Solcana blog

A MILE IN HER SHOES

By: Lauren Anderson

When I was in junior high, we had to run the mile twice a year. It was always an awful day. It was done outside, around this make-shift track and field course and a pond that was usually off-limits, save for the occasional science-class-goose-poop-specimen-collection. I don’t think I need to remind you all that I was the kid that NEVER ran the mile. Not even ONCE.

Because that was me. I have never run a mile in my life. Period.

This is how it would typically go down: The Football dudes, Traveling Basketball dudettes, and the the Soccer co-ed kids would kill the mile depending on the season. Then there were always the handful of super athletic “popular” kids that were blessed with turbo-speed and multiple pairs of Guess jeans. You know the type. The ones that never had their awkward phase. They just breezed through their hormone changes as easily as their 5 minute mile.

Then there was the rest of us. I think most of us were just hoping to complete the mile in the pack. Not-too-fast and not-too-slow would ensure your social status remained intact. But that was never the case for me.

It actually helped that I had pretty bad asthma. My two other asthmatic friends and I would start off and make a promise to stay together. Inevitably by minute seven though, after being lapped by the goth clarinet player, my heavy-breathing buddies would sprint to the finish line. Even if it meant risking a trip to the nurse’s office. A proverbial “sucks to your asthmar!” (Lord of the Flies anyone?) leaving me alone to walk the remainder, just as easily as Ralph left Piggy to fend for himself on the island.

I even remember one time, the gym teacher ran out to see if I was okay. He said, “Oh! You’re still going! I thought you gave up and ditched class.” He seemed genuinely surprised that I was actually doing my assignment, and even a little disappointed.

Like, “We could all be playing kickball by now Anderson if you would just hustle.” He never said that out loud of course, but he didn’t have to. His eyes and his audible sighs, spoke volumes.

When I would finally cross the finish line, most of the class would be headed back indoors. No fanfare, only rolled eyes and that special brand of Junior High pity.

But don’t feel too bad for me baby. Despite my lack of athleticism, and everything else going against me in the world of middle school hierarchy, I was surprisingly socially adept back then. Saved by a rapidly developing sense of humor, and a patience for reading my friend’s rhyming boy-poetry.

These tools paired with some radical kindness when most kids only enjoyed being mean, and it managed to keep me mostly out of harms way. Until it was time for the torture of the Swimming Unit. Then the horror-spiral would start all over again.

By high school I was cunning enough to get excused by the faculty when it was time to run. I would relish convincing my teachers that it was more important for me to use that time to study AP Psych then spend one more minute in gym class. Besides, I was Class Historian. I had things to historicalize.

And by college, I managed to side-step needing a gym credit altogether. And because of my asthma, and my size, and general preference for reading instead of moving, I never really ran again. Not even when the cops would bust up our keg parties. I played to my strengths and hid.

Until last week at Solcana.

It’s a Sunday, and Coach Jenn is working me out. I’m busy huffing and puffing, when she cheerily announces that Springtime at CrossFit is when we start moving to more outdoor activities. And this included RUNNING. (Dun dun dunnnnnn)

My heart sank. I didn’t know that CrossFit made you run. I didn’t know that was a thing. I immediately hated it. Without delay or prompting, I can feel myself retreat into my 7^th grade mindset. Sulking and trying desperately to manipulate my way out of it.

“I can’t run.” I said. “I’ve never really ran in my life.”

I start to rattle off all the reasons why me and running don’t mix. I have asthma! I am slow! What about my knees?! I don’t have the right shoes! It would take me an hour just to WALK a mile. Etc etc etc. Jenn listens to me go on and on. Calmly waiting for me to finish.

“We’ll start you off slow. Go at your own pace.” Coach replies. Not budging. And definitively she adds, “I want you to try it.”

I quiet my crusade, and I notice I am suddenly super mad. Not furious and ranting, but pouting like a child who’s being forced into overalls when only a tutu will do…do. I am throwing serious shade with my face. But try as I might, she is NOT going to let me out of this.

The ancient ghost of the Junior High Mile flutters up through the mat and rears it’s ugly head. “Ha ha ha! You thought you could get away from me?! THINK AGAIN! You will run, or you will PERISH!!!” It shrieks. And all the doubt, and hate, and shame, and embarrassment roll through me like a shiver of cold air. (Shakes fist to the air) “SCREW YOU JUNIOR HIGH MILE!!!”

My face distorts, I look like I am walking down a hallway of farts. A pout for the ages. It is so over-the-top it makes Jenn laugh. Her giggling at my trepidation is all it usually takes to snap me outta it, but not today. This one is too big. I don’t relent. She is staying unflinchingly optimistic, but I can’t trust it. I resign myself to my fate. I’m trying not to act like a Poopy Butt about this. But that’s what I was being: A giant Poopy Butt.

She takes me outside. It’s a beautiful day and the sun is shining. But no amount of heat could warm me to the idea of running. Bah-humbug. I start to get desperate. I even suggest we do rowing instead. (Wait, what is happening to me?! I hate rowing too! AH! Anything to get out of this! HELP.)

“You are going to run 200 meters. Then do x amount of box steps, then do x amount of kettle bell swings. We’re gonna do as many reps of that as we can in 30 minutes.” Coach says.

Um hold up, did Coach just say 30 minutes? Gurrrrrrl you crazy.

“200 meters is just down to that second light pole and back.” I know logically that it’s not that far away. But peering down the open alley… it looked like Jenn wanted me to run for the border. (And I don’t mean the Taco Bell conveniently located mere blocks away from Solcana.)

The fact that I’m so hung up bout running has me not even focusing on the much-maligned box step. Hell, I would rather do those at this point. I’m still flipping through my brain to try and wiggle my way out… but there is nothing I can do. The buzzer starts, my 30 minutes is up on the clock.

I take off out the door of Solcana and turn the corner to the alley. I am running in my neon green fashion Vans. These shoes have been great for weight-lifting because they are super flat, but the minute they slap the pavement, I am regretting my choice. I feel my knees. Uh oh.

I don’t like the feeling of my body moving up and down like this. At least when I jump rope, I can hold my body tight and finagle my flesh into relative submission. But not when I’m running. My stomach and boobs clearly have a mind of their own, and I don’t like this one bit. Unwieldy. Wild.

Not like a wild horse on a beautiful beach in France either. But like if you put a bunch of dough into tube socks and tried to get them all to swing in the same direction while flailing your arms like you forgot how to do the Macarena. That wild. That annoying. As cumbersome as the analogy I used to describe it.

Coach steps outside. By now, I’ve reached the light pole and I’m turning around. Jenn is cheering me and complimenting me, and clapping me through it. I am too distracted to even hear her. I just keep getting mad that my hoots have declared their independence and will no longer accept the help from my fancy-ass sports bra. Jesus. This running business is a disaster.

But before I know it I’m back inside and doing box steps and kettle bells. I am working. And not the fun kinda RuPaul “You Betta Werk!” that I wanna be doing. Nu uh. This is like plowing with oxen. It’s hot, my breathing is labored, and there is no dang lemonade in sight. (Who am I kidding though? I couldn’t drink lemonade right now if I wanted to. I’m still off sugar. FML.)

This goes on and on and on. By the fifth round, I come close to quitting. I can’t muster a smile, I can barely hear Jenn speaking to me. I am too blanketed in my own misery. And now I can feel my knees really start to ache.

I bend over at the box. I can’t take one more step. There is still almost 10 minutes left to go on the clock. I start to complain about my shoes and my knees. I am trying to convince Jenn to tell me it’s okay to stop. Instead, she runs out to her car and gives me her old pair of special CrossFit shoes.

As a friend, I am touched by this sweet gesture. As my coach, I’m like, Oh. You got me different shoes to wear, so I can keep running? Gee…Thanks Coach. UGH.

I lace up my new kicks and my legs feel re-energized. Huh. Maybe it really WAS the shoes. I put my head down and lumber back out the door. My feet and legs feel much much better. My spirit however, is a black cloud.

I finish 3 more reps of the workout for a grand total of 8 reps when it was all said and done. When I re-enter the building though, it’s not to rolled eyes and familiar Junior High pity. It was Jenn giving me a high five and reminding me all the ways I excelled today:

1. I ran the ENTIRE time. Even though I didn’t want to– I didn’t walk it out once. That was a surprise. Even though I seriously contemplated calling an uber to drive me those last couple meters.
2. According to Coach, I kept a steady pace. My rounds jogging stayed the same time. Except for my last lap which was faster than the rest.
3. Jenn said I had good form. Even though I was experiencing an abundance of unwanted undulation, my form remained tight. I didn’t even know that was a thing!

And lastly, Coach says, “Lauren. You did 8 reps of 200 meters just now. Do you know what that is?”

I look at her blankly. Up is down, down is up. I can’t catch my breath let alone do math in metric units. But Coach Jenn just smiled, beaming.

“Eight reps of 200 meters, is a mile! You just ran a mile.”

What the–? Are you sure? She was. I did it. I ran the damn mile. I can feel a smile sneak across my face. I couldn’t believe it. By breaking it up into manageable parts, I ran a freaking mile!

Now I’m working on convincing the coaches that they should look at the mile the way I do about skydiving. Now that I’ve done it once, I never need to do it again right? RIGHT?! Oh? Oh fine. Be that way.

In the interim, I think I will spend some time marinating on what it means to see myself in this new story. I am no longer the kid that can’t/won’t/never run a mile. I am the woman that ran a mile without even knowing it. Twenty years later, 200 meters at a time, and in somebody else’s shoes.

Which consequently, Jenn ended up giving to me.

So really, they’re my shoes to fill now. And if that’s the case, maybe the moral to my new story could go something like this:

May the road rise up to meet you, 200 meters at a time makes a mile-long track  And when you are given some running shoes, take them and never look back!