Running Into the Sun

I have a love/hate relationship with running.

I like the way I feel after I've done it but I don't really enjoy doing it.
I like the shoes but not the shorts.
I like that at a lot of races they hand out beer afterwards.

I fully understand the benefits of regular running, and I see how great my runner friends look, but I still struggle with motivating myself to do it.


When I got up this morning after sleeping in late, I opened up Facebook. The top-most post was a picture of four women who'd just completed a 5K run. Good grief, I thought, I've only made it downstairs and they've already competed in athletic pursuits. One of the women in the photo is a good friend of mine, let's call her Fancy.

Fancy has been through a lot health-wise, more than most women her age. And she's done it all while raising her young kids and maintaining a seriously busy career. She's the type of person who looks at the life cards she's dealt, plays them as best she can despite sometimes ominous odds, and impressively keeps winning the game.

Her most recent medical episode involved a pretty serious surgery, which went well. But during her recovery she developed pneumonia. And then a pulmonary embolism, which can be fatal if not caught and treated immediately. Because of this, Fancy suffered a pulmonary infarction: tissue death of a portion of her right lung. Through quick action and modern medicine, Fancy survived, and a mere two weeks later was able to throw her husband a big 40th birthday party. This lady doesn't slow down for nuthin'.

So when I saw her pictured at the finish line of a foot race, I was more than happy, more than impressed. I was motivated. If Fancy can do it six months after cheating death, with only 1-1/2 lungs...I can surely do it with two. Let's run!

From Jackson Browne's Running on Empty:

Everyone I know, everywhere I go
People need some reason to believe
I don't know about anyone but me
If it takes all night, that'll be all right
If I can get you to smile before I leave

Can an X Change Her Shape?

I’m not exactly what you’d call a fitness fanatic, but I do like to sweat on a fairly regular basis. With the added bonus of scoliosis (curvature of the spine) in my medical history, my reality is that consistent core-strengthening activity is the best way for me to stay pain-free and upright.

Since my spine is in an S-shape with a slight twist, my back muscles work in a constant dance of compensation for misalignment. My right shoulder drops lower than my left shoulder, my right hip sits higher than my left hip, and my waistline is uneven. It sounds worse than it feels. Until, of course, I get lazy and my back muscles get a little soft. So exercise I must. My back will never be straight, but it can be strong.

A few weeks ago I was overjoyed to discover that a new exercise studio was opening in my town. It’s called The Bar Method, and is a regimen of exercise geared toward sculpting and elongating muscles through the use of isometrics and deep stretching. The “bar” comes from the ballet barre, which is used for balance and support during some of the exercises and stretching. The method has its origins in ballet combined with rehabilitative therapy.

Before signing up for classes, I researched online for class reviews since Bar Method studios exist across the country. 99% of the reviews echoed the same sentiment: “My muscles were trembling after the first 5 minutes.”…“serious kicking of my muscles’ asses”…“your whole body feels like someone beat it with a stick.” Ahhh, sounds fun! I promptly signed up for a month’s worth of unlimited classes. I’ll go 5 days per week, I mused to myself.


Today was my first class. We started promptly at 9:30 with 40 standing leg lifts. Then push-ups. Then triceps work with 3-pound weights which were astonishingly heavy after 50 repetitions of the tiniest pulsations. That’s where this method gets you. Every movement is tiny but works the muscles to utter exhaustion (which is when the uncontrollable trembling surfaces).

Every exercise consists of tucking this, squeezing those, tilting this, and pressing that….60 times. Twenty-five minutes into class, I passed out. I felt all the blood drop out of my upper half so I promptly lowered myself to the softly carpeted floor, where I stayed for 10 minutes with a cool towel on my head, sipping juice brought to me by the instructor. This isn’t the first time I’ve had this reaction to intense exercise, so I was able to recognize it immediately and drop safely. I’ve learned the hard way not to ignore lightheadedness.

After I regained bloodflow to my noggin, I rejoined class and carried on through to the end of the longest hour of my life. Jelly-legged and out of breath, I walked to my car and quite literally plopped into it.

When I got home I tried to redo my ponytail, but couldn’t lift my arms high enough to do so. It wasn’t pain and it wasn’t soreness, but a complete lack of any strength.

I inhaled my lunch, and by 3:30 this afternoon I couldn’t fight napping any longer. I laid down on the couch and instantly fell asleep. I slept so hard that I dreamed about sleeping. When I woke up an hour later, my body felt like I had just disembarked from space flight and was still re-acclimating to gravity. Every limb felt like it was tied to the floor.

Now, twelve hours after class, my upper hamstrings are as tight as bowstrings. I cannot wait to go to bed. I am pooped.

I have committed myself to a full month of classes, and I intend to do at least three per week. Periodically I’ll post updates on how I’m doing and what results I’m getting from it. Changing the shape of an X isn’t easy, but I’m fighting middle age with every step.

We're The Class of '89

It was only a week or two ago that my husband and I had a conversation about our mutual concern for friends who maybe aren't taking as good care of themselves as they should be. We're in our late 30s and our friends are on both sides of 40; old enough to notice health effects of bad habits, but still young enough to make significant changes.

We talked about not knowing how to express our genuine concern without coming across as judgmental or trying to suck all the fun out of life. Nobody wants to be told they need to lose weight, to exercise, to stop smoking once and for all, to cut down the drinking. Nobody wants to admit they are a danger to themself.

Sadly, my doomsday fears were fully realized this afternoon when I learned that a high school classmate of mine died of a heart attack last night. He wasn't even 40 years old yet. I couldn't fathom that Generation X is already "there," in the Land of People Having Heart Attacks.

Ironically, my classmate WAS attempting to take care of himself; he suffered his heart attack while running. He'd been in the Navy since just after high school, so he was no stranger to physical conditioning. But it happened anyway. And now his wife has lost her best friend, his kids have lost their dad.

His friends from junior high are already rallying together, figuring out how to establish a scholarship in his name, planning a service at the veterans' memorial park in our hometown, determined to honor him properly by promoting organizations that had fostered him growing up.

We weren't close friends, I only knew him as the goofy guy who sat next to me in 9th grade biology class, the guy who thought the McKenzie Brothers were hilarious. But after reading post after post on his Facebook wall, tributes to friendship and expressions of admiration, I know that his goodness ran deep to his core, and his generosity reached far. "He cared more about the people around him than for himself," said one of his closest friends. "By living a selfless life, he left a legacy that we can all learn from."

Take care of yourselves, Xers. I mean REALLY take CARE of yourselves. Don't let fear keep you away from visiting a doctor. Don't keep turning your back on family trends in medical histories. Realize that there's no time like yesterday to get back on that exercise program. I don't want to read any more tributes. Not this year.