Sound of Music

I don't wear headphones when I run. I don't even have an iPod. Because I run just as the sun is getting out (and, now that fall is here, before the sun is even peaking over the horizon), I like to make sure that all my faculties are available so that I don't get hit by a car (especially those super-quiet Priuses). I also don't want to get mugged (though I highly doubt muggers are up and lurking about at 6am).

This means that the music that accompanies those strides of mine is whatever goes through my head. Lately, I've been singing The Rentals' "Friend of P" and Nick Cave and the Bad Seed's "Dig, Lazarus, Dig." I haven't heard that Rentals song in ages and I don't know how it got stuck in my head. Because I only know the chorus, those few lines repeat non-stop only to be interrupted by Nick Cave. I'm not a fan of Nick Cave, have none of his music, and can't even say what songs are Nick Cave's, other than "Dig, Lazarus, Dig." But, I heard the song on the radio the other day. Because the chorus is so catchy, I can't stop singing it.

As my feet pound the cement, the words of these two songs pound the inside of my head. And, it gets tiring and obnoxious, especially that Nick Cave one. I try to think of other catchy songs to sing over these two, but nothing sticks. Nick Cave and The Rentals always win.

But, today, I was singing Stevie Wonder's "Part-Time Lover."

Signs

After being worried about my half-marathon goal yesterday and feeling like I'm setting myself up for failure trying to attempt something so difficult, I got two random signs urging me on.

The first was the Competitor magazine I found on my table at the Rubio's at Serramonte Mall. I was having a late lunch after a work conference and sat at a table with this magazine on it. I had no idea what Competitor magazine was, but it had a picture of a woman running on the cover and it was their special marathon edition. While munching on fish tacos, I read about a man running his first marathon in San Francisco.

The second came when I was getting out of my car. As I was grabbing my copy of the Guardian, a postcard fell out. One side was black and white picture of a woman doing a push-up in front of the Conservatory of Flowers. The other side had information about Boot Camp San Francisco.

I'm not superstitious, but it is at least a coincidence that these things just came my way the moment I started doubting my fitness plans. In a nod to The Secret, I have displayed the postcard on my bookshelf, where I see it every time I reach for my keys.

Resistance

I bought a resistance cord several weeks ago and it has just been sitting in its package, unopened, on my desk until last night. I thought it would help me build and tone my muscles, and that it would be a very practical way to get a workout while I'm ever away (it's ridiculously light and takes up almost no space at all, compared to my free weights).

Last night, after a day at work and a walk home from work, I decided to tear into the plastic and see what this cord was all about. I changed into my exercise clothes and running shoes, even though I would just be standing on the rug in my living room, and turned on the workout DVD that came with the cord.

It looked scary. This bald man with bulging muscles the size of my head was doing squats and crunches, all while looking very serious and intimidating. This was not what I imagined when I bought that purple cord from REI. I hit play and it turned out that his muscle man, Charles Shand, had a pleasant, soothing voice and was telling me about how great it was that I was taking care of my body and how, if I was just beginning, I should start slowly and at my own pace. Okay, not so scary after all.

And, as a beginner with the lightest resistance band, I would follow Jim, a gray-haired, pot-bellied man, in the video, rather the the body-builder Charles or the incredibly fit woman using the medium resistance band. I could easily follow along with Jim--I have no pot-belly, I'm young, and I've been exercising regularly for the last several months. No sweat.

Or, so I thought. I started doing the exercises, following Jim's movements as best I could. I felt awkward trying to do the exercises but I figured it was my first time and I just needed to get used to it. I pulled the cord across my chest as I did squats. I pulled the cord across my chest again as I stepped to the side. I stepped on the cord with both feet and did bicep curls but could barely get my arm to bend all the way to my body. I started to sweat. Jim did another arm stretch with the band, where his arms reached the top of his head. I could barely get my arms and the band up past my hips. My arms were getting tired too. This was not as easy as I thought. I was being defeated by a pudgy, schlumpy, old man on a DVD.

I half-heartedly finished the routine. Was all those months of exercise and free weights doing nothing to build muscle strength in me? Am I doing something wrong with the cord? I had no clue. I changed out of my exercise clothes and ate dinner.

The Long Run

I've told so many people that I'm planning on running San Francisco's half marathon next year that I can't back out of it. Sure, I have almost a year to prepare, but I'm wondering if I'm in over my head. 13 miles is a long way to run. How am I, someone who has never been a runner before and who gets winded running across the street, going to keep my feet moving one in front of the other for 13 miles.

I started getting a little scared yesterday when I was on the San Francisco Marathon website. I was reading about the course (which actually seems really awesome to run across the Golden Gate Bridge and through Golden Gate Park), how many first-time marathoners there are, and how last year about 17,000 people ran the race.

The part that got me nervous was the time limit. If I run the first half of the marathon, I need to be able to finish in three hours; if I run the second, three and a half hours. I didn't even think about a time limit and what would happen if I couldn't finish in the time allotted. I just thought I would run until I finished. But, with a three hour limit, I need to run each mile in about 13 minutes. Yes, it's not impossible and many people can do it, I just question if I'm one of those people.

New Orleans Nervousness

I'm going to New Orleans for several days in November to visit Sara. I'm excited. I've never been before and hear it's amazing. But, I'm also nervous. As I was chatting with Scott (who will be going to New Orleans for a Halloween wedding) last night, I realized that I might be overcome by the urge to eat and drink everything in sight and just have several days of decadence--stuffing my face with po' boys, beignets, jambalaya, gumbo, fried oysters! I'm salivating already.

There's no way I'm going to New Orleans and not going to have a good time, and eating and drinking is just part of the fun. What it means though is that I need to work out extra hard from now until then.

Hike

Kristin is an avid hiker and she has invited me to join her on numerous occassions. But, for whatever reason, I'm never available when she wants to go. So, this time, I asked her to join me on a hike, even though she chose our location and drove us there.

I've gone hiking before plenty of times but want to do it more often. Not only is it a good way to get in some exercise but it's also nice to be outdoors and appreciate all the nature-y goodness the Bay Area has to offer. Plus, I can do it with other people and not be embarassed, as I am when I run.

Packing my lunch (peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat bread, carrot sticks, an apple, and two Larabars) and water was easy. Getting dressed was more difficult. What would be appropriate for a hike? Kristin advised that I should dress in layers. I could do that. I pulled out some t-shirts, some long-sleeved shirts, and a hoodie. I tried on multiple shirts before I found the right combination of short-sleeved and long-sleeved ones that would look okay with my hoodies, jeans, and gleaming white running shoes (the only pair of athletic footwear that I have).

Kristin was very patient and understanding when we decided on where we would go. How long did I want to hike for? Did I want something easy or hard? She didn't want to wear my out and scare me on our fist hike together. We decided we would go to Mt. Tamalpais and do a two to three hour loop. Off we went.

We got to Mt. Tam, parked the car, and started in to the park. It was foggy--at some points we couldn't see what was ahead of us--but nice. The greens of the trees and bushes were vibrant. And, even after a little bit of rain the night before, the trails weren't muddy. Kristin, once again, said that we could take a different route if we wanted; meaning if I got tired and wanted something easier we could do that. It was great to have someone looking out for me. But, I wanted to keep going. I wanted the longer route. I told her I didn't want the mountain to defeat me and was looking for something challenging enough to be fun but that wouldn't kill me. So, we kept going.

We took a wrong turn at one point and had to back track. I had to cross a precarious looking ledge and Kristin was patient with my unease. Some parts were so long and steep that I had to take a break in between. I could hear my breath growing more and more labored and could feel the sweat dripping down my face and pooling up under my arms, on my back, and in between my breasts (I should have worn my sports bra). But, with a little rest and some water, I was ready to go again.

We kept going and going, and finally we were reaching the end--only 1.2 miles left to the parking lot. The final stretch of the hike was all slightly downhill, which was nice. After climbing up for so long and my thighs starting to ache, an easy downhill walk felt so good. My legs were happy. With the parking lot in clear view, I felt accomplished and satisfied and tired, but in a good way. I don't know how far we hiked but we were walking for about four hours at a fairly fast pace. I asked Kristin how this hike compared to the ones she usually goes on, and she said that it was on the more difficult side and that she wouldn't take novices on it. Yes! I am becoming a hiker too!

Morning Routine

I've been running along the same route at about the same time several days a week for the past few weeks. Today, I realized how I am not the only person in my neighborhood who does the same thing at the same time over and over again early in the morning.

As I ran along my neighborhood, I saw the Asian man and his teen aged son waiting on the street in front of the housing complex again. I don't know who or what they're waiting for or how long they wait. Today, though, was different. It looked like the man and his son were talking to each other on their cellphones. They were standing about ten feet apart from each other, both with their cellphones to their ears, and both smiling and chatting. They weren't speaking in English but some Asian language I didn't know. Maybe they weren't speaking to each other. But, I couldn't figure out who else would they speaking to at 6:20 in the morning.

As I jogged a little further, I caught up with the woman who wears way too much perfume. I catch up with her at the same street corner each time. She's probably on her way to work. When I approach, I can smell her. She smells like those lotions you buy at the Bath and Body Works at the mall--the ones that smell like country apple or peach or who knows what. It, and she, smells too sickly sweet, and it makes me want to vomit. I don't vomit though. Instead, I jog by a little more quickly.

My favorite part of my morning jog though is when I'm on my way back home and walk past the assisted living center for seniors. The lobby is always well lit and there's always activity. Through the windows, I can see the television turned on to the morning news. And, in front of the television are some of the residents, sitting in the wheelchairs, nodding off.

Training Tips

As a college counselor, I talk to countless high school students. Mostly, we chat about their educational goals, where they would like to go to school, and what they have to do to get there. Sometimes, we veer off topic. We'll chat about movies, music, books, Barack Obama, burritos.

Today, a student came in to my office, sat in the chair for students at the edge of my desk, and just started chatting with me. I helped him sign up for his SAT just a few days ago, and I thought he wanted to ask me more questions about the test, but he didn't. Instead, we talked about track. He saw the pennant of Fresno State University pinned to my office wall and said that's where he wants to go because they have a great track team. In 2012, he wants to be in London, competing in the Olympics.

After chatting about Usain Bolt, his mom being a track star in the Philippines, and how he's one of the fastest sprinters at school, he asked me what I did, as in what I do to workout. This was the first time anyone asked me what I do to workout, and I was a little surprised. "I run," I said. And, when I said it, it felt good and true. I do run. I am a runner.

I told him that I'm not a sprinter though, and that I want to run the half marathon next August. He looked at me as if I was crazy. He said he could never run that far, and that his body was built to be fast. Since I had him, someone with Olympic aspirations and the possible skill to get there, in my office, I asked him about his training routine and how I could build stronger leg muscles, hoping that I could incorporate some of his exercises into my workout routine.

Soon, he was standing up in the middle of my office demonstrating lunges, kicks, squats, and proper arm swing. He derided all the people who believe that running is a sport just for your legs and stressed the importance of a strong core and arm muscles (I agreed with him and tried showing off my knowledge by saying how I've started doing yoga and do free weights). He also told me that I should eat bananas because of their potassium and that I should drink plenty of water (he started to sound like my mom).

Weighing In

I bought a bathroom scale a few months ago. I used to hate being weighed. As a chubby adolescent, I was forced to step on my family's bathroom scale in our living room with all my family watching how far the scale tipped. My mom would be surprised that a twelve year old weighed that much (apparently, the fact that I was just a touch shy of six feet tall didn't matter) and would tell me that I needed to diet.

Now, having grown out of the pained adolescent stage, I am no longer on the verge of tears when I step on my bathroom scale. I bought it to see how more fit and less fat I was becoming. I had an idea of what I weighed and where I wanted to be in terms of pounds, but didn't have any real way of measuring it. At first, I was nervous that weighing myself would feel like punishment, that I would feel guilty and embarassed at how much I weighed. But as I've seen improvements, stepping on that scale motivates me and makes me feel accountable to something, even if it is an inch-think square of metal with a digital display.

I've gotten into the habit of weighing myself almost every day and always right after I shower and dry my hair in the mornings (I think wet hair will throw off the reading). I don't think I'm obsessing about my weight, rather, that I want to make sure I'm sticking to my goals and need a way to measure that objectively. Sure, I can see that my pants are hanging a little lower and that I'm starting to notice a tiny bicep form, but that scale gives me a number, something that I can log and remember and compare. And, I understand that even though that number may change from one day to the next, it's not necessarily because I've gotten fatter by three pounds over the course of one day but that weight fluctuates from hour to hour, based on how much I've eaten, when I ate, how much water I've drank, and number of other factors.

This morning when I got on that scale, it read 163.8, the lowest it's been since I started weighing myself. I'm getting closer to reaching my Body Mass Index goal of 21 (for someone my height of 5'11" the matching weight is 150 pounds). But, I'm still a long way away from my half-marathon goal. I'm getting there though, slowly but surely.

Up and Running, Again

After three weeks of not running, I started up again last week and it felt good. Sure, I still can't run half a mile without needing a break (I have a long, long way to go before I reach half-marathon potential) but I'm seeing improvements.

This morning, I took a different running route. For the last several months, I've been running up to and around the Panhandle. But, as the sun is rising later and later, it's been getting darker and darker when I wake up a little before 6am to go exercise. This morning, rather than run around the poorly lit and wet Panhandle, I headed north toward Japantown, along the route I took when I first started running in January (I wasn't so good at sticking to my new year's resolution then but am much more motivated about it now).

I remember being able only to run a block and a half before getting winded and feeling like throwing up. Now, I can easily run that block and half, and went on passed it. And, the only reason why I felt like retching this morning was at the stench of rotten garbage. I did my old loop once and went around to do another half loop. As I walked up the little hill back to my house, I decided that, as fall approaches, I'll give up my Panhandle run for this Japantown one and that I must remember to write my name and contact info in my shoes, in case something happens to me as I run in the dark mornings through Western Addition.

Chinatown Ping Pong

After months and months of saying that we would go, Colin and I finally made our way over to Oakland's Chinatown for Ping Pong Thursday at the neighborhood rec center. I was a little nervous. I thought I would be the laughing stock of the rec center, that all the old Chinese men would want to disown me as one of their own race for not being able to swat that little ball like a badass.

When we got there, the place smelled of pizza. There were eight tables set up and six were taken by older people, mostly men and mostly Asian. There was one other woman, a Cantonese-speaking lady the age of my mom, there. Colin and I chose the table closest to the wall and the most out of view of all the other players. I pulled out my paddles from my bag and a little orange ball (five out of the six other tables of players were also playing with orange balls).

We started to play. Leisurely at first, chit-chatting along the way. I started to sweat and could feel my glasses slipping down my nose. Colin was making me run from one edge of the table to the other, as he was swatting the ball to opposite corners. I lunged and stretched to reach them. He also was hitting low and hard, so that I was at least three feet away from the edge of the table trying to return his hits. I felt like I was starting to look like the other players there and a little like Forrest Gump but not nearly as good a player.

We were getting better and taking more risks. Then, we started to get sloppy. My legs were getting tired. My armpits were sweaty. My balls kept missing the table and would bounce toward the little barriers set up to prevent renegade balls from travelling too far. I couldn't return his serves. We had been playing for an hour and a half and we were getting tired. It was time to call it quits.

I never guessed that ping pong could be so exhausting. But, looking at the other sets of players on that gym floor and all the sweat that soaked their shirts, they certainly knew how much of a workout it could be.

As Colin and I walked out of the rec center on our way to dinner (of burgers and beer), Colin saw a sign: in honor of the Olympics, ping pong would be held on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays nights (rather than just Thursdays) and free for the entire month of September. We would be back for three nights next week.

Home

I went home to Los Angeles over Labor Day weekend. It was an extended trip, Thursday to Monday, and Karen and Woody flew in from New York. It was Woody's first time meeting our family, and he arranged a ping pong tournament (complete with tee-shirts and a trophy) at our parents' house for the occassion.

I knew that going home might bust my more fit, less fat plan. There's something about LA that sucks the energy out of me. Maybe it's the heat or the fact that my parents have taken to pampering us now that we no longer live in their house, and all I want to do when I'm home in LA is sleep and eat--a bad combination for trying to get more healthy. And, there's always food at my parents' house. Tons of it and my mom makes sure that we eat it.

On this visit, I also knew not to pack my running shoes. When I went back for July 4th, I had optimistically lugged my shoes with me, hoping that I would be able to work in my workout routine during my stay. But, of course, I didn't. So, rather than pack shoes knowing that I wouldn't use them, I decided to leave the shoes in San Francisco. I wouldn't run. I wouldn't exercise. I would let myself eat and sleep and enjoy a little rest.