Keeping Pace

Keeping Pace

Call a spade a spade, and a jog a “jog”

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My return to “running” has been slow coming. I’ve been going around referring to my old jog pace as “my new run pace.” In reality, I don’t see me getting a ton faster and that’s got to be okay.

Earlier this week, morning yoga was cancelled (moon day) so I went for a morning run instead. It was surprisingly hot for morning. That, coupled with a long gradual uphill, had me out of breath. It was all I could do not the give up and walk but I kept up my effort.

I held onto my cheery disposition by greeting everyone I passed. It’s thing for me; saying “hello” to others makes my feel like we are together in our struggle in life (err, in our outdoor adventure).

It was mostly hikers on the trail with me, and most people greeted me back, which was especially nice. Then, along came another runner. He seemed to float as he moved towards me, and smiled as he passed. “Keep it up,” he sang, “You’re jogging well.” I waved, smiled, and mused, Jog?, I thought. Doesn’t he know that this is the new run pace? And then I laughed (literally out loud), Who am I fooling? Let’s call a jog a “jog.”

At least for today anyway.

I’m curious: Those of you who are slowing down, do you call your activity a “run” or a “jog.”

In search of my happy pace

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Two days ago, I toe’d the line for the first running event in 12 years. Although I have done several OCR races, the courses were so technical and challenging that there was not a lot of running involved — especially once I teamed up to support my brother earn his trifecta. Although, during the height of the pandemic, I ran a couple virtual running races (5k and 10k), nothing required the same amount of preparation as this half marathon race.

My training was pretty consistent, although I often caught myself judging it otherwise. I stuck to the training plan mileage, and resorted to hiking when my body would not allow me to run comfortably. By the taper time, it was clear that I would not be even close to keeping up with my 23 year old son, Ryan (aka YaYa). If I am being honest, the clear separation in abilities took a lot of pressure off of me. I could now run my own race and see if I could finally find my long-lost “happy pace.”

The race course had us running in circles through downtown, passing one another in the areas where the course backtracked along the same streets. These sort of race courses are not my favorites; they’re akin to cruel mind game in my opinion. Nonetheless, I was able to high-five Ryan as he passed me going the opposite direction.

Ryan looked good, which had me feeling good in a proud mom sort of way. At this point in the race, I felt alone in a crowd. The other racers talked amongst themselves or not at all. I made an effort to greet and thank the police, volunteers, and spectators — which was positive for everyone involved. 

Once we hit mile 6, the looping and zigzagging portion of the race was done and we were now headed in the right direction. I tried to pick up my pace a bit to see if I could make up some time. At least, in my head, I was going faster. In reality, I was pretty consistent in my 12ish minute per mile pace (minus the 5 minutes in the port-o-potty at mile 10). And as the race wore on, my fellow racers seemed a lot more open to a little friendly chatter.

In the final mile or two, my spirits were high but the muscle fatigue was really wearing me down — most especially my hip flexors. I slowed to a walk every now and again, reaching my interlaced hands up towards the skies in an attempt to lengthen the front of my body as well as my spine.

Once that finish line was in view, I dug deep to access everything I had left in me to sprint towards the finish. As I got closer, I looked ahead to see the photographer peering down to view the last of the images he’d taken. I raised my hands, smiled wide, and yelled, “Take my picture.” Everyone around laughed out loud including the announcer as he broadcasted, “Welcome to the finish, Julie Fergus.”

I did it. At least on this day, I found my happy pace. Stay tuned for what’s up next.

Nothing to Prove

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I have been thinking about a woman that I met around Mile 19 of Napa Valley Marathon (2005). Her name was Marion. She was 58 years old and running her 97th marathon. That day, I wasn’t the only one struggling. Marion’s father had recently passed, and she was dealing with a foot injury. But she was motivated to finish as she had a goal to run her the San Francisco Marathon as her 100th marathon. On that Spring day, this lady showed me how to dig deep and just keep on moving.

Now, seventeen years later, her words still motivate me to keep steady and “just put one foot in front of the other.” I’ve done my training: logging the miles, cross training, getting adequate rest, and eating right. On Sunday, I will toe the line once again and run my 1st race in 11 years.

My mantra for race day is:

Nothing to prove. ” 

 

 

Spring Update

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The last time I wrote, there was a hummingbird nesting in my backyard. If you’re wondering why I have been silent, it is because the nest was attacked shortly after my post – pieces of nest hanging from multiple branches, no sign of an egg anywhere, and momma hummingbird flying frantically about the area. I have no idea if she laid more eggs elsewhere or if she took some time to mourn the loss. I’d certainly understand, if that was the case.

Meanwhile, the anniversary of Tom’s passing came and went. This year marked 15 years since he left us. BoBo came up from SoCal to have dinner with YaYa and I. We reminisced a little, but mostly enjoyed an excuse to be together during these crazy times. It’s so hard to believe that those little boys of 8 and 14 years old are now grown men with such busy lives. I’m sure their father would be proud to see the men they have become. In fact, YaYa is getting ready to transfer to Tom’s alma matter.

Training-wise, I am struggling to find my happy pace. I did, however, find a few old voice recordings from Tom and the boys encouraging me to run fast. AND, I found some from you as well. The voices and accompanying words of encouragement that fueled me in my many BQ attempts, now fuels me to simply keep up the effort. Whether it is Coach Jeff reminding me to “dig deep”, Thunderclap saying “Cwoss the finish line”, or Runner Susan telling me that I have “great hair”; it all makes me smile, which keeps me moving. And I just want to say that I am still so grateful for all of the support and love over all these years.

As for the race, at this point (with < 20 days before toeing the line), all I can hope for is to finish the race in one piece.

Nesting 2022

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For the 2nd year in a row, my backyard is hosting a nesting hummingbird. This is most delightful and cause for celebration. By celebration, I mean the paparazzi in me is giddy with excitement.

As you may know, my fondness for hummingbirds goes way back — longer than I have been writing about them…or having them tattooed on my body.

While last year, I was surprised to discover that momma hummingbird had built her next around the sagging lights on my back porch which I discovered just as I was setting up for having the house painted.

The little nest of 2021 was tiny. So tiny, in fact, that if it held a shot of espresso, I would be SEVERELY disappointed.

The nest of 2022 is wider with more shallow sides and sits rather low in the tree. Already, I am worrying that something will disturb the nest, causing the eggs to fall and break. I tell my gardener to avoid the area and consider erecting the doggie pen around the tree to keep Kobe from his favorite pee spot.

The reality is that I am probably the biggest hazard. Momma hummingbird is on to me though. She caught me hiding in the nearby bushes with my 200 mm zoom lens. I snapped a few photos before packing it up and will leave her alone to tend to her nest.

Check back in a few weeks.  

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