Long overdue, I finally read Christopher McDougall’s Born to Run a few weeks ago (well I listened to it because Audible is the s***) and I loved everything about the book. I can’t believe I waited so long to finally pick it up. Recommend to all – especially fellow runners/triathletes looking for some extra literary motivation to get through the back end of race season! (Or to anyone mulling over your next athletic footwear purchase…)

Of course the events described and the cast of characters are fascinating, but I especially loved the evolutionary biology discussed in the book, and the hypothesis that we picked our knuckles up off the ground because we wanted more oxygen to enable humans to evolve into endurance athletes. We succeeded as a species where stronger and faster (and potentially smarter) relatives like the neanderthals did not, because, of all the crazy things, we could run forever.

As McDougall explored our running-enabling physiology including the shapes of our feet, our sweat cooling systems, our achilles tendons, glutes that won’t quit (I especially thank my Italian side for that one) and the nuchal ligaments we share with dogs and horses but not other primates, I felt bizarrely proud to be human. (Definitely not always the case these days…)  Reading about (listening to) this evolution that makes us uniquely situated to run long distances has become an inspiring addition to my training regimen since I picked up the book.  Who am I to deny my evolutionary destiny and the millions of years my ancestors put in making me the athlete I am (or at least could maybe be) today (or perhaps tomorrow? next season?)?

As a side benefit, and I’m sure other swimmer/biker/runners will relate to this, it’s nice to have a rebuke based in scientific theory, to those folks who are made uncomfortable by our commitment to endurance sports and who try to tear you down by saying, ‘oh well, you know running is so bad for your knees’ or ‘it’s not actually good for your body to go that long and be pushed that hard’. I know that the (MANY) people who say these asinine things to me are threatened and really trying to excuse their own laziness, but it still drives me crazy every time. Usually when someone tries to suggest that triathlons are probably making me unhealthy I point out that my blood pressure is 90/60, my resting heart rate is 42, my LDL is way under 100 and my HDL is more than twice where it needs to be to be protective against heart disease. In sum, I’m pretty effing healthy #thanksomuchforyourfalseconcern. (Can you tell how much these statements irk me??) Next time someone tries to tell me how bad my running is for me, rather than harangue about my own health stats, I think it may be more effective to say, actually, we were born and built to do these things. (So stop worrying about me and get your ass moving! [And put down the g-d snickers!])

* End rant. *

Part and parcel to our endurance-honed anatomy, running was and is a communal activity, likely to have been historically shared by men, women, young, and old. And while most of us no longer run hours on end in pursuit of a meal these days – although you could argue that a lot of us run to justify brunch ( * slowly raises hand * ) – the fact that we still love to get together in huge groups to tackle  miles and miles is not actually as weird as those couch potato friends might think – it may be built into our DNA. (I make this point [or echo McDougall’s] while still recognizing that sometimes running [and swimming and biking] is pretty terrible, and there have been many moments in training and racing where I have had to seriously question whether I actually like this hobby or not.)

Inevitable low moments aside, this morning I had the great pleasure of experiencing an unexpected, inspirational moment (or 51 moments more accurately) of community as I put in 10k around Central Park.

Scott and I were in New York with my folks for a theatre weekend. (In other news, omf*** everyone needs to take out a second mortgage or harvest your organs [you do not need two kidneys c’mon] and get yourself some Hamilton tickets, because that is the best thing that’s ever happened on a stage anywhere ever I mean it.) Aaaanywho, yesterday (Saturday) morning the struggle bus ran me down and then backed up and ran over me again, and then rolled forward back over my shredded glutes and legs and basically I was a holy terror when I woke up confronted with the prospect of a run. Dunno why, just was.

At a moment when I was definitely looking for someone to collude in my excuse-making, Scott, the hubster, asked me point blank if I could afford to skip a run at this point in the season.

UGH. NO. OBVIOUSLY I CAN’T. JEEEEEZ.

With my queue of excuses rendered instantly impotent, Scott offered to come run with me. Normally I run solo, seeking the meditative effects of an hour or two alone with the road, my thoughts, and the latest Pitbull turned up to 11. Ya know, basically the definition of restorative peace ad quiet. (Does that description illuminate my personality to sufficiently explain why I don’t do yoga?) My usual desire for solitude notwithstanding,  some run-company (runpany?) actually sounded good. I’d bitched and moaned for so long that we only had time to get in 4 miles, and it was a hot and sweaty and kind of miserable half hour in Central Park, but we got through it and of course were both happier for having done so. Scott had never been running in the Park and of course thought it was a great place to workout, so we agreed to run again today (Sunday) before heading back to DC.

A few hours after the entire hotel was woken up by multiple 5am fire alarms, Scott and I hit the asphalt again. This time we decided to do the whole Park loop – which is almost exactly 10k. Sorry, I misspoke. This time I decided to do the whole 10k loop, and didn’t tell my darling sweet perfect man until we were at the very northernmost (aka farthest-away-from-the-hotel) part of the loop heading into mile 4 and about to hit the worst hill of the day. Scott is insanely athletic, but hasn’t been running much this summer, so he wasn’t suuuuuper happy with me at that point. But we slowed down a touch and he pushed through like a champ, (or I dunno, like someone whose body has evolved over millennia into a running machine???) rocking 10K in about 8:15/mile despite the hills, heat, and lack of training. So there’s exhibit A of community and support. But of course he is now contractually obligated to support me in sickness and in health and in marathon training. (Especially if he wants to get his hands on the Italian glutes I mentioned earlier!)

Communal endurance sporting exhibit B was your classic kindness-of-strangers situation – or I guess kindness-of-volunteers more accurately. As we fell into pace with the weekend throng of Park runners, there were New York Road Runners (NYRR) volunteers cheering everyone on. About a mile in we came to a misting and water station manned by even more volunteers, and I realized Scott and I had found ourselves in the middle of an organized training run.

I joined the NYRR club when I registered for the NYC Marathon, so I gladly and guiltlessly took advantage of the water stations along the loops. The unexpected morale and hydration support made our run so much happier and healthier, and even a little bit emotional. So many people were out pushing themselves running. And so many people were out lending their own voices and energy to motivate total strangers. People sacrificing their Sunday mornings to make themselves and each other better. That’s pretty powerful, at least I think so. Maybe I was just feeling extra emo and vulnerable after a weekend of exceptional theatre (in news related to my earlier parenthetical, Fun Home will break your heart in a million zillion billion pieces, and you will be so glad it did! Go see it!) but as I silently thanked each and every volunteer and fellow runner, and reflected on a damn good book, I felt like I was part of something bigger, more important, and more primal than myself. It took a million years to get here and I will not waste it.

Today was a good day. Today, I made progress – progress that I could feel. Every ride, run, swim is presumably running biking swimming me closer to my goals, but some days that progress is tangible and cheesily enthralling.

I woke up sore from a tough week and rode to [solidcore] where class was hard as hell but fun as hell too when I was pleasantly surprised that a bunch of workout besties were also taking class. My legs felt like spent cement even before our hamstring, glutes, and adductor sets sought to break my poor rubber-muscles down fiber by fiber. Climbing back on Koopa Troop for the mile back home after class, I could barely lift my leg over the 44 frame (yeah you read that right). It was GORGEOUS out though, and as I pedaled, the beauty of the day overshadowed (oversunned?) the lactic acid flooding my dead tired legs.

The sensations of the still-early sun, the mostly-clear streets, the satisfaction of an ass-kicking work-out, my loose shorts and tank blowing in a slight breeze, and the confidence gleaned from having put in the miles this summer combined into a little mid-morning euphoria. I realized, holy shit, I’m enjoying being on my bike. In the city. I don’t feel scared. I’m not death-gripping the handle bars. And I actually want to stay out here and ride further than just the mile and change home.

So that’s what I did.

I threw in a few extra turns and miles and took my time getting back. I walked into the apartment in a great mood, encouraged that I could actually feel and witness the progress I’m making.

Scott went and got us some Sbux egg sandwiches to celebrate (I’m a yuppie and I’m not ashamed.  [And if that’s a surprise to you dear reader, might I remind you that this is a blog about triathlons.  Yuppiedom pretty well assured by the subject-matter.]) After a few hours packing (ugh, moving. [Anybody want to buy a one-bedroom condo in Logan Circle DC???]) and lazing, I loaded Koopa Troop into Yoshi and headed to Hains Point to pedal out a few more miles.

My legs felt like lead and lactic build-up, so I decided to just do a few slow and easy laps to spin them out and at least put in more time in the saddle. It’s the only way to build the confidence and the handling skills.

At a slow clip, as I headed into my second lap I reached out to the end of my right aero and shifted into a higher gear for a little more work. As I did so, I let my arm hover over the shifter a minute, and, letting the good day motivate me on, dropped it down onto the aero bar.

As soon as I dropped my elbow onto the armrest, I felt a wave of hot/cold panic sweep over and under my skin. The prickly tingly fear that tries like hell to take over your thoughts and motor skills has become all-too familiar. I forced myself to remain in place, and recited the mantra I’d worked out before NYC Tri with Ellen: “Calm the fuck down, Liz.”

Seriously, that’s it. Calm the fuck down, Liz. And it works! It’s great. I repeated it out loud a few times, and as I did, the cold sweat and nausea subsided. I forced myself to breath, and told myself I was doing great. And I managed to hang on and hang out there on that aero, growing calmer over the course of a couple miles.

I didn’t work up the courage today to move the left arm to join my right, so I’m sure I looked like a clown biking around the Point in a half dynamic position. But I didn’t care. This was real progress. First the rediscovered joy and extended commute of the morning, and now this tangible move in the right direction.

I practiced moving my right arm on and off the aero bar a few times, and then spun out an easy couple miles to finish. As I strapped KT back onto my bike rack and maneuvered Yoshi through the tourist-clogged DC streets home, I felt so proud and so hopeful. I’ve still got a long way to go, (and there is no there there?) but at least I’m starting to see the distance I’ve already covered.