Week One Confessional

Forgive me, blog, for I have sinned. This is my first confession.

I didn't run five miles on Sunday, as planned. I could give you excuses -- it was hot, my family was in town, I had a ceremony to attend -- but I'll be honest: I could have made it happen. I could have chugged some water, tied my laces, and gone for an evening run along Lake Shore, after the ceremony was over and everyone had left. But I didn't.

I feel despondent when I fail to reach a goal, especially one as simple as following a schedule. I mean, it shouldn't be that hard. That's one of the reasons I wanted to train for a marathon -- the schedule is a cinch, well-vetted by others, tried and true. But it's hard. It's hard to work out six days a week, even if I've been doing nearly that for three years. It's a matter of shifting mindset from "working out for fun/fitness" to "training for an athletic event." It requires more physical exertion, sure, but the bigger challenge is mental.

This is why people at all levels hire personal trainers. With a trainer, there's someone there to gently suggest exercises (or to flat-out yell) throughout your workout, no matter your mental state. A trained eye can see when you're not trying, when you're holding back, and when you start to give up, and they push you. My trainer and friend Nikki knows before I've even raised my arm that I'm going to half-ass it, and so she teases my efforts until I strain, grunting and sweating, completing more push-ups and sit-ups and planks than I knew I could. She sees what I'm capable of and she forces me to achieve it. It's maddening in the moment but satisfying afterward, when you know you've done something better, faster, farther than you had before. But I have trouble recreating my efforts outside her watchful gaze. It's difficult to push yourself to the point of exhaustion on pure grit.

Some people are natural athletes who can recreate this push without outside reinforcement. They find it within themselves to pedal until their legs burn, to stroke until they've swum the channel, to run until their ankles turn to jelly. In my better moments, I am a member of that group. I reach a comfortable cruising speed, and when I realize I'm not breathing as hard as I could be, that my body is adapting to the plateau, I go faster. It's a literal burst of speed, and I'm tickled when it happens because it's evidence of not only my body but also my mind getting sharper.

But just as often, I fail to kick up to that gear. I phone it in. I complete the mileage or the sets, and then I go home and eat cookies. Those are the moments when I realize the importance of outside motivation. Maybe world-class runners are always giddy to sprint solo out the gate, but I'd bet you a five-pound dumbbell that there are days when even Olympic athletes would rather sit on the couch eating potato chips and watching Full House. We're all human.

So the solution, in my mind, is to be aware of how my emotions are affecting my will to train. I strive to be better at taking care of business on my own, and in conjunction I will continue to rely on the support network I've developed, the people whose gaze makes me stand straighter and complain less -- trainers, running partners, running groups.

That last one, the running group, is new to me; in fact, my first official group training run with the Chicago Area Runners Association (CARA) was this past Saturday. It was fun: The group leaders had us run in pairs, in two parallel lines, so as not to block the path, and we ran at constant timed pace, so I didn't have to think about it. It was like being a cog in the machine, putting one foot in front of the other, occasionally exchanging quips and "hoo-rahs" with my fellow runners, but otherwise not thinking very much. It was a relief to hand the responsibility to someone else and just focus on moving.

I'm still new to the club, but CARA is its own established community. People know each other from previous races, and there's even a lingo -- "Good morning, CARA!" is a popular early morning greeting along the Lake Shore path, as if "Cara" is a name and we all share it. It's a bit cult-ish, but given my years in a university marching band, I think I'll fit right in. And I'll take any help I can get when it comes to sticking to my training schedule, because the best thing you can do to exercise more/better is to find someone who will keep you honest. No excuses should be tolerated, period.

Except excuses that involve cookies. Or Full House.