Back in the saddle

I gingerly went back to running this week, and am happy to report that my most irrational fear -- a vivid imagining of my shin bone cracking and poking out through my skin (along with an affecting rescue operation led by William Baldwin and featuring a helicopter airlift) -- did not materialize.

On the first run I went very, very slowly and whined enough about some twinges and aches in my shins that Coach gave me a leg massage. It made me feel like some Olympic athlete with my own personal stable of expert personal assistants. I fully expected Bob Costas to pop out any moment for a behind-the-scenes interview in which I'd be humble about my athletic skills and stoic about my setbacks, yet inspirational in my dogged perseverance. (as an aside, this no-TV experiment makes for lots of fun daydreams!)

I also ran with the running club for the first time -- finally. There were maybe 30 people running that night, and everyone gathered beforehand to announce their route and plan (hills, speed, mileage) before breaking off into smaller groups. I paired up with two 53 y/o women and ended up doing a run/walk with them.

For now I'm happy slowing down my pace. I think pushing myself to go faster may have been what contributed to the shin splints. I realized I enjoy the run so much more emotionally when I slow down, and I'm willing to trade off speed improvements for a while if it means I can have more enjoyment from the exercise. I know there's a place for pushing oneself within exercise, but I don't seem to have found that balance quite yet.

Going slower seems to have an added benefit, though, in terms of speed. Around the second mile of each of these runs I felt a surge of energy and was able to speed up and maintain that speed until the end of the run. Maybe I'm the kind of runner who just needs to run slowly for a few miles as a warm-up (and I haven't previously been doing any kind of warm-up at all) and then work on a faster pace, instead of starting out fast from the gate.

So, happily, I enjoyed both of these runs. I was a bit gloomy and glum this week, making melodramatic pronouncements in my head about The End of Running as Megan Knows It. So, we'll see it how goes.

I'm going to try and log my exercise this week, such as it was, keeping in mind that my biking is done in traffic with speeds averaging 15mph, and with lots of stops and starts:

Monday: steps, per pedometer, approximately 9,000
Tuesday: biking (commuting, errands) 8 miles
Wednesday: biking, 12 miles; run, 42 minutes
Thursday: biking, 13.5 miles; run, 50 minutes

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This month is Hike and Bike Month. Last Friday, there was a bike rally with City and County employees downtown. This is the third year that I've participated, mostly because it means I get to go to work late. The rally conveniently starts a block from my apartment and then leisurely winds downtown with a police escort. We had maybe 50 people riding. I had to laugh because I was really impatient with the pace of the procession, and sped up to the very front to ride with the bike police. I felt quite smug, as if I were some sort of seasoned cyclist who, once the bike police saw my amazing ability to obey traffic lights and dodge potholes, would be offered a top position with the force immediately.

Every year there's a competition to see which City department can have the most representation, and every year the Public Works guys win, but they're fun to watch because they generally are a knot of beefy guys bent over too-small, rusted out BMX bikes, their knees practically coming up to their ears on each pedal stroke.

After the rally I ran some errands before going to work, and had to stop at the courthouse for a bit and chained my bike next to this one that's all tricked out lowrider style:

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Despite Tracy's very tempting suggestion that I steal the house numbers on my parent's house before they sell it forever, I finally decided to take some photos to document my childhood home for future generations and any possible biographers who may clammer to write my life story. While obsessively taking pictures of the laundry closet (a perfect hiding spot when playing hide-and-go-seek or to stash the Easter basket) or the attic door in the ceiling (at which I used to gaze at every night because for awhile I was the lucky kid who got to live a vampire existence in the partially converted, windowless garage), I found that I have the most nostalgia for this portion of my childhood home:

Countless times my mother and father and I sat out on that swing, talking in the evenings or weekend mornings: politics, religion, family problems and family history. My dad reading the newspaper or clinking ice cubes in a glass, my mom pushing the swing with one foot or telling me the newest thing she'd learned about bird behavior or plant biology. Or watching a progression of neighborhood kids play in the swimming pool. Or petting the dog's belly. Or making each other laugh like no one else I know can. And holding out until sunset before going inside.

I'm glad I realized that this is the spot for which I'll likely be most nostalgic. Because this is a spot I can recreate with my parents in their new home. This is a place that won't be frozen in time. It's a place that's not lost to me, and for that, I am grateful (though, I will miss the pool.)