This Wednesday on my four mile morning double, I got to reminiscing on the days when that was it. That was my run for the day. There was no eight mile session on the underwater treadmill waiting for me later, and there was certainly no rehab with the athletic trainer. On a good day, if my high school coaches bribed me with donuts, I might just be persuaded to stick around and do five minutes of core. And it made me feel like such a badass. Four miles a day? Thirty miles a week? She's a whole fitness queen. When I got excused from class for the day due to a track meet and teachers would ask me how far I ran, my entire scrawny little fourteen-year-old body would positively glow with pride while telling them I was going to compete in the two mile and the mile this weekend. My coaches introduced me pretty early on to the idea that if I could get my lanky self around that four hundred meter oval fast enough, I might just luck out and get a college education out of the deal. Then my older teammates started running for universities and informed me that most collegiates ran eight to ten miles every day, and let me tell you, I was shook to my core. Eight to ten miles a day? At seven minute pace? Not for me, thanks. Freshman year of high school, the worst fear I had for my running career was shin splints, and on days when I forgot to pack my Nikes for practice, I would jog it out in my Puma fashion sneakers. I remember thinking that I could for sure make it in college off of thirty miles a week and natural talent because sixty miles a week was definitely too much to ask of any human body. Of course, to be fair, at that point in time I was still an angsty little barely-teen who would run a mile to Starbucks and split a vanilla bean Frappuccino with my friend Sarah or find a park to swing at on easy days, and my mindset towards running would be changed significantly over the next seven years.
Over the last year, I think to some extent, my mindset went too far in the other direction. After my injury, I worried that I couldn't possibly be doing enough to stay fit, and when I raced in the USU uniform again for the first time, it was like the confirmation that my anxious brain had been looking for. Ah-ha! It seemed to say to me. See, I told you! You really screwed up your training with this nonsense! Now you've gone and let down your team and your coaches and the entire running community thinks you're a has-been! The rest of the season, that little goblin crouched in my brain. Idiot, why would you think you're ready for this? would be smothered under false bravado, but the second it started to hurt during a race, my brain would bail on the whole project and leave my hurting body all on its own to deal with the next four kilometers. Rude. People often talk about getting through injuries and the months of cross training, but I was in no way prepared for getting through post-injury when your body is fit and fine, and your brain has forgotten that it's allowed to be on board with this whole running thing, even though it hurt you once. Silly brain, running isn't your ex-boyfriend and it's not going to forget your Christmas present or hit on your mother. This mindset hopped back on as soon as I raced the first time indoor. My performance in the 3k at the first UW meet was far from special-My first few weeks back training with the team after winter break were a little iffy due to quad tendinitis, so I got dropped and dropped hard in my very first indoor race since the 2017 season. Yikes. After what was deemed a not-even-mediocre performance at indoor conference that saw me run 17:45 for a 5k (BIG yikes!!!), my coaches and main gal Monique talked me into seeing a sports psychologist again because clearly my body is doing fine now, my brain is just being a huge a-hole. So, I paid a visit to Tammie before my outdoor season opener, and was instructed to pay attention to the mean stuff my brain was saying to me while I was running, then to write a love letter to my athlete self to read before and after my next race, and pick a "broken record" statement to repeat nonstop during my race every time my brain goblin tried to come knocking and inform me I was a has-been at the ripe old age of twenty-one. 16:32.85 is not a particularly significant 5k time-It won't even get me into the first rounds of the NCAAs. But what it represents is so much more than a decent 5k time for a collegiate. It represents the first time since I got a call during a cross training workout at the student gym here at USU informing me that I needed to come to the training room ASAP to discuss the results of the MRI on my back that I felt remotely like me. Racing was still scary, but the mantra of "tough b****" drowned out the scary this time. No, this race wasn't sensational. There was no surprise sixty-second personal best, but there was a very solid start to a season, and close to a PR for my season opener, which feels pretty good after a twelve month hiatus from feeling good, or even okay, about my running.
So, with my crazy brain in mind this week, I've been paying more attention to the things I tell myself when I'm out running. This Wednesday, at one point in time during that morning run, two college-aged guys in jogger sweatpants and bandanas gave me the ol' eyeball up-and-down, then proceded to start their run on the sidewalk in front of me. Lordisa almighty, give me the strength of mind and body that I suddenly find when some crusty looks me up and down then tries to school me in my own domain. Sis, I absolutely jetted out of there, and had a spring in my step for my final two miles that seems to be borne specifically to show up the boys. And boy oh boy, did that mindset take me back to the days when I was seven years old and would jog two miles in jeans and converse with my hair down loose and tangled up because I couldn't be bothered to put it in a ponytail for anybody. The days when I was a little chicken-legged eight year old kicking down all of the high school boys that I could at the local Fourth of July fun run 5k because my mom always promised me a dollar for every boy that I beat, and my boobs were (if you can believe it) smaller than they are now, but I would beg my older sister to let me race in her sports bra anyway because it made me feel like a Badass Strong Woman Warrior. Heaven knows that child had no fear, and on that Wednesday run, I couldn't stop thinking to myself, "Well, mama always says when you go home that you still look just like her messy-haired wild child kindergartener. Time to act like it, chicken legs. Don't tell me you lost your spunk when you got a little bit of a butt." So, when people ask me what my goals are this season, do yourselves a favor and don't ask me what time or place I'd like to run. I have not the slightest clue what numbers this season is going to hold. I just want to run with the attitude of elementary school Lys-She would be so mad if she could see the way my brain has let me ignore the fitness I have now in favor of being afraid of running fast, so for her sake, I'm going to start channeling that spirit again.
