Scheduling problems, bad weather and illness all interfered with a final 10K run for the group. As the nights grew colder and darker, it seemed that few wanted to venture out into the vast nothingness of the suburbs. (Perhaps running clubs should be reserved for the spring…but that’s another discussion.)

Completing this 10K has not created any great desire to run longer distances. I’m pretty happy chugging along at 5K three or four times a week, just for weight control and sanity. But I have learned the tools to run faster, and add a little more distance when I’d like to.

Through this process I’ve learned a few things about myself, would you like to hear what they are?

1. There’s strength in numbers. Call it peer pressure, call it accountability, call it an excuse for socializing—however you view it, I felt more responsibility to persevere and complete my goal because I made a public commitment.

2. Usually, I don’t give myself enough credit. I started off being able to run 5K very slowly. Did I appreciate that I could even do that? Not really.

Then I did 6K. Meh, well, big deal.

Then 7K. I huffed and puffed through it. It was hard.

Then 8K. It was really hard. Like, stop-in-the-middle-of-the-road-and-collapse hard.

Then one historic night, I managed 9K, with three other runners who were much faster, younger, and thinner than I. And I was shocked.

And now, I’ve met my goal, all by myself…10K, in 1 hour 30 minutes. Not great time (and I wasn’t whistling a merry tune by the end, either) but I did it…I really did it.

I was sore and tired and felt a bit weak, but wow! I’m so grateful for my health and for a body that moves the way it should. What an amazing machine houses our spirits.

3. I can accomplish more than I imagine, if I only try. You’re never as fat, wrinkly, dumb, poor, old or useless as you think. Really, I’m serious. We girls, we’re pretty hard on ourselves, don’t you think? How many activities have I automatically rejected in my mind over the years just because I figured it was impossible for me? Am I still dwelling on some irrelevant failure from 1986? The point is not whether I can do it, the point is whether I really want to do it.

4. I need other people more than I think. In the beginning, it was mortifying to be the slow one, the one who was constantly dragging the pace, but I quickly realized that the others in the group simply wanted to share their love of running with me and that seeing me improve was an encouragement to them, as well. Allowing other people to see our imperfections and receiving the gifts they wish to pour into us is not a sign of weakness, it’s the best of humanity. We are not dependent, we are inter-dependent.

And (arguably) the most important point:

5. Don’t expect to lose any weight if you’re still sucking back chocolate cake. And pudding. And oily grilled cheese sandwiches. And cookies. And fish ‘n chips…shall I go on? Well, you get the idea.

Last night, I ran 9 kilometres with the running group and we did it in about 1 hour 12 minutes or so. The last kilometre wasn’t enjoyable, but I managed to finish, feeling a bit stronger than the week before when we ran eight.

It turns out that we have an extra week before the end of this running program…perhaps I counted wrong. I was never very good at math. Or, perhaps someone just wants to torture me. Either way, it’s nearly over.

Physical ailments:

1. Upper left thigh is aching a bit. What seems like a murmur might turn into a grouchy squawk during the final 10 kilometre run. Must stretch more carefully and mind my speed. It’s a romantic thought to imagine I could keep up with people who are ten years younger and in better shape, but let’s face it: I left the superhero gig behind about 30 years ago, along with my beach towel cape and clothespin.
2. The corns and calluses on the balls of my feet are really becoming a drag to scrape. If anybody out there has a cure, let me know.
3. My custom orthotic is three or four years old and is getting pretty spongy. If I don’t replace it soon, the plantar fasciitis in my right foot is bound to return. That’s not fun. The last time, I was off my feet for four months.

This week’s requirements:

A 3 kilometre-run, six 400-metre hills (5 kilometres), and another 5 kilometre run.

Note to self: pee before you go, dummy.

Since the hardest part of running with people is forcing oneself to keep up (or at least a few paces behind), it was brutal. It is continually humbling to know that my companions aren’t trying that hard.

But we completed the route nine minutes faster than when I’ve been doing it alone during the week—that’s where pushing yourself takes you. Farther than you’ve ever been.

I’ve been stretching myself in other ways too in the past couple of months, trying to promote my first novel in the regular style: readings, book signings, and looking for promotional opportunities. It hasn’t been easy for me. I don’t like personal attention.  But I’m quickly learning that how to sell a product is as important as the product itself, and to the sell the product, you have to sell yourself.  I can’t tell you how difficult it has been for me, but I’ve gotten through it by taking one step at a time.

Just like that 8 kilometre run. You finish one step at a time.  It doesn’t help me to think about the finish line, because I only see the yawning distance ahead. So it helps to have people require more of you—they come alongside and say, “Don’t stop, you can do it!”

When I’m alone, I stop when I feel like it. I plod along and don’t worry about it. The most stretching experience in this program has been having once-a-week running partners who push you through just at the time you’re running out of steam.

Or, when you just stop, exhausted—right there in the middle of the road.

“No, no, keep going!” they protest, from over their shoulders. Then they run back and push you along physically from behind.

Whether you allow yourself to be pushed depends largely on your attitude. I could quit. I’ve thought about it. But I’ve already gone farther than I thought I could, so why stop now?

This week’s homework: A 5 kilometre run, a 3 kilometre run, and five 400 metre hills (4 kilometres).

P.S. My next reading and book signing is at Chapters bookstore in Dieppe, New Brunswick. Sunday, November 20, from four to six pm. (I’ll be stretching, if you wanna come watch.)

But I did it this morning.

On the treadmill…8.05 kilometres. Of course, it took me 72 minutes, but I did it without collapsing.

(Thank you, I am currently patting myself on the back.)

Afterward, while I was washing my hair and scraping my calloused feet, I pondered this concept of self-congratulation. I realized that I’m still not very good at it. I grew up with the concept that too many compliments make a person conceited, so they were rarely bestowed.

Not that I’m blaming anyone, but you know how it is.

And so, I’m pretty hard on myself most of the time. I assume a) I should be good at everything; and b) since I’m not, somehow I’ve let the whole world down.

When I was young, I rarely tried new things because I didn’t want to risk not doing something perfectly the first time—to make a mistake in front of people (and possibly look bad or endure laughter) was just too excruciating a thought to entertain.

And even today, I fight the notion that I shouldn’t try to do a 10 kilometre run because I couldn’t possibly keep up with the young’uns.

Ah, the ugly spectre of perfectionism. I thought I had exorcised her many years ago, but I recognize her rotten stink. In honor of Hallowe’en, perhaps I should drive a stake through her heart:

“Yes, thank you! Thank you so much! Yes, I realize running 8k is a great step forward for my physical health and not everyone tries it! It’s so kind of you to say so. Yes, I’m quite proud of myself.”

This week’s requirement: since the long run has already been completed, one 3 kilometre run, one 4 kilometre run, and four-400 metre hills.

Oh dear. The hills.

Here it is, week five out of eight and I managed a 7.3 kilometre run for last week’s required long, slow distance.  Last night we did 3 kilometres in just over 22 minutes. Increasing speed on the shorter distances is getting a little easier, much to my surprise, if only by a couple of minutes.

In college, I took a fitness test from the resident kinesiology student in the athletic department (What was her name…right, Jennifer). After studying my results—which indicated that I was flexible rather than fast and strong—Jen told me it was likely because of the kind of muscle fibres I had.

“Slow-twitch fibres are great for endurance,” she said, “and fast-twitch fibres are great for speed and short bursts of strength. Your muscles are probably composed mostly of slow-twitch fibres.”

What a great excuse! Feel free to use it.

I’ve spouted it often when I didn’t want to expect much from myself. I figured it was enough just to be out there huffing and puffing. “Well, I’m just not built for speed,” I said.

And isn’t that what life is like? To achieve anything worthwhile, you have to do quite a lot of huffing and puffing. The uphill battle, I think it’s called. You have to expect a bit more from yourself in those times.

Therefore, I don’t trust anybody who appears to have succeeded in life without reasonable effort.

This week’s long, slow distance requirement is 8 kilometres, plus a 4 kilometre run and a 3 kilometre run between today and Saturday.

This past Monday, October 17, marks week four of the running club, which means I’m half-way through the program.

I couldn’t make it to Monday’s meeting because of a scheduling conflict, but I did run 6.29 kilometres (10-minute intervals) Monday morning.

I did manage to shave two minutes off my time running 5 kilometres, but it doesn’t seem too impressive—I still feel like an old jalopy, coughing, spitting, hacking and bringing up the rear.

Now, for the fun part: today I have to run 7 kilometres (long, slow distance) plus two more 4 kilometre interval runs for the remainder of the week.

I’m really dreading the upcoming 400 metre hill days…so are my knees!

I missed two runs last week because of a chronic illness that rears its ugly head without warning from time to time.  I can’t do much on those days, so tonight, after three days of limited movement I figured my body would complain. And it did.

This evening capped off an incredibly warm and sunny Thanksgiving weekend, as evidenced by homeowners puttering on their lawns in the twilight while chatting with their neighbours, kids playing street hockey in their t-shirts, the languorous Canada Geese around the lake who seemed to have missed the memo about flying south, and a jeep parked outside a residence, caked from top to bottom in dried mud. (Somebody went off-roading today.)

Could it be that this walk/run thing actually works? I finished two minutes faster than usual tonight.

This week’s requirements: run 5 km, 10 minute running 1 min walk, 3 times this week.

Running in the deep, dark basement this week was made all the more boring because my eight-year-old son stole my television for his “man cave” and his Playstation 2. (As a result, I am now able to recite the sticker advertising on my Rubbermaid storage containers—in three languages.)

Such are the sacrifices of mothers.

But on Monday night, what I had feared most came upon me. I looked and felt like a turtle. My second weekly running meeting consisted of a 4K run (10 minutes run/1 minute walk)—which in itself wasn’t the problem. The problem was trying to keep up with the three or four 10K keeners who weren’t there the week before, but suddenly decided to show up and make me look like a sloth.

I can’t figure out why they’re so fast: is it because they’re half my age, or half my size?

And they talk while they run. They’re fast and they talk—I can’t figure that out. This is one reason why I’ve never run with people. When people do things together, they naturally want to chat. Not me—I find it hard to chat while I’m gasping for air.

We finished the 4K in about 30 minutes.  I managed to keep the others in sight, dragging up the rear by about a block, and I had to work pretty hard to do that. I suspect they were slowing down for me.

Perhaps it’s because I’m unconsciously pushing myself harder on the 10 minute segments, but I’m finding myself more tired than if I just ran without stopping. In some ways, I feel like my body is getting less fit, not more fit.

But as an old friend was often fond of saying, “children and fools judge things half done.”

So I’m pushing myself, right? That’s what this is all about.

Training this week is at least 2 more 4K runs (all running, no walking), and a 6K run/walk on Sunday.

You see, competition makes me nervous. I hyperventilated on the days when we were playing baseball in middle-school phys.ed class and I knew I would be the last to be picked. Everybody knew I was a terrible athlete: slow, uncoordinated, and resigned to the fact that I would drop the ball. I still can’t even skate. I might also be the only person who’s forgotten how to ride a bike.

So when I grew up and wanted to include some exercise in my life, I chose running. It’s not a team sport, I reasoned, so nobody cares how fast I go. Nobody’s depending on me to win. I don’t have to talk to or keep up with anybody, because I’m doing it alone—good thing too, cause I have to conserve my energy to push those leaden feet along. It burns a ton of calories and gets me out into the fresh air. The only expense is a good pair of shoes and athletic clothing.

But I’ve never pushed myself much. And once in a while, pushing yourself is good. This year, I’ve self-published a book, (it launches on October 8), and I figured, why not extend that stretching experience to something physical?

With that in mind, I arrived last night to find several novice walker/runners and a couple of more advanced people who participated in a devotional encouraging us to replace our tendency to complain with an attitude of gratefulness—the first training session that followed was an opportunity to put this new philosophy into practice for the beginners.

It seemed counter-intuitive to me to start over with an alternating walk/run…I’ve been doing five-K three or four times per week for 13 years, but I’ve never advanced beyond that.  As I get older, I’m getting slower. The leader suggested that spurts of running combined with walking will actually help improve my time.

“It’ll just be easier for you than for the beginners,” she said.

I gave her a doubtful look, comparing my chubby thighs to her skinny ones and thought, “She looks like a gazelle—are people skinny because they run, or do they run because they’re skinny?”

Anyway, we finished the first training session and I took the 10K training page home with me. I started this morning. Ten minute runs, alternating with one-minute walks for three kilometres. That’s still less distance than I’m used to running, but frankly, because of the travelling lunges the leader made us do last night, I was grateful. My quads feel like thick chunks of un-stretchable vulcanized rubber under my skin.

I hate lunges. Lunges are evil. (That’s not a complaint, it’s an observation.)

Right now I’m doing five-K in about 50 minutes. I’d like to improve that time by at least 10 or 15 minutes. And if I can complete a 10K by the end of eight weeks, so much the better.

I’ll check in once a week, and let you know how it’s going.

Yesterday, I picked grapes from two vines planted in my back yard six years ago. Despite enjoying too little sun and enduring too much rain, there was still a fair pile of tart morsels.  Not quite ripe, but it was best to pick them before the greedy birds gobbled them up.

I remember when I planted them. Still a tender green and soft from the nursery, they were like visions and desires planted deep in the heart, which is also like the ground that received them.

And then I waited. And waited. And waited. One season passed, and then another. Then four, then five. Hopes, dreams, visions…I wait for them, too.

There’s a time and purpose for everything under heaven, Solomon said, but you can forget that if you grow tired of waiting…just like you can forget about the vines. You can either carefully tend them, pruning, weeding, enriching the soil in faith, or you can stop trusting that one day, they’ll bear fruit.

The more I waited, the more I noticed how brown, gnarly and tough the vine became. Today, it twists and turns every which way, and has become remarkably prolific through many seasons when it seemed like nothing would ever come of it. Try as it might, even the Virginia Creeper (a very bossy plant) growing on the neighbour’s fence behind can’t seem to overtake it.  Hardships do the same thing for our visions.

And then, one gleeful day you see them, little bunches of round grapes, reddish-purple and lovely. But the work still isn’t over. What’s to be done with them after they’re gathered up?

Separate twigs from fruit, and skins from pulp until your purple fingers are stiff and sore, that’s what. Prepare bottles and work through finicky recipes and worry that the jam won’t set if you do it wrong. But usually it does, and you’re relieved when you hear the lids go “pop.”

You know what my favourite part of the whole process is? Writing “grape jelly,” and the year, on cute little round stickers you buy in the jam and jelly section of the grocery store and sticking them perfectly on the bottle. It’s the final stamp on something handmade, yours from start to finish.

But the greatest pleasure is giving a bottle away, so that some lucky person can enjoy the fruits of your labour, too. It doesn’t matter how many hours or seasons are wrapped up in that one little bottle, so easily consumed. Isn’t that what all our labours should be for? Not just to wallow in the harvest ourselves, but to generously share in fellowship with others.

That’s what faith is: continuing to tend the vine so that everyone can enjoy the fruit.