felt ready. I worked myself up mentally for it. I told everyone I was doing it. It was scheduled in the evening, which is truly awful for a race. I am not a morning person, I probably exercise best in the afternoon; but to have to work all day, stress all day, and then finally race at 5:45, ugh. I was on pins and needles. It’s all I could talk about. The day was a blur of stress and rush. I was panicking about not getting done in time, panicking about forgetting something, panicking about crashing or getting hit by a car, panicking about being last. None of those happened.

From the beginning it’s been a mental game as much as a physical challenge. Everyone says this, but it’s hard to understand until you do it. Being comfortable with the uncomfortable. Feeling like you can’t go on, and then keep going. Feeling that feeling of dread, that foreshadowing of awfulness, and then pushing that aside to do it anyway. I read articles about mental toughness, about how this can be trained and learned. In my mind, the only goal was to finish. In my head, I kept saying, the last person across the finish line is a finisher. I am going to cross that damn line.

Finally, the last patient was seen. I drove the 30 minute drive to the race site, talking to a friend the whole way, discussing nutrition and hydration, warm ups and general encouragement. My head was in the game. I met my friends there, they showed me where and how to set up my gear. There were tons of super awesome looking athletes strutting around in their beautiful gear, with their beautiful bikes, their supple, smooth, tanned, muscle bound bodies gliding around the transition area like goddamn gazelles. I fumbled around, a lumpy warthog in comparison, but I’ve learned to squash this feeling after doing so many 5ks with the same or similar people. I’m not doing it for them, I’m doing it for me.

And then the moment arrives, switch to present tense: I crowd in with everyone, and the swim goes great. I freestyle the whole way, the kayaks cheer us on, the water is smooth, it feels so good! there are even 2 people after me so I’m not the last swimmer. I dry off and get on the bike and it’s going well, I make it up a particularly challenging hill, I roll up and down, past an adorable road called Darby Switch, past neighbors who have come out to see us! To cheer for us! We are the town event! A woman at the end of her driveway has a cowbell, because you can never have enough cowbell. I coast down a long downhill section. This is actually one of the scariest parts for me, bc I’m going at 20+ mph on a tiny bike with only a helmet, not a huge shoulder to work with, cars are speeding past, and I get so tense just trying not to hit a stray rock and go flying. I’m also working my brain up for the uphill climb. I can do this, I’ve done this before. Just keep going, just finish. I make the turn to start the incline, and I feel a lag. My back tire is making a weird sound, and suddenly it’s slower going. I unclip and look, and it is flat. I hesitate. I only have five more miles, maybe I can ride it on the rim! Maybe I can just walk it? Maybe I can fix it in some way…. no. My world crumples as the lag truck comes up behind me. No one explains this part: if you get a flat tire, you’re out of the race. Not that you failed in any way that was controllable, but this stupid round piece of rubber crushed your hopes and dreams and hours of training. It is so first world to be destroyed by not finishing a triathlon, but there it is. My adrenaline skyrockets with nowhere to go, and I get in the lag truck. I am devastated, trying not to cry in the back of a pick up. The drivers are nice, trying to make small talk, but I have no interest in talking. It’s all I can do to keep my sobs silent, as tears course in rivulets down my face. I’m praying that I can escape without actually seeing anyone, but that doesn’t seem likely. I now have to text everyone that I DNF. That’s an actual anagram. Just stamp failure on the time sheet. Everyone is texting encouragement, oh that sucks, it wasn’t meant to be, you’ll kill it next time… I love that I have a supportive tribe, but right now I can’t deal with any of it. My adrenaline is crashing hard, and on top of it I started my period today, so I am an emotional wreck. Riding in the back of the truck, drowning in disappointment and misery and loathing, I have an epiphany: worse than finishing last is not finishing at all. Worse than struggling up that damn hill at 4 mph, is riding in the loser truck. As soon as they see me get out of the truck, my friends swarm me, hugging me, knowing that sometimes physical contact is more necessary than social distancing, and I lose it. Ugly cry, body wracking sobs, tears and mucus pouring down my face in a torrent, you would have thought someone died the way I carried on. In front of my coach, in front of my pastor, full on emotional breakdown. Then Sean and the boys walk up. More witnesses to my defeat. Just pile it on, everyone come look at the crying fat girl who can’t even finish what she signed up for. Clearly she’s in over her head. I pack up my stuff and drive home, a long, cold, empty drive in my still-wet clothes. Crack open a beer, get in the shower, eat dinner and go to bed in defeat. Tomorrow is another day, a day to regroup, refocus, to sign up for next time, but today I am beaten.

As the date of my first sprint triathlon quickly approaches, I’m getting nervous. Like scared. Terrified might be the best term. I’m not afraid of the event itself, I know I can do all of the things separately, and I know I can do them all in succession. I know I will finish. No, I’m afraid at how slow I will be. I looked at the finishing times for the last race (stupid, I know) and the slowest one was 1:30 something. My goal is around 2 hours. This means people are going to be standing around for at least 30 minutes waiting for me to finish. Or worse, they’ll leave bc I took too long. I’m fat, I’m slow, I’m not a real athlete. Why would they wait for me? I’m not in their ‘clique.’

As I was rapidly talking myself out of competing, my older son had a really wretched day today. I guess there was something in the water bc we were both breaking down. He is a super perfectionist, if he can’t do something perfect the first time, he won’t even try. He went golfing with his dad, the first time this year, and he didn’t play well, which became that he was a terrible person and hated golf. And I thought to myself, he needs me to finish this race. He needs to see me working really hard at this, finishing last, and being proud of myself. He needs to see people breaking stereotypes, that you can do anything if you try hard enough. It’s not going to be beautiful and it’s not going to win any records, but I am doing this triathlon and I will be proud of myself. I will be kind to myself. I can do this. For them, and for me.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m trying to do a sprint triathlon this summer. The group informally trains together every Wednesday, swimming and biking and running the course. For the last few weeks I’ve come and swam 1/2 way across the lake (1/4 mile, about the distance I will need to swimming for the tri), then did a shortened bike loop of 8 miles and walked a mile after that.

The full loop is 13 miles, and it includes a 2.5 mile straight incline in three parts, called the three legged dog. After several successful partial loops (which has a much smaller incline) , and the addition of my clip on shoes (magic shoes), I decided to give the whole loop a try. I stressed about it the whole day. I got there, told everyone what I did doing, and two people offered to ride it with me. The smaller loop breaks off of the bigger loop. As soon as I passed the turnoff for the smaller loop, I rounded the corner and came upon a steep hill. I made it up, barely, but had to stop at the top to catch my breath. My friends stopped with me. I immediately regretted my decision to try the whole loop, but I was determined to finish anyway. After that I kept going, and I came to a realization. Of course going up these hills means eventually you go down hills as well. Going up bigger hills means going down bigger hills. Logical. But just as I am afraid I’m not going to make it up the hills, I’m also scared of going too fast down other hills. I have never been an adrenaline junkie, as I’ve said before I don’t have a great sense of balance or strength, and while I have a high pain tolerance, I don’t like getting hurt. As a medical professional and a mom, I also have a strong sense of my own mortality. I nearly panicked and fell behind on the downhills as well. Definitely had a few moments where I thought, wtf am I doing here? I don’t belong here.

Then I rounded the corner to THE hill. Struggled up the first leg. In the middle of the second leg my thighs were on fire. I was in what I thought was my lowest gear, barely moving forward, breathing so hard my teeth hurt. I finally had to stop, and of course I couldn’t get my damn shoes unhooked. My friend Katie managed to catch me before i fell, and she walked with me up the second part of the hill. She pointed out that this is an insane hill, and also that I was still in a higher gear in my front gear, which could have stopped me from making it up. We got to the top of the second leg, and I got back on the bike. I made it up the third leg, and rounded the corner to applause. It took me 1:20 to make it 13 miles. Some people made it in under 50. I felt defeated. The past few weeks my training had been going so well, I was working so hard, and I was totally taken down by this fucking hill. Everyone else can ride the damn course, why can’t I? I felt as fat and out of shape and unathletic as ever. I cried on the way home.

Then my friend Mary reminded me that I can get stronger, the hill is just a hill. And she reminded me that, while everyone I see is riding the course, the vast majority of people are not even attempting it. I got back on the bike and finished the ride. I didn’t quit or call for a pick up. Next time I’ll make it farther. Everyone starts somewhere, but you have to start. Next time, Hill, I’m coming for you.

Tried to run today. Since the whole covid outbreak, I really haven’t worked out much, it’s really been the past three weeks that I’ve tried to kick my ass back in gear. Suddenly the realization dawned on me that this was not temporary, nothing was changing anytime soon, and I needed to still work out. So this morning I took my 6 year old to the very flat track of a nearby park. He road his bike next to me, or that was the plan. We got to the park and there were no other cars, and I thought, ‘awesome, only ones here!’. Oooohhhh no. Two teens were making out in the circular slide. They didn’t say anything to me, and I never made eye contact, but I couldn’t help but think, what more could kill the mood than an overweight, wheezing runner and her 6 year old? They were determined though, kept going at it the whole time. For all 8 times I made it around that damn loop, they were lip locked. I was impressed with their tenacity. I was also tempted to give them a safe sex lecture, but I restrained my inner NP and public health nut.

During the run, Finn gave up three rounds in, he sat on a bench and ate a granola bar. Every time I passed him, he handed me the water bottle and said,”great job Mom!”. Sometimes I think I’m failing as a mother, but this makes me feel like I’m doing ok. He stuck with me and I pounded out those two and a half miles. Several times I wanted to wait, but he was watching, so I kept running. He has no idea I’m slow and fat. To him, I’m a runner, and that makes me want to keep running. He doesn’t know that I ‘don’t look like a runner.’. every race should have 6 year olds handing out water and encouragement. The pure trust and faith in his eyes that I could do anything, be anything, was soul wrenching, and made me try much harder than I ever would by myself.

For my triathlon I need to run two miles (after swimming 400 yards and biking 13 miles). In about a month. We shall see how it goes. Stay tuned.

As I’ve mentioned before, one of my fitness goals is to do a triathlon. Sprint tri, in the lingo. About two years ago I bought my road bike. It’s not super fancy, but it’s purple and I love it. I’ve been vacillating about getting clip in shoes, bc I’m not very coordinated, and I only ride about once a week. Would it be worth it? I asked myself. Today I went for it. Technically my husband got them for my birthday, but I went to the bike store and actually bought them. I bought the easier ones, the ones that clip in on both sides of the pedals, the ones meant for all types of cycling. The woman at the shop was very helpful. She recommended leaning up against the wall art home and practice clipping in and out over and over. So I did. Then I tried to take off, couldn’t get the other foot in, couldn’t get the first foot out, and landed squarely on my elbow and hip. Skinned my elbow properly. Blood running down my arm, rocks stuck in my skin. And the pain. It took me a good minute of breathing through the pain to be able to move. My first thought was f’ this. I’m 39 years old, I don’t need a new skill. I can’t do this. My husband was right there though, and my six year old was watching. If I insist that he keep trying, I can’t give up now. We took my bike into the grass, and my partner held me up like I was a toddler and we did it over and over again, clip in, get going, clip the other shoe in, then out again. Restart. Over and over. Took a break, washed and dressed my arm, had supper, and went to a flat running path loop. There I managed to do six miles, latching and unlatching my foot over and over. Persistence. That’s what I bring. I’m never going to be the fastest or the leanest, but I’m going to finish, because I keep going.

So, today is my first ’triathlon’. In quotes bc it’s an indoor triathlon, based on time, not distance. Wtf am I doing? I’m a far girl, I’m not an athlete! Swimming makes me nauseous! What if I’m too sick to bike and run? My heart is pounding, I’m nauseous already. What if I’m late? What if I’m riding the bike soaked? What if I can’t run, and end up walking the whole last part? And my friends, my lovely, sporty, thin friends… killing it while I’m barely moving forward. What if I injure something?

And I survived! A grueling play by play: swimming, I made it 100 meters freestyle before flipping to backstroke. But by alternating between the two, I kept moving the whole time, I didn’t get nauseous, and I didn’t drown. There was a period in the middle doing backstroke where I got a good sinus rinse and thought I was going down, but I tilted my head up for a minute and kept going.

And then the cycling. I barely made it to the bike, even with just a light toweling off and throwing shorts on over my swimsuit. My clothes were immediately soaked, and my body was already slightly fatigued from the swim. In practice I can take as long as I need to before I go on to the next thing. Here it was five minutes, which was much trickier. My legs felt like lead, the bike was set at 12 resistance, and halfway through I wasn’t sure how this was going to go. But I kept telling myself, just keep moving forward.

By the time I got to the running I thought, this is not happening. I started out walking. But then my mind started messing with me, my body recovered, and I thought, let’s try to run a bit. I ended up half running/half walking and finished shakey but feeling great. I felt naseous and exhilarated and empowered. And I wanted to do it again.

It’s only recently that I’ve started to use exercise as a tool to combat my depression/anxiety. When I was in college I ran to lose weight. Then I ran to get in shape for a hike my husband and I wanted to do. Then I ran to get out of the house because I felt trapped as a sah mom. Then I ran to try to lose weight again. It’s interesting the different motivations throughout the years. I noticed my mood was better when I exercised regularly, but I didn’t use it specifically for that purpose. Now as I’m in my late 30’s, I feel like the valleys of my depression are deeper than they ever were. Possibly partially because as a mother I absorb the pain of my children, possibly because life is not what I expected it would be, possibly because adulting is hard. Possibly all of that and more. I have especially been struggling these past two weeks, and it’s all I can do to get out of bed and not cry at my desk in the office. Every day I contemplate calling in sick and spending all day in bed.

The other day I did cry at my office. It was awful for many reasons, but one is that I have a little closet sized space off the hallway, and I don’t have a door. So as I sit ugly crying at my desk, everyone can see and hear me. I actually went outside the back door, which opens into the parking lot for a pain management office. Little old people pulling up with their handicap stickers and walking by with their walkers, pretending not to notice the fat girl crying on the back porch. It was awesome. I pulled my shit together and finished out the day, and then I went to yoga.

Yoga is amazing. I walked in after having pretty much my worst day in the past 6 months, and after 60+ minutes of vinyasa and breathing, I feel human again. It doesn’t make the awfulness go away, but it puts things in perspective and makes it manageable. I still have a huge weight on my soul, but yoga helps me chip away at it piece by piece, strengthening my core so that the weight is bearable. On days when I’m ready to walk away from everything, yoga puts on the brakes until I can reconsider in the light of day, unshadowed by my resident demons. And this is now why I exercise, and why I won’t apologize for being the fat, sweaty girl in spandex at the gym, for being the slowest one at the race, for still doing modifications at yoga. Exercise helps keep me sane, so keep your negativity to yourself.

Being a parent is all about being flexible. Plans change left and right, moment to moment, and one is expected to roll with it. I am a planner. I like schedules and lists. I like to know I am doing yoga every Thursday and swimming every Friday. These two things do not always gel, in fact they often clash, like oil and water. This past week was a clash of Titanic proportions. Thursday yoga was shot down due to a funeral for a friend’s mom, which I left feeling emotionally drained. Swimming was swapped out for kayaking and hiking with a friend. This was great, except we got lost and were running late and ended up hiking 6 miles instead of 3 and running back through the mud. I was so sweaty my clothes were soaked, my hair was dripping, and I could barely walk the next day. Then I spent the rest of the weekend playing catch up and didn’t get to go running with my running group on Sunday.

Today (Monday) was a bear. I was exhausted the whole day. By noon I could barely keep my eyes open. When I got home, my 10 (almost 11) year old wanted a hug. Right away I knew something was wrong. We are in the middle of making the transition to middle school, and on top of this, we changed school districts last year. He is very anxious (like his mother) but at the same time very socially unaware. He’s in counseling, and hasn’t been diagnosed with Asperger’s, but it wouldn’t surprise me. He told me he sits alone at lunch, and has stopped trying to join groups because it never works out. He was also frustrated because he didn’t write down any of his assignments so he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do for homework. Now this kid is crazy smart. He could read at age 2 and do algebra in first grade. But he is also crazy forgetful. If he doesn’t deem it important, he won’t bother to remember. So he was mad at himself for being forgetful, and mad at the other kids for not accepting who he is. This was quickly heading in a downward spiral of self pity and self loathing. I know because I go there myself. So I grabbed my running shoes, we headed to the local park, and ran it out. After 2.5 miles of him just talking about whatever came into his head, we came home, he finished his homework, showered and went to bed in a much better mood.

Now today was a lucky day. I was able to finish most of my work at work, and we magically didn’t have a child’s activity tonight. There are many nights we don’t have time for a run, or the weather doesn’t cooperate. We’re heading into winter here in Western NY which is no joke. But due to being flexible and changing plans, we got that time together, and I was able to share a great coping mechanism which he will hopefully use in the future. I can’t make other people be nice to my kid, but running helps me be a nicer person, and helps him accept himself.

In the spirit of full disclosure, let me say I am in no way a fitness ‘freak’ or gym ‘buff.’. I work full time, my husband works full time, we have two small children who are in various activities. Most days I barely have time to make sure my socks match. I strive to work out 4 days a week (yes I know the aha recommends 5 days a week), and most weeks it’s closer to 3. I tend to be a very anxious, self-critical person, so I cut myself some slack here. Sometimes I wake up at 5 am to get in a quick workout before work. Sometimes I wake up at 6 on Saturday or Sunday to get in a run or a swim before our scheduled weekends get out of hand. Sometimes I hit snooze and roll over. But the point is, I never have time in the course of a normal day to work out. I’m at my office by 7:15, I do not get a lunch break, I work through my lunch, and finish by 5-5:30 pm. My husband at this time has already started feeding the children and/or is driving them to various activities. I then meet them wherever and go with one child while he takes the other. We get home around 7 pm, and start homework and bedtime routines. At 8:30 ish i log into my computer and finish my work from home. I am off every Friday and this is usually my long workout day, where I do either weights/run or a swim/cycle brick workout. However, I have to fit this in around appointments, oil changes, counseling (anxiety/depression, remember?) Laundry and cleaning. And heaven forbid anyone get sick, there goes my workout time for the week. I’m amazed at athletes who can fit in long workouts and work full time, but that’s not me. I love sleep, and if I don’t get a solid 7 hours, everyone is miserable. So there it is. I’m a normal person, trying to normalize being overweight and working out.

It takes commitment to exercise, and if it’s not something you are used to having as part of your life, it is easy to see it as extra or expendible. If you didn’t play sports as a kid (me) and if you didn’t have parents who enjoyed playing sports (also me), then it’s not something that comes naturally to you, it has to be learned. Sometimes people do it as part of a group or club, or because of their significant other. I started running in college because I knew I was horribly out of shape, and I wanted to be healthier. However, the thing about bodies is, they like the weight they are at. When you start to lose weight, your metabolism works against you to keep that weight on (you know, in case of famine or something). So even though I was more fit, I didn’t lose that much weight. Which is frustrating, especially if being skinny is the goal (and let’s be honest, what fat girl has never secretly dreamed of being skinny). This has led to 20 years of struggling for health, self acceptance, and eventually, this blog. The key is to celebrate fitness goals and personal milestones, and stop looking and the f’ing scale. Your body is amazing, it has gotten you to this point, and it can keep doing amazing things. Who cares what it weighs?

I have been wanting to write a blog for a while. I definitely work through my thoughts and feelings with writing more than speaking or thinking. For months I’ve written ideas for this blog in my journal and in unsent email drafts. So what happened to light a fire under my ass and make me actually start my blog, you ask? I was out with friends. These particular friends are a beautiful, strong, amazing women, and I don’t mean the following story to reflect negatively on any of them. One woman was recounting waiting for her daughter (age 12) to cross the finish line of a local town 5k race, and it was taking longer than the mother expected. She was waiting as more and more people crossed, with no sign of her daughter. “And then fat, slow runners were even finishing…” She said in a snide tone. And still no daughter. She said this, in a car with six people, and not a single person said anything to redirect her. Now I can’t be critical of the rest, because I didn’t say anything either. But I am that slow runner. I am a solid 12 minute miler at best, shuffling along at my snail pace. And she knows this. They all know this. We have all run multiple 5k’s together, them finishing around 25 minutes, me rolling in at my 36-37 minutes. I refer to them as gazelles, and I’m ok with it, that’s who I am as a runner. They keep inviting me to run with them, so I assumed they were fine with it as well. But the way that comment rolled off her tongue brought back all the mean girl taunts of my teenage and early adult years, made me cringe and retreat into my clamshell. Me, with my masters degree and my beautiful family and my successful career, it made me feel my same weight, but 2 inches tall. So I decided it was time for me to start this blog and encourage the discussion about how fat is incorrectly linked with unfit or lazy or slovenly, and my personal struggles and observations.