When I broke up with running

The longest relationship I've ever been in has been with running. It has been a constant, my rock, since sophomore year in high school. That's 18 years of investing myself fairly consistently in one thing. Through college, moves across the world, homecomings, and lapses in training or racing, running has been by my side. Always. It will never cheat on you. It will never leave you. Like a relationship, you fall in and out of love with the sport. Life happens, your focus shifts, but you remember how much joy it brought you every day and you ultimately come back to it. Because it's still there, waiting for you.

When I decided to make running part of my lifestyle as an adult, it was a choice to invest my time in something I believed in. Personal improvement. Making my coach proud. Contributing to a team. It was a way to define myself outside of just the insanity and grind of the school year. If you asked me in that glorious 5k PR year of 2015: "Who are you?" I'd answer: "I'm a runner. I'm a teacher." There's a certain amount of pride in being able to say that. But the first part's dim now--a sepia-toned, dusty, faded sense of being. It's heartbreaking, because saying that I'm a runner, something I've identified with for so long...at this point doesn't feel entirely honest. 

So you've come to the conclusion by now, that running and I have been going through a rough patch lately. My average weekly mileage over the last 2 months has been under 15. My workouts have been non-existent, and my will to train-to-race has been AWOL for probably 2 years. I've thought a lot about this. 1. Where did my drive go? 2. Why is it so hard to get back to that glorious year of PRs and feeling strong and sharp on race day? 3. What makes a runner? I'm still not sure how to answer these questions, but I do think I've come to some realizations that I'm going to ramble about over the next few paragraphs.

Ramble #1: 

Running competitively is an incredibly intense sport. The physical training is manageable. The hardest part is maintaining the mental acuity and emotional capacity to step up to the start line and trust yourself until you cross the finish. 

That's it, the emotional capacity. Many people often say running is a "mental" sport, which is very true. But I don't think many people understand how emotional it can be as well. When you get to the start, your is heart fluttering, your legs are tense, you hold your breath with anticipation. You're putting a lot of faith into your race. And you keep in the back of your mind that failure is possible, but it doesn't make you. You learn to accept it, work harder, move forward. 

This wouldn't be possible without the emotional capacity to deal with potential failure and give full, honest faith to your training.

Conclusions from Ramble #1

So maybe that explains questions 1 and 2 above. As you probably know from the last post, 2016 was a shit year. I was emotionally depleted, went through bouts of depression, and it took a long time to refill the so-called "emotional cup." But I was determined to not let it take away from my running. I threw myself into my team. I ran the workouts. I volunteered to coordinate key events. But racing in 2017...it was half-hearted. I may have barely made my 5-race requirement. I had one encouraging XC race at China Camp (probably fueled by the beer kegs at the finish and a 4th beer mug to round out my collection)..but that was pretty much it. It's almost as if I slapped on a "I'm fine” runner face but I knew it wasn’t true. It was one of those breakups. The kind that slowly creeps up and before you know it, you don't know why you're in it anymore. Denial is a sneaky bitch. 

Not having the emotional capacity to face failure is real.

2018 fizzled into 0 competitive races and I found myself giving zero fucks about core work and consistent workouts, much less racing to PR. 

Ramble #2 and Conclusions

So here I am. 2019. After the longest dry period of running since post-high-school. And I don't have goals. I don't know if I want to be on a team. I don't do PT. I don't do core work (I do 6 packs and Manhattans). I don't stretch. But I want to get back to it. I still want to make my coach proud. I want to be sharp again. Does that still make me a runner? I think I know the answer.

Oh les beaux jours! Running camp c. 2004?

The Moth StorySlam: Betrayal.

The Moth StorySlam: Betrayal.
Public Works SF, July 31 2018.

Preface. Thank you, Jamie, for encouraging me to use my voice. Thank you, Time, for allowing me to heal. Thank you, friends and family, for showing me how to trust again. Thank you, Bear Ridge 2015 Cabernet Sauvignon, for helping me to write.

Let’s begin with the end. Because everyone wants to know how these things end. This story ends with a broken heart and a useless ice cream machine. It ends with 7 years painfully unraveling over 11 bitter months. It ends with a lost faith in relationships and friendships. It ends with the greatest loss that I’ve only later realized was myself.

But before I begin, also know that this story ends with empowerment. With self-discovery after painstakingly gluing the shattered pieces back together. With a new-found strength that cannot be taken away from me. With higher standards and zero tolerance for bullshit in the people I choose to spend my time with. So as painful as it is, betrayal will teach you something valuable.

Betrayal. How did I know? What did it look like? When did it start?

It started on Christmas Eve, 2015.

What did it look like?  It began with a benign playful exchange of jokes between my long-term boyfriend of 7 years and a good friend of mine who I had introduced him to. In the end, it looked like sleepness nights. It looked like constant insecurity and fighting. It looked like 15 pounds lost and a disinterest in everything I cared for. And it in that sense, this isn't just a story about a boyfriend and friend betraying me, it was also in a sense, me betraying myself--unintentionally.

How did I know? In the last 11 torturous months of our 7 year relationship, the warning signs were fuzzy. He told me I was imagining things and being unreasonable. No, her asking under the guise of a joke if he'd be into three-somes was not inappropriate, right? No, her stripping down to a red string thong, asking him if he wanted to join her for a swim in the Adriatic Sea while I stood by holding her shorts, phone, and shoes, was not inappropriate..I think? No, her showering in his parents' house with the bathroom door cracked open 2 inches so you could see her naked body in passing wasn’t weird, so stop questioning her intentions. No, him bringing her fish he caught in Capitola and showing her how to filet it while we were on a "break" was perfectly okay. No, the fact that she knew my boyfriend and I were going through a rough time, and me asking her to keep her distance when she didn't wasn't crossing any boundaries, I guess. No, him having dim sum with her parents and friends when all he did was bitch and moan about it when my family invited him out was not inappropriate, so stop overreacting...right?

Wrong.

You know what was appropriate? Me finally calling him on his bullshit. You want to have lunch with her parents when you blew off my own? You're making a decision to say "I don't care if this hurts you, Liz. I don't care about saving this relationship." And if that's your choice after 7 years together, then fuck yeah, I'll pack your shit up while you're vacationing in Thailand. I’ll even fold your clothes before boxing them, then label the boxes. I’ll give you fair warning via Facebook Messenger that your things are downstairs in our secure storage space, for you to pick up and move out when you return 2 days later.

It all came down to 4 kitchen appliances, all gifts to the two of us, you know, when we were a couple. The waffle maker. The fondue pot. The raclette grill. The ice cream machine. You know how this ends because I already told you. The fucker took all the things I would have actually used (and that he didn't give a damn about), and "gifted" me with the ice cream machine. To which I replied--"Thanks for your generosity, I'll make sure to name a flavor after you." All I could do was laugh because by that point I had already done so much crying. Seriously...have you ever been gifted a gift that was gifted to you? It was hilariously absurd. He didn't think that was funny.

Betrayal. You are not imagining it. It hurts, it cuts deep, but you learn from it. I learned that when it seems someone is not being true to me, the least I can do is be true to myself. Trust my instincts and value myself enough in a relationship to stay whole. Never give that up for anyone else. So Betrayal, my friend, thank you.

Tipsy in wine country, confrontations with gypsies, and a strained back

This was how I spent my first vacation in France: inebriated part of the time, trying to fight off gypsies, and lugging my duffle bag around the south of France. La Toussaint (All Saint's Day) is celebrated in France by an 8ish-day pause from all things work-related. So I and 3 other American assistants decided to profiter de this opportunity and do some traveling around Bordeaux and Marseille. In retrospect, a high alcohol tolerance, a baton avec a dictionary of tell-offs, and a rolling suitcase would have been extremely helpful.

Life Lessons: Relationships

Dear world, At 31, I'm not going to lie. I am going through a shitty time, personally, not professionally. But sometimes going through a shitty time means learning invaluable life lessons that shape who you are and how you approach the world. This is not a post to complain or air regrets--but to provide myself with clarity and direction regarding the lessons I now need to apply. Hopefully with continued but cautious optimism, as I like to keep that by my side, always. So life lessons (not in any particular order of importance):

1. Trust your instincts. Those yellow and red flags pop up for a reason.
2. Be brutally honest with yourself. Don't put on the blinders in the name of "love" (What is Love? hah!), X years in a relationship, etc. Know also what your weaknesses are, accept them, and make a commitment to fix them.
3. If the other half of your relationship doesn't respect you when you've openly and reasonably communicated your concerns or hurt, they're not worth your time.
4. When someone makes themselves vulnerable to you, don't abuse it but cherish it. Recognize that full emotional vulnerability is gold and reciprocate.
5. Surround yourself with people of good moral values, compassion, and empathy. They don't need to be softies--it can be tough love. They don't need to be rigid puritans! But these are good people. Don't give them up.
6. Don't give yourself up (see #1, 2, 8). 
7. Speaking of good, believe in the good of others. Listen to your mother, grandmother, sister, father, friends. While it may hurt them to tell you something isn't right, there's a reason and it's in your best interest.
8. Install a well-calibrated bullshit meter and don't doubt it one second. While the definition of bullshit may vary from one person to the next, it should always be trued to who you are and what you stand for--so know thyself (see #2). Don't take any bullshit from anyone. 
9. When starting any kind of relationship with someone, they should treat you, your family, your friends, your feelings, and your TRUST with respect. The minute they trivialize, devalue, laugh in your face about any of these things, kick 'em to the curb.
10. Don't put all your happiness in someone else's basket, especially if that someone else doesn't put the same amount of effort and care into the relationship as you do. There needs to be a fairly equal balance. And really, 85-90% of what makes you happy should rely on YOU, not anyone else.

I'm sure I'm missing more but here are the 10 commandments that came to mind for today. Head up, wings out!

First time @ USATF National Club XC Championships!

Open Women 6k Start @ Hellman Hollow, GGP (photo credit: Jim Harleen)

This Saturday the USATF National Club XC Championships took place on the Impala home turf at Golden Gate Park, where over 1000 insanely fast pairs of legs from all over the country kicked up lots of mud, grass, and dirt (it would have been a bad day to be dirt).

The Impala open women's team A took 11th place out of 41 teams hailing from Oregon to Atlanta, while open teams B and C battled to hold our ground among 300+ women. Our masters 40+ team took 3rd place overall (nationally!), 50+ team 2nd, and 60+ team won (did I mention..nationally)!! In total we had over 50 Impalas on the course. It was beyond exciting and inspiring to see so many of our teammates give it everything they've got against a TOUGH field of women. Normally I don't write about all my races, but figured this was such a cool experience..I need to remember it!

Today my legs are trashed and my body generally hates me after racing hard (also, alcohol is not an appropriate recovery fluid). My first goal was to not sprain an ankle. My second was to race smart, whatever that means for some runners. For me it meant a few things..

1. secure a position with a group by the first 1000 meters of the race
2. hang on for the next 2k
3. begin chasing people for the first 1k of the second half
4. pick off whoever I could on the last 2k and have enough juice left for a little sprint at the end.

Here’s what I remember after a fun but difficult race (numbered dangers below)!

The course conditions were cross country-y after a few days of drenching rain left nice large puddles and muddy patches behind. The open women's race started at 11:45 when it began to warm up, so that meant I had to give up my yeti-family knee highs for the more standard pair of ankle socks (:( I guess there's always next year)!

My head felt light and my heartbeat fluttery when the gun went off, and out we dashed across Hellman Hollow. Speedy teammates and others whizzed past me while I tried to find my place and pace in a field of fast women. I made an effort to hold back a little but not too much, running a pace I knew I wouldn't be able to sustain for 6km, but at least I could see where others fell into place after the first 1k. The polo field was a stretch of satisfying puddle-splashing fun, and by the time I came back around I felt like the lower half of my body just stepped off of Splash Mountain! The mile split lady called out "6 minutes!”..whoops, too fast but still aware of my surroundings..a good sign!

Booby-trapped meadow of doom, or Hellman Hollow
(photo credit: Jim Harleen)

The next long stretch back across Hellman Hollow was long and treacherous. I sat on people and didn't try to make a move until we cleared the booby-trapped meadow of doom (#1). Short term goal was to get past this first. I remembered my "race smart" objective and hung on to a trio of racers when we climbed up to JFK and along the rolling hills for the next 2km. Mentally I was preparing for my favorite but most feared part of the course--the long rocky downhill (watch out, right ankle)!

At the hard right across Lindley Meadow I heard a familiar voice shout "GO GET EM LIZ! NOW'S THE TIME TO CHASE PEOPLE! Use the downhill!"..which snapped me out of the "sit" mentality to the "muster up some cojones and get going" mindset. Still hot on the heels of said trio, I felt my legs pick up and off I surged to get ahead of the mini-pack before the rest of the downhill along JFK. While I temporarily succeeded in passing 4-5? women, I could not find it in me to keep the surge going once we finished the climb back up to the sidewalk. Maybe 2 ladies passed me on the rocky downhill trail of doom (#2) but I managed to hold my pre-starman effort (Mario Kart?!) and catch at least 2 other women who began running out of steam.

At this point I was surprised at how focused my brain managed to stay through the second half of the race, and happy I had made it down JFK without incident! Usually by then it's a mental struggle to hold my shit together and not want to let it go (let it goo!). But onward and upward! and I kept my sights ahead, knowing that we had maybe 2k left. I don't remember much on the back stretch through the woods and along the packed-sand trail, but I did manage to catch one or two runners on "time to grow some balls meadow” of doom (#3) before tucking in behind a girl clad in pink. With the last short but steep climb up to the polo field, I passed a small group of women with the help of a blurry group of Impalas rooting me into the final 1000m.

Final turn on the polo field track.
"Blue-tank" on the left had a nice finishing sprint!
(photo credit: Jim Harleen)

My mind was zoned in on one thing now: a fast finish around the final curve of the track. Even after valuable practice on this course with Impala coaches Tony and Pete, and after strong finishes during workouts, the challenging part was the fact that 1) this wasn’t a workout 2) the lap looked much shorter than actually it was even though I told my brain it was a big fat LIE (1000m vs. 400m..wishful thinking) and 3) by this point my legs were like “fuck you”. I picked up what I could though, and with less than half a mile left I heard my high school XC coach, McMullin, yell out with conviction “700 METERS TO GO! GO GET EM LIZ!” Never underestimate the power of coaches who know what to say and how to say it. Cultivating genuine belief in myself and that burning drive to compete with guts and grit is something I am still learning to do—but with the right words and push, it brings the finish line that much closer.

Final 100m. Trying to find my "finishing kick"
(photo credit: Annette Diefenthaler...
who just flew back from Hong Kong and came to cheer on the racers! < 3 )

At the beginning of the curve, I pulled my frazzled thoughts together and tried to focus on passing the two runners ahead of me. Success! Girl in yellow, I gotcha! Girl in blue tank, I gotcha too! Along the final turn I began to feel the effects of pushing my limits when another Impala yelled something that got me going again (“Every point counts!”) This somehow stuck with me just as I saw the yellow jersey creep up behind. Yet again a strategically placed teammate before the last straightaway called out—“I know you have that finishing kick! I want to see that finishing kick!” Whew! Well I thought I was a-kickin’, but apparently I need to work on this since blue-tank cruised right past in the last 150 meters. I hung on though, with those points in mind, and made it before anyone else could get by. Also: never underestimate the power of a team that values everyone. It may be obvious, but when I feel like I’m contributing to something bigger than myself, I am more willing to give it my best!

What a race! I crossed the finish line in 24:26 (6:33/mi), a course & XC PR pace. I felt destroyed but in a good way. As I unlaced my timing chips surrounded by elite, post-collegiate, and bad-ass runners from all over the country, I felt that little flame burning inside me, already excited for another season of XC (or maybe I was just hungry for a banana)…in any case. Goals were met (no sprain, raced smart), and it was a crazy, exciting day to represent the “blue tsunami” of Impalas! I only hope that next year it will be cold enough to wear those yeti socks for at least 1 race.

Impalas Impalas everywhere (photo credit: Jim Harleen)

Video: USATF National XC Club Championships

Results: Open Women 6k

A rambling about running.

Lots have happened since my last post. I finished my teaching credential program, got lucky and found a job teaching French, started the much-awaited year 2 of teaching (things are relatively smoother in my French classes now), and have gotten back to running competitively. Which brings me to today's topic: running.

Running is freaking hard. You might be wondering, "how hard can it be to run?" I'll tell ya how hard it can be to run. Imagine you've trained for 4 months straight, sticking to this training plan like there's nothing else that will save your sanity as you fight your way through years 1 and 2 of teaching. Then imagine yourself at your target race of the year, and you have no choice but to put the breaks on and pull over halfway through the course because your ankle gave out and twisted pretty badly, twice. And this isn't the first time I've hurt myself before running (or during) a peak race this year (ahem, yes you, IT band). It's funny, because I've had ups and downs, ins and outs since high school (shin splints, major operation, bad left sprain, life..), but this is the first time I've felt truly, personally challenged by this sport.

Yes, running is freaking hard. You will run into disappointment, discouragement, days where finding motivation is like trying to get 6th period AVID kids with early onset of Senioritis to stop yaking and sit the hell down the day before Thanksgiving break. If you are lucky and manage to stay strong, injuries won't cross your path and you'll manage to progress steadily through the season and run your best race yet. But if you're not lucky, you'll end up sidelined devastatingly close to the finish you've dedicated yourself to for what seems like forever (yes, the school year will do that to you). You'll twist your ankle but tell yourself to keep going despite the pain, because you've worked too hard to come this far. You'll twist it again and have to decide that it's not worth risking worse. You'll sit on the side of the trail as everyone else passes you by, and cry out of frustration and utter disappointment because all you want to do is get back up and finish this goddamn race, but common sense and your rapidly swelling ankle say not to and you know they're right.

In high school, I never liked to think of running as a competitive sport. Racing was terrifying, I suppose mainly because I was afraid of letting myself down in comparison to other kids. I didn't see it as a sport where I could use my own progress as a measure of competition. Just recently, as I began training again with my high school coach, I've learned how to enjoy racing by thinking of it as a personal competition. Can I run faster and stronger than I did in high school? Can I make it under 21 minutes for a 5k? In my nearly 2 years of amateur racing, only now have I begun to take this hobby seriously, and appreciate it for all that it (and my coach) has taught me about myself and about the sport.

Even though running is difficult and this most recent set-back has me fuming on the couch with my foot propped up, taped up, wrapped up, and iced up, I am only more determined to do one thing--get up and start running again. I have learned to trust that injuries will get better with rest and patience. I have learned that knowing my limits is important, but setting the goal higher for myself is just as important. I have learned that consistency really is key, and that I can come back after having fallen behind. I have learned that rather than putting my hands up and accepting weaknesses, I can analyze them then make them my strengths. I have learned that sometimes it's better to brush things off and move on rather than dwell on the set-backs (though this is hard when I'm confined to the couch watching Chopped re-runs). Lastly I've learned that running is as much an individual sport as it is a team sport--people (my coach, my team mates, my friends and family, people I don't know) will push you to run harder, but stop to pick you up and ask if you're okay. It is so much more than putting one foot in front of the other.

I really feel that I have a new-found respect for runners and all they have invested themselves in, which makes everything worth it. I've never experienced this type of passion for running in my past years as a high school athlete. I'm not sure why, because the support was always there. My coach always has been and is behind every one of his runners. But now there's something about proving to myself that I can run harder, better, faster, and stronger that keeps me going and wanting more. I am definitely not the fastest on my team, and miles from those Impalas who run every race effortlessly, but I've just begun to experience the results of consistency and progress, and I want more (I want more!).



Thank you, running and runners, who have taught me what it really means to keep my chin up, and to keep my eye not just on the finish line but on everything it takes to get there. Now heal, stupid sprain! There are workouts to be run, routes to be explored, personal records to be beaten, and Strava to be updated.

First year teaching thoughts when I should be sleeping.

So it's the end of the school year. I'm up until 1 am, getting corrections out for those last-minute rough drafts that were sent late by a few of my students. And I started thinking about what I have learned this year. I've learned A TON. 

This year, I have realized that takes a big person to be a good teacher. A really big person with a really big heart, roomy enough to carry a lot of patience, understanding, discipline, and selflessness. Not to mention skin tougher than bark that can withstand the constant attacks from those few but significant self-absorbed, self-entitled, unappreciative adolescents in a class of 30-35 (*note about this later).

I sure as heck am FAR from being a good teacher. I get frustrated. I get impatient (well, especially now towards the end of the year). I don't understand a lot of things. I don't understand why one day Kid X is cooperating so well and participating magnificently, while the next day he comes in with a shitty "I don't know so I don't care" attitude and spits so much sass back at you you're not sure what to do with him. I don't understand why Kid Y is still failing when I spoke with him, got him an agenda, spent my own time with him organizing his binder, meeting with mom/dad, creating behavior reports to help him track his successes and improvements to be made. I don't understand why some kids don't care that I care. I let too many things slide that I shouldn't. I'm not selfless, I want them to experience success and I want to be a part of it. I want them to love my subject area. I want them to love my class. Which then of course means my skin is not tougher than bark, because sometimes I just can't handle the critical stares, loud sighs, and mutterings under their breath when I feel like I have worked my tail off making sure they are at least learning and ideally, having fun doing it.

I've heard one piece of advice several times now, from several experienced teachers. One being, "don't take it personally." I have doubts about this. While in my head, this makes sense..many kids don't realize the consequences of their actions most of the time...I still can't help feeling discouraged when my hardest efforts still result in five students failing because they just don't care anymore (and they don't care because they don't "get it"). 

Some teachers have a different perspective. They say that it's not necessarily the kid's fault he's failing. It's a matter of needs being not met. So then I wonder if it's me. Maybe I'm not teaching to this kid. Maybe I haven't made enough of a connection with him. Maybe these few individuals I'm beating myself up over aren't self-absorbed, self-entitled, or unappreciative*..they just have other social/emotional "needs" that I somehow missed. What can I do to meet them, this small but important percentage of failures that I am responsible for? You see, it's hard not to take things personally as a teacher. Failures, although fewer, seem to be so much bigger than accomplishments I've made, if anything this year.

"Ah Liz," I tell myself, "don't beat yourself up over this." My wise master teacher during student teaching always said "You can bring a horse to water but you can't make it drink"..and I remind myself of this often because I have also realized that I am human. Teachers are human. I need to remind myself that we can't do everything, save everyone, attend to 35 students at once, pick up Kid X's pencil for him and hold his hand as he writes because he's having a "bad day." If we could--especially on this last point, we'd be some pretty bad-ass superheros. Either that or Kid X will still need his mama to wipe his nose when he's 35 and living at home.

I don't know what to do at this point. I know I have big shoes to fill and a lot of things to work out. For sanity's (and sleep's) sake tonight, I'm going to try to stay focused on how much my students have accomplished this year, because the more I think about the ones who are "struggling" and "sighing" their way through class, the longer I'll stay up tonight thinking, "how can I change this for the better next year?"