Tell Me Tuesday: Getting Over Bad Body Days
Maybe funky undies would snap me out of a body funk. More likely: not looking at pics like this.
Lately, my calves have felt as thick as anacondas. And my stomach is showing signs of too many drumsticks–not the chicken kind, but the chocolate-covered kind. And then yesterday, during my longest bike ride in years (65 miles!), I spent way too much time fixating on the fact that my upper arms just jiggled and jiggled. And…and…and…
Even though I’ve got a tall frame and a healthy BMI, my body image is, more often than not, far from healthy. I hate that. I hate that after a great triathlon a couple weeks ago, I can still fixate on the fact that I can feel my stomach double over on itself. I hate that I still see myself as collection of body parts and not the cohesive, capable whole that I know it is. I hate that I doubt I will ever think of my body as perfect or even lovely.
I’ve graduated from high school and college, maintained a marriage, bought a house, given birth to two kids, run thousands of miles, but when I’m on a PMS, negative-self-talk tear, I can reduce my whole life to how far my thighs spread across a chair.
I try to avoid the downward spiral, of course, because it serves no.good.at.all. Here are some ways that work for me:
1. I stay off the scale, which is definitely tough. But if I can bypass it, I can avoid an emotional landmine. Because if I’m feeling large and bloated and that’s reflected in the scale, it pretty much validates my bad mood and my thoughts about myself. Embarrassing to admit, but there it is.
2. I try not to read People, US Weekly or any other celebrity-driven magazine. I used to get week-old copies from some generous neighbors and read them in bed, and I realized looking at pictures of celebs, so well-dressed and made-up–minus the Stars! They’re just like us! feature–just made me feel crappy about myself. So I rarely do it anymore. Unless I’m at the dentist office, where I’m going to feel crappy anyway.
3. I force myself to work out. Sure, the endorphins help, but really, it’s my secret trick to not eating as much junk during the day. I don’t know what chemical is released, but when I sweat in the morning, I swear sugar isn’t as appealing. I still eat it, of course, but not in the quantities and frequency I do when I’ve let my bad mood sink my motivation.
4. I avoid Fitspiration. Usually on Pinterest, these images are supposed to be motivating. The words usually are, but the bodies–the sleek, photo-shopped bodies–convey a totally other reality.
Exhibit A. Yes I want it. But my “it” will never look like that.
I should admit, though, that I do love the words-only messages. (Or rare pictures of more realistic women.)
A little snarky, but there’s truth in there.
5. I wish my last tip was some positive self-affirmation, mentally reframing my calves or arms, but I’m not mature enough for that. So I ignore myself–and tell myself that if anybody is watching or judging me, it’s their problem, not mine. I crank the tunes and just tune out.
So I feel like I’m standing in front of you naked, with all my jiggles and dimples and wrinkles exposed. I know I’m far from the only one who struggles with this, so I want to know: how do you deal with your bad body-image days?
Finding Change–and Laughs–on a Run
Two goofy moms with 12 cents
Let me share a theory I have: While on a run, if you don’t stop to pick up the first change you see on the road–be it a penny, nickel, dime, or quarter–you won’t find anymore money on that run. But if you bend down to pick the coin up, you’ll find more moola on that outing. Several months ago, I shared my hypothesis with my good pal Molly, as she’s as thrifty as I am. Since then, Molly stops every time she spies change glinting on the pavement.
With this mindset in place, Molly and I set out to run nine miles together last Thursday. Conversation flowed as freely as sweat, with me talking about the nifty art camp my kids were attending that week and her telling recent work tales (she’s a vet). Just past Mile 6, as we skirted around a conifer-dotted park, Molly screamed out, “Oooh, money!” as she simultaneously bent over to grab a penny off the ground. Before she’d even fully stood up, I spied a shiny dime a few feet away–sensing that Molly had just spotted it as well. Making an agile move that rivaled any I witnessed by an Olympic athlete over the weekend, Molly cut in front of me, diving to snatch the dime. Then, unbelievably, she shrieked, “Another penny!” and made a cat-like jump to the left to nab it.
Oooh, look, money!
It all happened in just a few blinks of the eye–and it made us dissolve into peals of laughter. We doubled over with belly laughs, working abs better than any core exercises. A block after we finally started running again, we past two blondes dressed in yoga apparel. One asked us if everything was okay; they’d heard us shrieking down along the edge of the park. We assured them all was well, telling them about Molly’s money-grabbing prowess. Then we asked them what any self-respecting runner-blogger would do: “Can you take a photo of us with your iPhone and email it to me?”
But, wait, the story hasn’t reached its conclusion yet. About a mile later, during a rare lull in the conversation, I thought back to the dime-dash, and I started laughing all over again. But before I could even get out a full, “That was so hilarious…” Molly squealed again as she squated down to pick up yet another penny! We burst out laughing again, and then…she saw another copper glint and grabbed one more penny off the pavement. Cha-ching: 14 cents!
The cheapskate in me felt a twinge of regret, but just as quickly decided, “Nah, it’s good I didn’t find the money; it makes a better story that Molly found it.”
Don’t you agree?
Answers to More of Your Questions
Listen to find out how this little fella popped up in Sarah’s life this week.
Dimity and Sarah serve up answers to several questions related to long runs, including training v. racing pace; how much you can slack off during marathon training; alternative fuel sources; and how to talk back to that evil voice in your head that tells you to walk at the end of races. Dimity also recounts her recent return to the wonderful world of triathlon.
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Ironing It Out
Bring it! Or something like that.
I have a rule: I don’t do triathlons in Boulder. Boulder is full of athletes who intimidate me; they have 4% body fat and always seem to have a game-face and clock splits I couldn’t even dream of. Plus, most triathlon runs in Boulder are around the reservoir, where the lack of shade not only makes hot days scorchers, but leaves little to the imagination about how far you still have to go. (There are runners all the way over there? )
I made an exception, though, for the Athleta IronGirl. I know that women’s-only races are worlds apart from coed ones; the supportive, we’re-in-this-together atmosphere means people leave the ‘tudes at home and all sizes, shapes, and experience levels turn out. I love that. I wanted to start this year-long chapter of my triathlon life in a place I knew I wouldn’t–and couldn’t–psyche myself out. Plus, the sprint distance–1/4 mile swim; 17.2 mile bike; 3.1 mile run–was a perfect length to see where I was, fitness-wise, before I commit to the Harvest Moon half-Ironman in September.
As much I as I love the estrogen-scented vibe, I’m not a pre-race hanger-outer. I’d rather get there, get my number, use the bathroom, set up my transition area, and race. Which is what I pretty much did, except that I had about 40 minutes between when the transition area closed and my age-group wave (hello 40!) went off. I’m not a warmer-upper either, but I jumped in the water to see how my Zoot racewear would feel (and to, um, use the bathroom again); this swim, in 74 degree water, was my first open-water swim without a wet suit. I felt sleek and strong and comfy, so did about 20 strokes then hung out with Beth from Shut Up and Run on the beach for a bit.
Feeling bold, I centered myself at the front of the swim, knowing it would be over in a flash. I went out too hard, if there is such a thing in a sprint triathlon, and my body felt all tingly within a few strokes and I freaked a little bit. But I reminded myself there isn’t such a thing as pushing too much in a sprint tri, so I found my rhythm, and rounded the four buoys as quickly as my long limbs would carry me, which turned out to be a little over seven minutes. Sweet.
Transition one–or T1 in tri speak–from swim to bike was pretty smooth. Lyle, my two-wheeled Trek steed, is a little too tall to fit well on the rack, so it took a little maneuvering to get him him out, but once we hit the road, we were rolling. My one goal for this race was to see if I could average over 20 mph on Lyle; based on my training paces, I thought that would be a challenging but attainable goal. (And let’s be honest: lightweight, sleek Lyle basically gives me at least 2 mph of free speed.) I thought it would be, but wasn’t sure; I’m not a course studier either, so I didn’t know what I was up against, hill-wise.
Turns out, the hills weren’t bad at all. There was one slight climb for a few miles towards the beginning, but I put my bike computer on cadence and just concentrated on keeping my pedals turning quickly: I wanted 85-90 revolutions per minute, so I didn’t wear my legs out prematurely. Once we got over that climb, Lyle and I flew. Every time I passed somebody, I made sure to say, “Nice job,” and I got a few compliments back too. Love that too. We’re all pushed each other towards the finish line.
I’m not saying that doesn’t happen in co-ed races, but I’m never sure if the guy I’m passing in a tri would want me to say something, or if the fact that he’s “getting chicked” stings him so badly I’d just be adding hydrogen peroxide to the wound, so to speak. I realize that’s this imaginary male’s problem, and not mine, but it stresses me out enough in a co-ed tri that I usually keep my mouth closed unless I’m passing somebody who I sense is friendly.
I was the passer, not the passee, until about mile 16 when a woman with 41 on her calf whizzed by. “Look at this view,” she said, talking about the Flatirons ahead, “How lucky we are to be out here today.” I agreed, trying to put on a poker voice to show I wasn’t kinda pissed she was spoiling my no-pass record. Then I decided I would do my best to stay with her. (Yes, I’m all warm and fuzzy until I get passed.) She pulled ahead as we headed towards home, so I used the opportunity to switch my computer over to my average speed: 20.5 mph. Nailed it. Thankyouverymuch, Lyle and legs.
My shadow was the only shade my Altra kicks saw all morning.
Back in transition, I saw only 2 (!) bikes on our age-group rack, which meant I was in third place. Seriously? Third? I knew my run was my weakest link, so I took drastic measures: I decided to skip putting on socks and instead cranked my feet into my new Altra Instincts with super speedy BOA lacing. (This, by the way, is not recommended. My shoes were brand new and I’ve never run without socks. And, yes, I now have the blister to prove it.) I put on my badass mother runner hat, forgot to grab the water bottle off my bike I wanted to take with me, and off I went.
My goal on this leg: to not walk and hopefully hang onto third place. I’ve always said I survive the run in triathlons, and today was going to be no different. I saw my bike record spoiler/view admirer take off, and was glad I didn’t chase her down too hard on the bike, as she was definitely a faster runner than I’ve ever been. It was warm, but not as the last time I braved the rez three years ago, and I had two friends–Nancy Reinisch, a breast cancer survivor and the author of Chemosabee, and the great group of Tribellas–call me by name, which always puts a little spring in the step.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to hang onto a podium place. Right before Mile one, I was passed by a woman with a “44” on her leg. She was running so strong, I tried to convince myself she was on a relay team, but after a few steps, I realized there were no relays at this event. So there goes my podium. “Nice job,” I said as she ran by me, and meant it sincerely, even if I wished she weren’t beating me. Right after Mile 2, another 40-44’er steamed by me, and all I could say was the truth: “Great run.” I had a great run too–for me, anyway–finishing in 25:54.
Lyle and I are coming for you, Ironman. Get ready.
Regardless of missing a special medal, fifth in my age-group in Boulder (Boulder!) is not what I was expecting, so I’m definitely not complaining. I felt so solid and capable, and had such a ball, even on the hot, gravely run, when my left leg was whining and the sun was beating. The entire morning, I was reminded that triathlon is such a better sport for my strengths and my body.
I’ll always love you, running, but I’m gonna have a fling with triathlon over the next year, when I’m going to transform from IronGirl to IronWoman. I can’t wait.
Tell Me Tuesday: How To…
A) Make yourself feel nauseous for over a week after you hit “submit” button.
B) Wonder if you’re just a 40-year-old working mother of two disguised as a crazy lady with an endurance obsession. (Or maybe the two aren’t all that different.)
C) Follow a dream you’ve had for so long, you can’t remember when you didn’t have it.
D) Give yourself *plenty* of material to write about for the next year, plus many entries after that.
E) All of the above.
A screenshot after I plunked down $650 for the opportunity to swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, then run a marathon. I’m a real bargain hunter right?
I choose E.
Ironman Couer d’Alene–I’m gonna have to learn how to spell that off the top of my head–I’m coming for you. After I put in about a gazillion miles worth of training.
A Tale of Two Runs
I look happy because, at last, I had reached my parents’ house!
I just finished up Week 7 of the Marathon: Own It plan from Train Like a Mother: How to Get Across Any Finish Line – and Not Lose Your Family, Job, or Sanity
for an October 7 marathon, TBA. Somehow, in what seems like the blink of an eye, I’m now running up to 18 miles in one stint on the weekend, like I did on Saturday. Yet it was a 13-mile run two weeks ago that nearly did me in. Let me tell you about both long runs in an effort to share my lessons learned (which I’ll put in bold so ya don’t miss ’em).
I was in Connecticut, visiting my parents with my kids for our annual summer visit. The plan called for 13 miles, so off I went–despite it shaping up to be one of the hottest days of the year. I was still getting used to being three hours ahead of Oregon time, so I didn’t head out the door until about 7:30 or 8:00. (Head out early when forecast calls for hot temps.) I carried a single water bottle with me, laced with orange nuun; halfway through, I had some workmen refill it from a garden hose. (Carry more fluid, or stash bottles along the way.) In the shade, I felt decent; in direct sunlight, I was like a vampire, nearly bursting into flames. (Plan the shadiest route possible.) My willpower was flagging as quickly as my energy, and I did, for me, the unthinkable: I slowed to a walk several times. (When your body tells you to slow down or even walk, do it.) I scanned every yard and driveway, hoping for a sign of life so I could ask for more water. (Run at least part of your run past civilization or commerce.) By the time my mileage reached double-digits, I was getting concerned about heat exhaustion; if I’d had my iPhone instead of iPod, I would have called for a ride. (Carry your phone in iffy weather, if not all your runs.) There were no signs of human life…except for a half-full bottle of Poland Springs by the side of the road. Against my better judgment–but in desperation–I picked it up and poured a bit of the near-scorching water on my hand. It didn’t burn like acid, and it didn’t smell foul. So, yes, I did: I drink the found water. (Again, stash water bottles of your own along your planned route.) The fluid revived me, and allowed me to finish the 13 miles, but it was one of the ugliest runs I’ve ever done.
In contrast, Saturday’s 18-miler was a thing of beauty. We were visiting relatives on the Oregon coast for the weekend, and I set out before anyone else in the house was awake. The skies were overcast, and the temperature hung around 60 the entire three hours I was running. I was unfamiliar with the area, but my husband’s cousin had suggested I run south instead of north, thus avoiding monster climbs and more traffic. (Ask advice if you’re running in a new-for-you location.) I listened to several podcasts (including ours!) on my iPhone. I ran nine miles out, then turned around, fueling at miles 4, 8, 12, and 16 (figure out your fuel intake in advance–and stick to your plan). I drank nuun from my Amphipod belt, but when I spied a roadside cafe–and later a drive-up coffee cart–I stopped to drink more water. (Again, listen to your body and run by places where you can get assistance, if need be.) By Mile 13, instead of feeling like death warmed over as I had two weeks prior, I felt strong and in charge. There was no doubt in my mind I was going to finish this run in great shape; it was merely a matter of ticking off the miles.
When I finished, the phrase that kept running through my head was a line from a song my son made up at age 3 at a backyard party where a garage band was playing. “Rock star; princess. Rock star; princess.”
Whenever my hubby or I feel like a star, we sing John’s line, “Rock star; princess”