Five Things You Should Probably Not Say to an Injured Runner (or any athlete for that matter)

Let's just say I've experienced my fair share of running injuries.  I've racked up as many injuries as I have race medals:  fractures, bursitis, plantar fasciitis, Morton's neuroma, IT-band syndrome, sprained ankle....and am currently awaiting the results of a recent MRI on my foot, an injury I actually incurred while playing hopscotch with my children.  Clearly, I was born to run!  I reckon I've received just about every reaction imaginable whenever I share that the reason I'm sidelined or in a boot yet again is from participating in the sport I love.  The responses run the gamut from empathy to incredulity, but there are a few that raise the ire of any lover of sport, so here is a list of five things you should refrain from saying to an injured runner, all of which have been said to me, at least once.

1.  Let me get this straight.  You're upset because you can't run 5, 10, 13.1, 26.2 miles......

Why, yes, I'm a little miffed that I just finished a twenty mile run two days ago for a marathon that I now can't complete because I have a broken ankle.  (That actually happened a few years ago.)  Just a smidgen to the right of disappointed and one notch away from bring on the ice cream, no, not the pint, the gallon, so I can smother my woes with caramel sauce and whipped cream.  You've read the bumper stickers; we runners run to eat, right?  Oh, wait, no, I can't run.  Just kidding.  Hold the ice cream.  I'll just have the caramel.

I apparently have the sort of demeanor where people feel comfortable saying anything to me, (i.e. a lady at a store once remarked to the clerk that I apparently don't care about my appearance because I had failed to wear makeup or my ex-pedicurist, who said my daughter was beautiful, so she must take after her father).  A couple of years ago, my ex-orthopedist actually laughed at me when I began crying once he shared the news that after four months of intense training, I would not be able to run a marathon because I had fractured my ankle.  He LAUGHED at me.  Yes, I take my running seriously. It takes six months to train for a race and about two to lose aerobic capacity.  This also makes it really frustrating because an athlete can go from the being in the best shape of her life to out of shape in a matter of weeks, which is how long recovery takes.  Wouldn't you be upset if you spent four months striving for a goal that someone ripped away just as it was days within reach?


2.  Running injury.  That's such a first-world problem, isn't it?   (Usually followed by awkward, annoying chuckle)

Nothing gets my Lululemon dog walking pants in a wad faster than this groundbreaking revelation.  Yes, I realize in the grand scheme of things that my inability to train for a few months doesn't amount to much, and chances are I've probably already been reciting this truth to myself multiple times in an effort to keep things in perspective.  In fact,  I toss this phrase around all the time when referring to my own inconveniences, but early on in my injury when I'm still reeling or late into my injury when I haven't had the stress-relieving benefits of exercise probably isn't the most apropos time to point this out to me.  Otherwise, I might have to restrain myself from taking my Prada purse and bopping you over the head.  Just kidding, I don't have a Prada purse; mine came from the Naturalizer outlet off the clearance rack. Runners know our injuries are first-world problems.  We also know that we are very blessed to be able to participate in running at all.  There are many individuals who aren't even able to walk.  Runners understand this and are beyond grateful for our abilities.  This realization, though, doesn't make injury any less annoying, painful, or disappointing.  In fact, many of us train specifically to benefit causes that we passionately support like building wells in developing nations or to raise money for cancer research.

3.  Running, huh?  If I'm ever running you better join in cause something's chasing me.

Yes, probably a mob of angry runners on crutches....  This statement is my favorite.  Ha!  IT. NEVER. GETS. OLD.  As a matter of fact, I heard it today from my MRI technician.  Ahhh, good times.....


4.  If you'd been sitting on the couch eating ice cream, this would have never happened.

Speechlessness usually follows this statement, then a stunned, "Ya serious?"  Yes, my commitment to exercise sometimes brings injury but so does sitting on the couch eating ice cream.  That practice can injure the heart, colon, brain, even.  As a matter of fact, this is a serious problem in America.  Maybe not the sitting on the couch eating ice cream, specifically.  (I like ice cream, all right....but I'm Paleo, so maybe, I miss it a little.)  Obesity and inactivity are serious dilemmas.  Perhaps distance running is a little extreme but so is inactivity, so what causes me to cringe about this non sequitir is that it's a dangerous one.  I might get injured so I'm going to sit on the couch and do nothing isn't really an option for me.  I prefer to accept the risks that living life to what I believe is its fullest might sometimes bring.

5.  Hey, now you have an excuse not to exercise.  

Yup, I was looking for a reason not to exercise, so I decided to break a foot, twist an ankle, injure a knee.  If someone is injured training for a triathlon then perhaps she isn't really looking for an excuse to avoid exercise.  Exercise makes me happy.  It releases endorphins, relieves stress, burns calories, makes my body more adept at controlling insulin, protects against heart disease, cancer, and Alzheimer's, improves mood, has been shown to alleviate depression as effectively as antidepressants, prevents memory and muscle loss as I age.

Ok, so I've been harsh, but for those of us who really love to run, bike, swim, step, dance, Cross Fit, weight lift, walk, Yoga, fill in the blank, not being able to participate in our sport can be down right depressing.  See how snarky I've become, and I've only been sidelined for a week.  If you aren't sure what to say, here's what every injured athlete would love to hear:

Bless your heart.  You know, I may not get your commitment to this particular sport, but I realize this must be quite a disappointment for you.  I'm sorry you're injured.  Would you like to go get a (Paleo-approved coconut milk) ice cream covered in (75% cacao) chocolate? My treat.

I'll eat to that!  And, maybe, when I've healed, we could even go for a nice, easy jog.

How Lovely Is Your Dwelling Place

I am a woman, so it might not come as a groundbreaking revelation to discover that I have struggled with body image. Who am I kidding? Struggle is a mild understatement, declared all-out war on my body might be a more apt description. In high school and college, I would spend months eating nothing all day, or sometimes would allow my self a pretzel and glass of water. My 5'8" frame, at one time, carried a mere 108 lbs. Looking back, it was not attractive, but to me, thin meant beautiful.

What led to this trip down memory lane? My morning bible study. I'm completing a study written by Jennifer Rothschild, who, this morning, focused on what we say to ourselves about our body. Hmmm...what do I say to myself about my body? For years, I beat myself up for eating too much or for not working out enough. I derided my lack of self-control and discipline. I even prayed for help to make it to my idea of an ideal weight, influenced by airbrushed pictures of models who had live-in chefs and personal trainers. I spent a lot of time consumed with.....myself. And I discovered that obsession with body image is really an obsession with self. How selfish?!

I've since made peace with my body. It's been a long, hard road fueled by prayer, by bible study, and by learning about what this body is truly capable of regardless of its weight. (I also quit reading fashion magazines.) As a matter of fact, after running and training for marathons and having two children, I now view my body as a magnificent miracle capable of so much. There are still days I fret too long in the mirror about cellulite or wrinkles. But my goal is to no longer judge my body for its appearance; I'm learning the art of moderation in both food and exercise and have discovered that life is about so much more than weight and inches. It's about so much more than me.

And because of my study today, I'm learning to look at my body in yet another light. I've long been familiar with the following verses: "Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?" 1 Cor. 3:16 and "Or do you know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?" 1 Cor. 6:19. And very often, when studying these scriptures, the lesson has centered on drug or alcohol abouse or on taking care of yourself but rarely have I been prompted to think about these verses in light of body image. Today, I was challenged to also view my body as God's dwelling place. The place God chooses to house his Holy Spirit.

Rothschild tells the story of discovering another verse to medidate on in light of the above two while sweating it out on her treadmill. She heard, while working out, this from her bible on tape: "How lovely are your dwelling places O Lord of hosts!" Psalm 84:1. So, let me get this straight. My body is a dwelling place for the Lord, AND it is lovely. Lovely. No matter what it weighs, how cut my abs and biceps are, or no matter what size jeans I wear. My body is lovely because it is the dwelling place of God. What freedom is there in that!

It pains me to see so many wonderful women of all shapes and sizes live and die by what the scale or some label in their clothing says. We are so much more than that; we are mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, women who nurture, love, give, and have so much to offer no matter what we look like. Most importantly, we are God's handiwork.

No more self-loathing. It's about Him, not me, and there are no brownie points in heaven for beating myself up. When we self-hate, we still center on self and put down the place Christ chooses to dwell. Of course, the flip side is loving ourselves too much, but I don't know too many women who over-love their bodies. Being in the place where I am completely obsessed with self, in a loving or hateful manner, in any capacity, is a lonely place to be.

I am finding the realization of my body being a temple of the Lord and applying that to how I view and treat my own body to be such a life-changing discovery. Of course, because of that realization, there is a responsibility to care for our bodies but with common sense. Something I lacked all those years ago. I've discovered like so many things in life; it is about finding balance and about focusing on the Creator of my body, not my body itself.

New Workout

The Mercedes Marathon is next week, and I can't run. I had wanted to run the half with my sister, who is running her first half, but my IT band has said, "NO!" I was okay with it until I started hearing people talking about 10 and 11 milers and training runs, and I'll admit, I turned a little green with envy. I know, how could someone be envious of someone else running 10 miles, but as a runner, there's something about training and knowing the reward is crossing the finish line of a marathon. I thought after taking off a year from running, I'd be able to train with no problems, but it seems right now, four miles is the magic number then my IT band begins to shout, "STOP."

So, to ease my non-training blues, I decided to try a new class at the gym: Boot camp. That's right, boot camp. Scary name and yes, scary class. I haven't felt as awkward as I did in this class, since sixth grade, when I had Annie Orphan curls, braces, my limbs were long and gangly, and I was actually wondering why I couldn't get a date to my first dance. Then when a poor guy agreed to attend the band dance with me, I rewarded him by wearing a white sweater with sparkly silver threads, on which my mom decided to sew a sequin saxophone, because, hey, I played the alto saxophone in band. I completed the ensemble with a silver skirt and white and silver granny boots. I don't recall a second date. Anyway, haven't felt that awkward again until I walked into boot camp.

The first thing I see is a very fit instructor with a whistle, who appears to have actually conducted boot camp out in the real world, shouting commands. "Grab your weights, do 1 lap of walking lunges, then 1 lap on the track. We'll do four repeats." I hope by repeats he doesn't mean repeating the entire process four times. He did. I return from my last lap winded with my legs already shaking. A glance at the clock revealed we were only ten minutes into the class. "Yipee!"

I can't really remember what happened after that. I'm pretty sure there were tortuous sit-ups, not regular crunches, but some sort of angling and pulling your knees to the side while lifting your torso off the ground. And there were push-ups, yes, lots of push-ups. I stumble up from my last push-up to hear, "Now we're going to do burpies." "Did he say hurt-mes because that's exactly what he should have said." From burpies we move on to squat jumping jacks right into triceps dips with leg lifts. Repeat three times. And now I actually see him demonstrate the following for our next move. He squats low and proceeds to do bicep curls from the squatting position. We follow and don't stand until we've done three sets from the squat. At least we weren't "supposed" to stand. By now my body is screaming and there are still 15 minutes left in class. I'm quickly learning lifting your son out of the crib does not count as an upper body workout.

I finally finish my first boot camp experience and am walking out the door, when the instructor runs up and hands me a t-shirt. You get the prize for working out the hardest today. (Apparently, prizes are common in boot camp class, or else I can't imagine many people would attend.) What?! There's a prize! Is the prize for working out the hardest or because the instructor felt sorry for me because he thought I was going to pass out? I'm not sure; all I know is I survived, and if I can walk by next Friday, I'll try again.

A Beachy Perspective

When I was in high school and college coming to the beach meant hours at the track trying to get in a few last minute runs to improve the appearance of my legs. It also meant hundreds of crunches and ounces of cellulite cream. To make matters worse, the walls of the condo my parents rented for our annual beach trip were covered in mirrors. Why anyone would do that I have no idea. I recall catching glimpses of my bikini-clad-self in the endless array of mirrors and immediately stopping to do squats or lunges. Vain and a bit pathetic, I know.

Now, I hit the track for a much different motivation. And, I thank God that he gave someone at Land's End the wisdom and ability to create the Miracle Suit. Available in one piece styles and black! I also thank God that He has brought me to the other side on a battle with body image and self-esteem. My beach preparations and perspective are much different and much happier these days. Instead of worrying about my thighs, I drive my husband and children crazy applying sunscreen to every spot that might even possibly see sun. I worry about undertows and rainy days and rarely give my abs, a little strectched from two pregnancies, a second thought. After all, they are tucked in safe and sound underneath the strategic folds of my miracle swimsuit.

I sit on the beach holding C , watching A and T jump in the surf. Grabbing my camera, I run down to the water's edge to shoot some action photos of my adorable swimmers. A young girl in a black bikini catches my eye. She has the "beach walk" down perfectly, and I notice her cast a quick "do they notice" glance at some young men sitting on the sand. Then she suddenly seems self-conscious, and I notice she isn't smiling nor does she appear carefree. I turn my attention to the hundreds of other women on the beach who are like me. Not quite our ideal weight, wearing one pieces in all the possible shades of black, madly snapping photos of the thousands of cute things our children are doing at that moment. Jumping, splashing, toes in the sand for the first time. And we are all wearing the beach's most imporant accessory: huge, silly, happy grins. And while it's been a long journey for me personally, words cannot describe the elation I feel in that moment of complete freedom from self-consumption and worry about me, my body and how it looks in a swimsuit.

Note: T asked A what the best part of the beach was today and she replied, "You." T asked, "Daddy was the best part of the beach?" A responded, "Yes, Daddy. You're the best." Melt my heart!

High Expectations

I walk down the stairs to the gym nursery. A occupies one hip, while my elbow cradles C 's carrier, complete with his 20 lbs. I sign big sister and baby in, put A 's shoes in her bin, and place C s carrier on the floor next to another baby, whose mom is chatting with the nursery worker about bottles. The mom and I smile and nod and comment on how cute our little boys look chatting with each other. Our children appear to be about the same age and the same size; the mom and I do not....appear to be the same size.

She looks like she just stopped by the gym for a workout after a quick warm-up of running the New York City marathon. I am wearing, not one, but two bras to hold up the extra nursing weight I am still carrying up top. You can see the faint outline of my soft tummy from beneath the two t-shirts I've chosen to wear to cover up the two bras. I am back in my old running shorts, but the spin shorts I wear underneath will never be seen alone in public. No, running shorts over bike shorts for at least another six months. Wow! is all I can think. How does anyone lose their baby weight that fast?

As a runner, I know I'll eventually be back to pre-baby figure. I did it last time, and quite frankly, I was in no hurry, but since I've joined the gym, I've noticed a disturbing trend. At least it's disturbing to my "holding on to those last ten pounds for dear life" frame. So many moms are strutting back into the gym six weeks after giving birth looking like they never even had a contraction. I see and hear moms talking about how quickly they are getting back into their pre-baby jeans. I can't even find my old jeans. Am I supposed to be back to my old size 6/8 four months into my baby's life? Is this the expectation? Let's see. I'm not a pro athlete, not a supermodel, not a.....what other profession requires women who've just given birth to look like they did the day they found out they were expecting.

I didn't really notice or think about it with A . Could it be I didn't really leave the house until A was six months old? And even then it was for walks around the park until she turned one year, and I started training for a half-marathon. Now that I've joined the gym, I was feeling pretty good about.....showing up. I didn't realize that women actually manage to show up like they never missed a day. I even worked out during pregnancy, but I've still got ten pounds left. I like to blame them on the fat my body REQUIRES to make breast milk.

The truth is, although I am blogging about it, I'm really not unhappy with my ten pounds. I'm actually quite excited about the progress I've made. This far into A 's first four months of life I was still in maternity pants some days. I think I'm more sad for the women who feel the pressure to look like Heidi Klum two weeks after birthing a miracle and blessing. I've got the rest of my life to worry about losing ten pounds, if I even want to. I will just find another marathon to train for and watch the weight melt away as I manuever two children (fifty pounds) in a stroller up and down the track. Right now, I'm going to jog around and see if I need to add another bra.

Step to It

It is a dark, stormy afternoon, wind howling, rain driving, you know the rest. A is refusing to nap. Okay, maybe she can't sleep for the tremendous thunderclaps shaking the house. Whatever the case, mom needs a break, so I cover A with a raincoat and run to the car, where we brave the howling wind, driving rain, and tornado warnings and drive the quarter-mile to the gym. I drop A off in the nursery, which is snuggled safely in the basement of the gym and go to check the schedule for group exercise. Step Circuit. Mmmm, it might as well say advanced hip-hop for all my coordination and skill. Well, I'm here now, so since I've braved the weather, surely I can brave a little humiliation and damaged pride and give step a try.

Immediately, I realize I am in over my head. Within seconds of my warm-up, Katie, our instructor, shouts, "Around the world." Around the who? I wonder, while everyone else in the class steps and lifts their knees in perfect rhythm. I just jump around in circles trying to figure out how around-the-world should actually be performed. Step is a lot like dance, and love dancing I might, that doesn't mean I can do it.

Apparently, we are going on a trip because the next move is a "carry-on" (I think) with lunges. Ooh! Lunge, I know that one. Carry-on, no clue. Again, I jump around, looking more like a baboon than an athlete and finish with a few lunges in the opposite direction of everyone else. All these steps....arrrgh....I can't keep up. My favorite workout dance is running and it only has two steps.

As soon as I feel like I'm learning the routine, Katie adds about ten new steps. I spend half the class facing everyone else and trying not to laugh. Who does she think I am Janet Jackson? I assure you I dance more like Tom Jones, but when I look at the clock, I am amazed to find that the class is almost over. Trying desperately to keep up with step circuit sure makes the time fly. Finally class is over, and I manage to scrape my pride off the floor and head down to the nursery, where I'm told A has been slapping and shoving other children. Pride back on floor. This time I cover my head with the raincoat and run with A to the car. Maybe we'll try the gym again on Monday?!