Beat Feet
Fancy free: my feet were only compression-sock-less for the photo
If my tootsies could talk, this is the conversation I’d imagine they’ve be having lately.
Leftie: I can’t keep this up much longer, Right—this Chick is more of a ball-buster than I am! I’ve been trying to get Her to take a break for years now, but no dice: She just powers through, no matter how much I make Achilles tendon hurt. I started messing with Her, throbbing and aching, when She was training for that marathon back in 2009. I really cranked up the pain-dial when She did those two marathons last year, but She was unrelenting. Not even an extra day off—I get no respect.
Right: I know, my friend, I’m embarrassed I silently stood by while you were causing all the commotion. Aren’t you proud I finally summoned up my courage to let out one big holler two weeks ago when She was doing those crazy 400s at the track? Come on: Like doing two half-marathons last month wasn’t enough pounding on us? Well, I showed her.
Leftie: Right, that was wack: No matter how my pain I inflicted, She never walked. Then, out of the blue, you pull that hissy-fit, and She has to hobble home. It was righteous.
Right: Aw, shucks, thanks. I decided enough is enough. She needs to give us—and the rest of her Bod—a rest, but She wasn’t getting your message, so I told Her, too. Plus, I gotta admit: I was jealous of you getting all the attention, like that nice physical therapist rubbing you with those tools of hers. Even Calf was getting some of that action. It sure seemed like it felt good. Even you, tough guy, couldn’t hold out—you finally relented and stopped being all swollen and ouch-y.
Left: Yeah, those sessions were pretty sweet. But being shoved into a big bowl of ice cubes was no picnic…
Subjecting Leftie to frozen cubes earlier this spring
Right: Did you catch what She subjected me to after my temper tantrum at the track? She nearly wore a hole in the ground, rolling on that barbell-looking thing back and forth, back and forth. I tried my best to maintain that bump in the middle of my heel, but it was no match for that obsessive rolling. She rolled the entire time She was watching some flick with that friend of Hers—you know, the one with bigger dogs than us. And when that PT told Her to roll me on a frozen water bottle, I couldn’t keep it up any longer.
Leftie: Yeah, you were always the goodie-two-shoes one.
Right: I have to, um, hand it to you: I admire you for being able to stay sore at Her for years—I’m having trouble keeping it going. Especially when she rubs that stuff on me. It feels so nice and makes me go all soft on her. But, Leftie, while you raised a ruckus for years, I’m the one who made Her snap to attention.
Leftie: Gotta give you props: I’ve noticed Brain-o fretting big-time—never known him to worry so much. Thinking maybe the pain you were sending out was a serious injury like that big-footed friend kept getting. Seems like She is finally getting our message. What’s it been, 10 days with no running?
Right: Yeah. Last time we caught a break like that, She had those two babies in Belly.
Leftie: Although it’s not exactly easy street for us. She’s got us constricted in these tighter-than-all-get-out socks. I mean, come on, She sleeps in them, then wears them all day. We only gain our freedom when She takes a shower—which ain’t that often now that there’s no running.
Right: Uh, yeah, I was going to mention that to you. About that stink…
Sixteen Minus One
Almost all the girls: ready to take on a 5k.
So I’ve been doing a DIY Girls on the Run experiment over the past two months. I’ve been interested in the Girls Athletic Leadership School (GALS), the first single-sex charter school in Colorado, which opened in August of 2010. I totally believe in the vision of the school, which integrates health and wellness into all aspects of the curriculum, and its corresponding mission of creating strong, confident girls who are comfortable in their own skin. (Flash back to middle school: I, for one, was so not confident in my own zitty skin. All I wanted to do was fast forward to “the rest of my life.”)
Schools and other charities can raise money through participation in the Colfax 5k, half-marathon and marathon, and I was asked to get GALS involved. When the dust settled on the 4,000 e-mails I sent trying to figure everything out, we had 15 6th and 7th grade girls signed up for the 5k. Not bad.
Slight problem: I’ve never coached middle schoolers (or anybody for that matter, save for this not-totally-successful mentoring experience with Pip), never headed up a fundraising campaign, never dealt with race logistics for anybody other than myself. I was totally out of my element. Thankfully, a mom to one of the girls and a great runner named Jen also volunteered to help.
Twice a week, either she or I–or, on good days, both of us–gathered up the girls in the morning and ran with them. (Every day at the school starts with morning movement for all students, so we just created a running group.) By “run,” I mean a pattern of sprinting-all-out, then walking at a leisurely pace. No matter how many times we told them the girls to find at a pace they could talk at, their running reminded me of my learning how to drive a stick shift back in the day: either peeling rubber or stalling.
Most training days, I’d bring up the rear. There was one girl, whom I’ll call Tara, who was predictably in the back. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt on even the warmest days, she was a girl of few words. I spent a lot of time running with her and trying to get her to talk. I’d compliment her on getting stronger. I’d ask her about her family, what she liked about school, what she was doing for the summer, or if she celebrated Easter. She never didn’t answer, but we never got a conversation going. Her answers were monosyllabic and in a hushed tone.
I did my best to respect the wall she had built up around her, but a part of me wanted the combination of running and my companionship to chip just a little of it away.
The other girls, most of whom laughed and chatted with each other as they ran, were quick to cheer Tara on when she finished a run, but she hardly reacted to the praise. Over two months, I never saw her smile, so last Tuesday, I gave it one last shot. Taking individual pictures of all of them running, I was totally annoying, yelling at her, “Let’s see a smile, Tara! Show me your smile! Do you have a smile in there?” I got eye contact, but no smile.
I don’t want to turn this post into the equivalent of an after school special–it’s quite possible Tara was just a shy, introverted kid who was comfortable enough in her own skin that she didn’t need to please me–but I’ll be honest: my heart sank a little yesterday when I realized Tara was the only girl that wasn’t going to show up on race day.
I still had a great time; at one point, I was running with a group of four girls and asked them if they had a mantra. “Cappuccino with whipped light,” answered one, and it cracked up the whole crowd around us. “Where’s a barista when you need one?” laughed one mother runner, pushing a stroller.
But I wanted Tara there. I wanted the miles she’d put in to have affected her enough that she convinced somebody in her family to get her to the race. She’d done all the work, and I wanted her to experience the high that comes with meeting a goal. I wanted her to feel the camaraderie of race day and realize she was surrounded by friends. I wanted to see her cross the finish line, and when she did, maybe–just maybe–to smile.
I would’ve settled, though, for just having her there.