Being in competition with yourself

"You're not going to pass me now, are you?" he said with a tired smile around mile six. "This is a no passing zone." 
I had been gaining on this man for a little while, hoping his pace would eventually match mine and I wouldn't have to pass him, which is always a bit awkward. This was my third "halfie": the Rogue River Half-Marathon in Southern Oregon, the only organized run of my half-marathon challenge. It's what I'd call a community run; you can tell a lot of the runners know each other and probably live in the same small town. The happy energy in the air of organized runs like this always make me a bit giddy inside, so I pretty much smiled like a goofball the whole time.

"I think both of us have been lapped several times at this point, " I said jovially, nodding towards the runners on the other side of the road who had already reached the turnaround point and were on their way back to where we started. This was an out-and-back course: run 6.5-ish miles, turnaround, and run back to the start/finish. That means you get to see each and every person who is running faster than you as you struggle to just get to the turnaround point. A point they have already decidedly left in the dust.

My dedicated crew (aforementioned dude in left of frame)

I suppose this could be seen as demoralizing, but I love it. I was at 5.5 miles when the leader of the race passed me on his way back to the finish line. It never crosses my mind to be in competition with those folks, so I just enjoy them. They're fun to watch because they actually RUN: knees high, long stride (I like to say I "run", but I really do a moderately paced shuffle). Their legs form the top of a snappy "Z" at the start of a stride. It's pretty. And damn, when the first woman flies by there is nothing more fun than belting out a giant "woohooo! First woman!" in her honor.

I once heard a yoga instructor talking about not comparing your flexibility to that of your neighbor: "The only difference between tight people and the loosest of loose people is that the loose people have to go farther to reach the same edge."  Amen, Yoga Man.

So why do we worry about who is passing us, who clocked a better time, who looks better in their sports bra? I might use people in front of me as pacers to catch, but it's not because I want to pass them, it's because I want to pass my own expectations of myself. That day I passed a lot of folks, didn't stop once, and felt like my pace was faster than in any of my other runs. And guess what? When I checked my time days later, I came in third in my age group... out of three runners in my age group. HA! That does not change the fact that for me the race was a big win: I pushed myself, I felt great, and I had F-U-N. If I had been busy comparing myself with those other folks I would have felt slow, frumpy, and exceedingly flat-chested. What a waste of a good run. So I'm going to keep being in competition with the one person I know I can successfully challenge every time: myself.

This little guy was with his mom along the route, cheering the runners on with this sign and lots of cow bell.

How to run a half-marathon without noticing you're running a half-marathon

The two things you need to run long distances without really noticing are:

1. Music
2. A smidge of ADD

I am serious. Probably most things in the world could be accomplished with those two things. Or at least started with great enthusiasm and then abandoned halfway through.

Is there anyone who is not inspired by music? I dare anyone to don headphones, turn up the volume, and not move.

As far as being ADD, in normal life, I am not. But when I garden or run I am most definitely ADD. I cannot weed one full bed in the garden without abandoning it at some point because I saw a flower that needed replanting in another. It's the same way with running-- I'll be figuring out, say, what our down payment should be, then wonder what our grocery costs are for the month, then think about that documentary on the deception of the label "cage free", then wonder if my grandma liked the cows she owned, then "Hey look, a bird!".

I let my mind wander everywhere. I mull over relationships, fester about someone's Facebook post, think of things I want to discuss with Sky, talk to the horses as I pass their stalls, dream up endeavors like this 40th year challenge, solve the problem of world hunger.

Okay, not the latter one but I'm certain I'm close.  

Note to self: Pick up those knees!

When I'm not preoccupied with all those thoughts, I lose-- and I do mean lose-- myself in my music. I feel it in my very bones. I let it transport me anywhere it wants to take me. Depending on what tunes bust into the shuffle, it may go a little like this:

This Outfield song comes on and I imagine myself-- no, feel myself--playing the drum sections: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEXpwveBeC8

Johnny D. comes on and I am instantly seven years old, camping in the Sierra Nevada with my family, my forearms covered with pine needle dust that is so fine, it darkens even my pores. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=maqNGA6axc8

When the Beasties come on I feel as if I have rockets attached to my feet, and I can't help but do my best karate chop during the Miss Piggy part (as evidenced in the photos, I don't really give a shit what I look like when I run). http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9rnGp6_jHI

Then I get lost in the deep passion of the vocals and cello from Ms. Brandi Carlile: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3QLLhEwjHQ

Often I'll hear a song that reminds me of a friend I have lost, which will remind me of another lost friend, and for a few minutes it will feel as if they are right there, running beside me. And for those minutes, it will feel like everything will always be alright.

I like to call this one "Brrrrrrr".

At some point in every run, there will be at least one song that scoops me up above the trees, transforming me into a weightless kite attached to a divine string. My body tilts forward, and my heart leans into the world, which has become a fluffy orb of deep "Yes!". I am flying, and nothing, especially not shitty self-talk of the imported variety, can bring me down.

When I get to my turnaround point, I turn off my music. I notice how quiet it is, how the sunlight skips off the frozen twigs. I stretch my arms open wide and send out a silent thanks for being such a lucky little schmuck; lucky to have the time to run (dear God, two hours without anyone asking me for a glass of milk!), lucky to have a partner who cheers me on, lucky to have the privilege of feeling my muscles and joints work.

So my advice is this: saturate your iPod with music that wiggles a key into your heart and lets your best self out for a romp, let your mind join in, and put one foot in front of the other.

The Start

Forty is a weird age. When you're a kid, 20-years-old sounds positively ancient. You're sure you'll know everything there is to know about life once you get to be twenty. But as you get closer to that age, it doesn't sound that old anymore. That's when 30 starts sounding rusty. Then you reach 30 and it doesn't feel quite as ancient as you thought it would. Same with 35, or 37. But 40, 40 always sounds old. And that's the thing: now that I'm hitting 40, it still sounds old.

I think that's partly because I have clear memories of my parents at this age. I was 13 when my mom turned 40 and 10 when my dad did. I know what life starts to look like after you hit forty. There are the physical signs--which are not there one day and then pop up everywhere like a game of whack-a-mole that you are swiftly losing: the wrinkles peaking out (no, seriously, you will get lines from where your face rests on your pillow), the joints are a bit creaky, days spent in the sunshine have left a signature of stubborn little sunspots. But that's not the big deal of 40. The real kicker is the shift in perception. Because let's be honest folks, if we are very lucky little suckers, this might be the halfway point in this grand adventure.

So... who do I want to be for the next forty? Who do you want to be?

I'll tell you what, I don't want to keep on down the path I'm going. There's some gunk that's taken root in me in the last handful of years, and I'm ready for a good de-gunking.

As a dear old friend told me: "You've lost your sunshine, Aims."

In this, my 40th year, I aim to get it back. 

So that's the game for my 40th year on this planet, folks. I'm going to set in motion my own Grand Becoming... stepping into that Amy I can be proud of for my next 40 years. Some of it will take creating a new me, some of it will take remembering who I used to be. All of it will have to happen within the confines of being a full-time mom, and that's not only a necessity, it's also purposeful. I want to prove it's possible to feed your soul while still being a decent parent.

I've made a list of things I've always wanted to do with an eye to what those things will cultivate in me as a person. February--my birthday month-- I'll attempt to take on several of them within the month. I'm going to bust out the remainder of those bad boys on the list in a more leisurely fashion. You, dear reader, are invited to watch the predictable discomfort/exhilaration/fun/failure from the comfort of your armchair. Or you can make your own list too, and take on your next forty.

Here's my list so far (in no particular order):

-Build a piece of furniture
-Be able to do a handstand
-Have a food fight
-Leave flowers on someone's doorstep anonymously
-Kayak to Glass Beach
-Go to frickin' Canada finally
-Be able to do a pull-up
-Sing or dance everyday
-Go to a senior facility and hear someone's stories
-Go rowing in the Strait
-Learn to play "Kathleen" on the piano
-Go to an aerial or silks class
-Write a love letter
-Knit a hat with (gasp!) circular needles
-Go to parkour class with my kids
-Meditate
-Write that kids book I've had in my head
-Walk the dog of someone who can't do so themselves
-Go paddle boarding
-Volunteer at the homeless shelter
-Do a yoga class weekly 

In addition to these there are two larger goals: in February, run a half-marathon each weekend; in the summer, complete a physical goal like hiking the Tahoe Rim Trail or a 14er as a fundraiser for Buiga Sunrise School in Uganda.

All of these things either, 1) are a tad bit out of my comfort zone or, 2) bring me unfettered joy. For each and every one of them, the end goal is only incidental to the journey.

There's a Ben Franklin quote I have used as my email signature line for as long as I can remember: "Either write something worth reading, or do something worth writing." I am hoping this challenge brings me both.