RunLikeAGirl

Cape Town's Peaks

2012-02-01T13:22:00.004-05:00

4:30 a.m. Dark. Spitting rain. Cold. At least colder than I feel like it ought to be in South Africa’s summertime. We are barreling down the coast road from Llandudno, a seaside suburb of Cape Town, to the central market square, in my ex-pat friend’s pick-up truck. We’re cutting it fine to get to the 5 a.m. starting line for the Three Peaks Challenge, a race that defines the South African running sensibility—grueling fun in a gorgeous setting…oh, and if you’re not from here, well you better get familiar with the terrain, because there’s no course map, no actual “course” per se, only checkpoints.

In 1897, so the story goes, with nothing better to do that day, Carl Wilhelm Schneeberger decided to hike up all three peaks, which preside over Cape Town: Devil’s Peak, pointed as a wizard’s hat; Table Mountain, flat and fit for a banquet of the gods; Lion’s Head, the curl of the creature’s mane flowing down its back. In between each peak, he returned to the Old Johannesburg Hotel in Long Street to rest. A friend assisted at the occasion, timing the event for posterity. Possibly more posterity than CWS imagined. In 1927 and again in 1977, two others improved on CWS’s time and in 1997, Don Hartley, who had had an itch to take up the challenge for some 35 years, decided to scratch the itch in an official manner. So was born the Three Peaks Challenge, still run by Don Hartley, now assisted by Gavin Snell.

The challenge is to make our way, via whatever we think is the fastest route, up to the top of each of the three peaks. The object is to scale each peak and return to the Greenmarket Square in between each ascent; a task which sounds benign, until I see the steepness of the roads, and the roads are supposed to be the easy part. For each leg of the race there are checkpoints at the market square, near the base of the main trail up the peak (which may lead to many other possible trails) and on the peak. As we pass through each of the waypoints, our bibs are marked with rune-like scratchings, confirming the integrity of our race.

I am clueless about Cape Town geography. Luckily I have my friend, India as a guide and companion. A devout runner (are there non-devout runners in SA? If so, I haven’t met them), she lives in Cape Town, and did the race the year before, not to mention that the peaks are her running backyard.

At the starting line we’re bundled up against the chill and misting rain. I have on a tank top, a long sleeve shirt and a jacket, not to mention my peaked cap against the hoped-for sunshine. My bare legs would be happier in tights, a clothing choice others have made, but I’m banking on daylight bringing some warmth.

Only 120 runners get into the race each year, 60 new and 60 veterans. Not all veterans are created equal either. Pale blue bibs indicate runners who have earned a permanent number, by completing the challenge 5 times. Orange bibs are the runners at 4 complete, going for the blue.

At 5 a.m. we aren’t the only people on the street. The clubbing crowd is winding down and they stand on the sidewalk, swaying gently, smoking cigarettes and staring at us. The start is collegial, in the way trail races are, at least in my experience, runners happy to be together, simultaneously relaxed and fired, chatting, with the added panache (to my Canadian ears) of the purring South African intonations.

The race starts without hoo-ha, and off we go. Within only a few blocks runners have branched off in different directions, following whatever theory they subscribe to: longer distance and shallower climbs, or shorter distance and steeper climbs. The latter is India’s philosophy, so in no time we’re headed straight up. I can’t tell you exactly what route we followed. I know it involved some trail-stairs past someone’s meticulous, newly planted vegetable garden and barking dog, and then up a steep, gravelly, dirt road to Tafelberg Road, which snakes around the base of the peaks. We can see the blinking headlamps of other runners far off to our left, taking a different route up to the mountain trails.

Light seeps in around us, grey and misty. After the first checkpoint, we start up the official trail, or more accurately, trails, which zigzag up Devil’s Peak. Dashes of red, blue, electric yellow and green spread across the mountainside, as runners fan out to their favoured routes. The mountain curves around us, like a giant coliseum, then nudges up against Table Mountain. Grey-green scrub bushes create the illusion of a soft blanket, pulled up to the mountain’s chin, above which the rock is dark and scrape-y and sharp looking. About three-quarters of the way up, the leaders come flying down the trails around us, with that gaspingly, sure-footed agility the best of the trail runners have. Not I.

The peak is cold and windy. We miscue and end up on a different trail on our way down, the low shrubs scraping along our legs like five o’clock shadow. The damp trails are slick and treacherous. Back through the checkpoint, and down to the market square.

Some people say that down is worse than up. To each her own. Without taking a position on that particular issue, I can say that there is no respite on this course, save the few moments of relative flat along the mountain road, which last less time than it takes to recover from an ascent or descent.

There is really only one trail up Table Mountain, unless you elect to do some serious scrambling. We don’t. The thigh high steps up are challenge enough. The addition of chicken wire covering some of the rock, misted with rain, adds an extra zing to the experience. If you don’t catch your foot on a rock, you can always get it tangled in some chicken wire. There are regular hikers on the trail, too. Girls in thin white sneakers and tight jeans. Mascara and eyeliner. Boys in jeans held up by belts midway down their boxers. Children who look to be 6 years old follow older siblings. Young couples stop for hand-holding breaks, making way for our flow of scientifically clad participants in numbered bibs.

I can’t decide if I’m impressed by the apparent unpreparedness of so many of the hikers, or if it makes me feel diminished somehow. After all, if they can climb up Table Mountain, what’s the big deal in me doing it? Except, I suppose, that I’m going at speed (well, perhaps not speed, but moving determinedly), without breaks; and Table Mountain is number two and three is coming. And in any case, why can’t I own the sturdiness of my accomplishment and the hikers’? What they do and I do are not mutually exclusive. Nor is it even a competition, except inside my mind, which likes to insert itself into the wide-open expanse of a long, long race. But I have India to talk to, and we haven’t seen each other in a while, so my mind doesn’t get as much of an opportunity as it would like to mess with me.

The top of Table Mountain is blowing like crazy. If it were raining, it would be raining sideways. Luckily it’s not. Though not for lack of trying. The air is dense with chill humidity. From below we had seen that there was a tablecloth today—what CapeTownians call the swath of clouds that often hovers atop Table Mountain, draping over the edges like fine linen. Any view is completely obscured by the mist. I put on my gloves and re-don my jacket, which I’d been happy to shed at the bottom of Devil’s Peak. The checkpoint is friendly, despite the less than ideal conditions they’re waiting in for us.

India is crazy for the potatoes with salt and butter they’re serving. I stick to my peanut butter and jam sandwich, cut up into tiny pieces—and yes, I’m that obsessive that I brought my own from New York, from my favourite PB, right down to the particular kind of multigrain bread I like.

The bad weather seems to lift as we head back down Table Mountain. Cape Town is spread out below us, grids of buildings and roads, cozying up right up to the edge of the sea. And by the time we’re heading back up, for a third time, out of the market square, I’ve stripped down to my tank top.

An aside, one lovely benefit of passing through the start/finish twice, is that it’s located at an Inn, with, yes, clean bathrooms. A special treat I avail myself of both times through. Not to mention that I can refill my camelback with water in my gear bag, and load up on more food, if I’m running short. India uses passing through the market square to do a complete change of all her layers of shirts.

The route we take to Lion’s Head passes by the German School, where they are having a huge fair the day of the race. Cars backed up trying to get into the parking lot and double-parked along the streets. Did I mention that the roads are not closed to traffic? One of the many extra little challenges is navigating the ever-increasing traffic as the day blooms into a full-fledged downtown Saturday. There’s nothing quite like trying to sprint through traffic seven hours into a run. And, in my case, deal with the fact that cars aren’t coming from the expected directions—a task that overtaxes my brain late in the race, so that I look like a chicken at every intersection, turning my head back and forth, back and forth, back and forth to verify I’m clear to cross.

Since we are still operating on the shortest, steepest philosophy, the top of Lion’s Head involves chains and ladders. I don’t have a fear of heights. Luckily. And though India tells me a long story about a teenage girl she brought up here on a hike, who fell down the side of the mountain about 30 feet and fractured her arm, I manage to perform the contortionistic mental feat of believing that kind of thing will only happen to other people. Instead, I wonder if the runner behind me has ever had the opportunity to look up another runner’s skirt in an ultra marathon before, even if it’s all very modest and there’s nothing to see. I’m the only woman wearing a skirt (and none of the men are either, which is worth adding, because you never know with the trail racing crowd, I suppose). For me, there’s something about a skirt that creates the right balance between the rugged trails and my maxed out body and psyche. Maybe it’s the reminder than I’m not doing this race to be “one of the boys.” I’m doing it, in some small part, as a statement of what I think femininity looks like.

The peak affords us 360-degree eyeful of views. I wonder if I’m disoriented, because it seems like the ocean is on every side of us. Looking at a map later, I realize that Cape Town juts out into the ocean, like a mini boot of Italy (without the toe), so in fact, the ocean is on three sides. On our way down the chains and ladders, more heart stopping than the up, we encounter a runner whose leg is cramping and shaking so much, India needs to pull him over the top of the ladder he’s trying to climb. It’s my good fortune that the rest of the trail down Lion’s Head is more benign than Devil’s Peak and Table Mountain (something I failed to notice on the way up, when the end seemed impossibly far), dusty, single track, with some rocks and steps, and sooner than I’m expecting we’re back on the road again, passing the cars jockeying for parking, through the city streets, which are, with each return, growing vaguely more familiar.

As seems to be my penchant, I want to cry when I cross the finish line. And, in this case, I breathe an enormous sigh of relief, too. Unharmed. By grace of the universe. The feeling of finishing, of actually finishing such an effort overwhelms me for just a moment. And I get that Proustian feeling, that feeling that I am a different person in some tiny, indefinable way now, sitting on the front porch of the Inn with my friend, than I was when I sat beside her in the truck at 4:30 a.m. racing toward the starting line on the coast road. So that when someone’s three-year old son starts dancing around our table, I join him for a minute, shimmying on my wobbly-stiff legs, my bare feet dusty and wizened from a glorious, long day in running shoes.

This post will appear in UltraRunning Magazine's April 2012 Adventure issue with photos.

The Show Must Go On

2012-01-23T19:38:00.001-05:00

Last week a one-woman play I wrote and performed had a two night run at the Cherry Lane Theatre in Manhattan. It was my first effort at playwriting and acting since I was a teenager, so it was a leap of imagination, to say the least, to even think of undertaking the project. About a week before the show was to go on, I started to get nerve attacks at any odd moment. My director had upped the rehearsal intensity and, as the date got the closer, the full reality of what I was about to do flooded my nerve endings. I was going to go up on stage and be a character I had created. I couldn’t even blame the script on someone else.

I cried at strange times. Out of the blue I would be awash in an electrical nausea circulating just below my skin’s surface. I might have thought I was having a breakdown; that I couldn’t do what I’d set out to do.

Instead, I thought, “I know this. I’ve felt it before.” Before big races. As recently as the Three Peaks Challenge in Cape Town in November. The week before an intense, new effort I’ve cried while running, so overwhelmed am I by whatever the challenge is that I’ve taken on. I’ll think, “I can’t do this.” I’ve arrived at the starting line of marathons, of ultra-marathons and thought to myself, “I don’t know how to run.”

But I’ve learned, over the years, that I can do it, whatever “it” is. That the feeling of losing control, of not being up to the task is just part of the process, part of the creation of the just the right amount of nervous energy to fire me when the time comes.

So when I felt “that” feeling again a couple of weeks ago, as I headed into the play, it was almost like an old friend. Uncomfortable, to be sure, but familiar. This was the feeling of preparedness, the feeling that it was time to go, time to go for it.

Thank you, running. For preparing me for all the challenges in my life.

Ski Like a Girl

2012-01-09T22:44:00.001-05:00

I spoke last week with Bobby Murphy, head of the Vail Ski School in Colorado, where they debuted the Ski Girls Rock program, designed by Olympic gold medalist and World Alpine Ski Champion, Lindsey Vonn, over the December holidays.

Lindsey’s Lessons, as Bobby referred to the program, was inspired by Lindsey’s own experience of particularly excelling at skiing as a girl when her ski mates were exclusively girls. Not that Lindsey couldn’t give the boys a run for their money: but, as she knows from experience, sometimes it’s a lot nicer just to take the boy factor out of the equation. Take out the boy-ballyhoo and the boy ego, which may over-fire in the face of girl strength.

Bobby was extra supportive of the program idea, because he’d just witnessed the boy factor vs. girls’ only effect on his eight-year old daughter, Ella. At seven-years old, Ella had retired from soccer. She had played for a few years in a co-ed program and lost interest. As Bobby says, “it was like she wasn’t really there,” when he’d watch her on the soccer field. The boys were more aggressive, stealing passes from her, running around her, and generally ignoring her. When Bobby and his wife moved to Vail, they decided to try Ella in soccer one more time. But this time there was an all-girls soccer program. “It was as if it was a different sport, or she was a different girl,” Bobby says. Now his daughter is eager to practice her moves at home, and she’s excited to get to the soccer field.

As Wendy Hilliard, New York City Director of the Women’s Sports Foundation’s GoGirlGo! Program says, in terms of boys and men, the aim of the WSF’s program is to model girl strength for boys, so that they grow up in an environment where strong girls are valued, and for fathers to see and understand the impact of real access to sports (which may mean sports without boys) on their daughters. Bobby, it turns out, is that father; and he’s already sharing his deeper understanding of his daughter’s needs with other girls, through Lindsey’s Lessons.

An aside, I met Wendy, at a meeting with the Consul General of Colombia, Elsa Gladys Cifuentes Aranzazu, and Aurys Espinel, director of Asomujer y Deporte, an organization that works on a range of issues related to empowering women through sports. Colombia is apparently very interested in expanding and deepening the sports programs offered for girls, with the specific goal of girl and women empowerment. How wonderful. I hope at some point to have more to share on that.

In the meantime, back to Vail, CO, where the first Ski Girls Rock lessons went fabulously well. The female instructors are clamouring for the opportunity to teach in the special environment of the program. That is—a small group of girls (four to an instructor maximum) between the ages of 5-15, from low intermediate to the most advanced skill levels, working on skill development and race technique in a low pressure, less-structured environment. There’s not so much standing on the side of the trail and running through race drills, as there is honing their skiing in the midst of having a good time with each other. The social aspect, no surprise, is paramount. And if anyone thinks that the fairer sex can’t chat and excel at the same time…they can think again.

Lindsey’s Lessons are an opportunity for the girls to be girls together, have a good time, and, oh yes, shred some, too. And that sounds just right.

Pedaling for the Women of Rwanda

2011-11-15T11:49:00.000-05:00

“Race what you bring” is the inclusively spirited motto for the monthly races run by the Rwandan Cycling Federation. In July, Angelique Mukandekezi showed up at the race on one of the Chinese single speed bikes that are prolific around Rwanda and East Africa. Just to give you perspective, my bike, which is a pretty good bike, weighs, as I recall, since I tend not to fully absorb bike facts, in the neighbourhood of 17 pounds. Angelique’s bike weighed in at around 40 pounds. The race, at Nyamata, drew 84 women participants (in case anyone thinks the women of Rwanda don’t want to cycle, that number should make them think again) and Angelique won the women’s field. True, the field was not exactly packed with top racers, but Angelique’s win drew interest from Jock Boyer at Team Rwanda, who had been paying some attention to the women’s field, wondering if he might find the right woman to add to their ever-strengthening team of men (who were profiled in a New Yorker article by Philip Gourevitch).

Jock brought Angelique in for a test, which basically means that she came to his house in Ruhengeri, where the team is based and trains and got on the Velotron, which essentially calculates the energy wattage output of the person riding. Angelique had the highest watts/kg ratio of any woman tested in Rwanda. And so, in September this year, Angelique became the first woman on the team. In October, Angelique’s first full month of training, the team paid her 30,000 Rwandan francs (approximately $50 USD) to stay out of the field (Angelique normally earns her living as a field worker) and cycle train exclusively. For perspective—the average annual income in Rwanda is $400 USD. Not quite junior bond trader pay, but Angelique is making pretty good money for a 22-year-old woman in Rwanda.

Staying out of the field means that every Monday, Angelique rides about 100 miles from Bougasera, where she lives with her parents, to Ruhengeri. She trains Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and then makes the long ride home on Friday.

Inspired by Angelique, 24-year-old Janette Uwimana, who had been hanging around the team on and off, more on around the Tour de Kigali the last couple of years (cycling groupies aren’t only for Lance), upped her effort and has joined, too.

Being a strong woman in Rwanda is not easy. The tiny African country often feels more colonial than African, Kimberly told me. An already very conservative ethos is overlaid with a strong Catholicism. There’s not a lot of music. The women still wear the traditional dress for the most part and are timid and uneducated (as are a majority of the men, too—the uneducated part, not the timid bit). Women work the fields and have babies, while the men, in large part, hang out and drink banana beer, conserving their energy for a round of spousal abuse when their wives finish working.

When Angelique started at the team’s training camp, she wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. Well that’s changing. A few weeks on the bike, getting stronger every day, and Angelique is starting to have fun with the guys, to be part of the team.

A couple of weeks into her training, Angelique encountered her first overt harassment on the bike. About two and a half hours into a rainy training ride, shortly after nailing a tough, technical downhill, Angelique got a flat as they rode into a village. Janette and Kimberly got to work on changing Angelique’s tire (something she will learn in the weeks to come). By the time they had finished the job, there were about 50 people hanging around, mostly young men—not unusual when Kimberly stops, since a white woman, especially on a bike, is quite a strange creature to behold. When the three women hopped on their bikes to head off, a man grabbed Angelique’s back wheel as she was clipping in. Angelique, still fighting her timidity, didn’t know how to react. Fortunately, Kimberly had no such reservations. She screamed at the man to back off (using expletives appropriate to the situation). He backed off.

When Angelique caught up to Kimberly she yelled, in her newly acquired English, “Thank you—Kim!” Kimberly had never heard Angelique so much as raise her voice. Later, Kimberly explained to Angelique through the interpreter that Angelique can and should say no anytime anyone touches her bike, as forcefully as she needs. Kimberly might have added, anytime anyone touches her body, but one piece of progress at a time. And perhaps, for Angelique, learning to protect her bike is the best initial step to learning how to protect her body.

In her first week with the team, Kimberly had “the” conversation with Angelique. No getting married and having babies, if she wants to ride with the team. Not never, but not now. Because in Rwanda, the fact that Angelique has made it this long without getting married, and is still childless at 22, is something unusual already. She has already withstood the typical societal claims on her body for longer than many other women.

Janette, too, is coming out of her shell, getting stronger. Against the prevalent cultural grain, or men preferring women with a nice bit of extra, Janette is losing the bit of weight she needs to shed to be stronger on the bike, improving her diet, cutting out the soda and other junk food, claiming personal control over her body, shaping it to her ends, not to what society (aka men) want.

The next task for Angelique and Janette is to develop their competitive instinct. That was supposed to happen in the Rwandan National Championships on October 30^th, where Kimberly was hoping that Angelique and Janette could place first and second, by working together, something they were learning in the last days before the race. Unlike the men, Angelique and Janette don’t understand yet how to be competitors on the bike and friends off the bike. In workouts, whichever of the two is lagging will cycle hard to catch up, but just that. Once they are riding together again, neither tries intentionally to outstrip or push the other. To compete is not in the Rwandan women’s upbringing, something Kimberly hopes to change.

Making that change is going to be hard. Women’s cycling in Rwanda is not exactly top of mind, even for the Rwandan Cycling Federation, which canceled the women’s race at the National Championships at the very last minute. Kimberly publicly complained, “I've been training these girls for the past four weeks, spent over $600 on their training, rode hundreds of miles and they are ready and wanting to race and that's it?” She went on to tell me, “I said, I was disappointed in their decision and said it wasn't right to do that to the girls and if they were going to cancel the race that it should have been done weeks ago.”

Undeterred, Kimberly says, “This is simply a delay.” She and Jock already have plans to put on their own women’s race in the New Year, once they’ve gotten through this hectic period of the African Continental Championships (November 8-11) and then the Tour of Rwanda (November 20-26).

In the meantime, training continues. Progress, being what it is, is never a straight line. One week, about five weeks into Angelique’s training, she seemed to forget how to clip in and out of her pedals, cycling for miles without clipping in, and then, when she finally did, tipping over still clipped in, damaging her bike. I won’t even mention the tire changing struggles. But Kimberly will not give up on Angelique, on Janette, on the future of women cycling in Rwanda, which she sees as inextricably intertwined with the future of women in Rwanda.

Because Team Rwanda, as you’ve guessed by now, is about more than cycling. For the men, “we are trying to train them to be not just good cyclists, but also good men,” Kimberly says. In addition to the practice of discipline, hard work and adherence to a training schedule, learning to read and write English, for example, is part of the training camp curriculum, an invaluable skill for any advancement in Rwanda or elsewhere in Africa (or outside Africa). Now that there are women on the team, there’s an added opportunity for the men to learn to respect their strong women counterparts.

Kimberly’s goal is to develop a field of women cyclists over the next twelve months, so that next year at least one Rwandan woman, if not more, will be competing at the African Continental Cycling Championship, a cycling event notoriously short on women participants.

What’s good for the gander is in spades for the goose. A survey of landscape of studies on the topic done by the Christian Science Monitor shows emphatically that empowering girls and women is one of the surest routes to economic and social development in a country. The fact that women may occupy political positions in government is not necessarily an indication of women’s general condition—certainly not in Rwanda. Women’s value and advancement needs to develop from the bottom up. How we empower women may be through education, it may be by providing them with micro-loans, and it might just be by putting women on a bike and teaching them how to ride strong and fast for all to see and respect.

As Kimberly says, “when we ride through a village, the woman on the side of the road clap and cheer for Angelique and Janette. I like to think that every time they see them on their bikes, they see a possible future that’s different. Maybe it sounds pie-in-the-sky, but I think that we can change the society for women, one bike at a time.”

You can help that change happen. Add your voice to Kimberly’s work. Send Team Rwanda (choose Kimberly as the contact person) this note: “I support women’s cycling in Africa and hope that Team Rwanda will develop a serious women’s team!”

Just Quit & Just Do It

2011-10-31T12:22:00.000-04:00

To find our way in life sometimes we have to just quit, and other times we have to just do it. In Kimberly Coats’ case, she did both.

In 2008, at 42 years old, possessed of a high paying dream job as business development manager for Sysco, schmoozing the top chefs in Vegas, and generally possessed of all else we are supposed to want to “possess” in a quintessentially successful American life, a house, a car, a husband and such like, Kimberly realized that what she had was not what she wanted. She made of list of things that were important to her: She wanted to travel. She wanted to do something that helped people, to give back to the world in a meaningful way. And she wanted to incorporate her love of cycling into that mix of travel and purpose.

Around the same time, Kimberly read Positive Spin, an article in the September 2008 issue of Outside Magazine about Project Rwanda, a non-profit “committed to furthering the economic development of Rwanda through initiatives based on the bicycle as a tool and symbol of hope.” One of Project Rwanda’s main initiatives was designing and distributing at low cost special cargo bikes for the transport of coffee (one of Rwanda’s key crops). The so-called coffee bikes significantly decreased the transport time to processing plants, so that the coffee berries were that much fresher and the resulting product that much higher quality.

The article released the proverbial bee into Kimberly’s bonnet (or cycling helmet, in her case). Six months later, in April 2009, she was on a plane to Rwanda for a three-month volunteer stint with the project. Volunteering turned into paid work and Kimberly got involved not only in the coffee bike work, but also with one of Project Rwanda’s other initiatives, a national cycling team, Team Rwanda (which was the subject of a long article by Philip Gourevitch in The New Yorker). When Kimberly’s contract with Project Rwanda finished, she increased her involvement with the cyclists and eventually switched full-time to working with the team, which is now its own entity.

The team operates on a shoestring budget. Kimberly earns in a year now, what she used to earn in a month. She doesn’t have health care, and she can’t count on having water or electricity every day. Her clothing occupies half a shelf. And she and her husband are divorced. As she says, “There’s that old cliché that if you follow your heart and passion, then the money will come. Well, I’m doing that, and I guess I have a roof over my head and no debts.” Though she adds, “I’m way behind on retirement.”

I believe that what that shopworn cliché really means, is that money’s importance is diminished in the face of passion. To wake each day with a clear sense of purpose, with a drive separate and deeper than making money, changes our views of what “enough money” means. There is, after all, no absolute benchmark of what “the money will come” looks like.

When I speak with her, Kimberly sounds happy, except that word is too pale by far to describe the fullness she describes. How she sounds is in love, not with someone or something, but with everything. She is traveling. She is doing something that she believes is changing life for the better in Rwanda. And she is cycling up a storm, training with the men, and now the women, on the team, and in the best shape of her life, at 45.

Speaking with Kimberly, I was reminded of a documentary I saw recently about Bill Cunningham, a long-time fashion photographer for the New York Times, known for his candid street photos of celebrities and ordinaries alike. At 82 years old, though he marinates daily in haute couture circles, surrounded by the beautiful, the rich and the powerful, Cunningham himself lives an ascetic life. He has little money. He duct tapes his rain poncho when it starts to show wear, and he has not much use for food, except as fuel. He has never had a romantic relationship. Yet, as portrayed in the film, so steeped is he in his love for his work, that in a world of legendary bitchiness and snobbery, he maintains a DNA-deep kindness, of an authenticity rarely achieved. Cunningham made me want to try harder, to love more. So does Kimberly.

When Kimberly comes back to the US for visits, her friends and family offer her jobs and alternatives. They suggest it’s time to finish up with her “African adventure.” On the side, some ask her what her secret is, how she did “it.” Kimberly says, “The secret of how I did it is…I quit.” No secret. It’s not headline news that we are attached to the stuff and style of our lives. Nor is it news that when we find the will to voluntarily let go of our supposed needs, that many are happier for it. We make space for love.

And yet…we hang on for dear life, convinced that the next career move with a fat pay raise, the next acquisition of…some…thing…will be the one that assuages all of our desires. And then…it doesn’t.

I’m not ready to give up my nice life and run off to Africa, or start duct taping $5 rain ponchos; but it makes me think: What can I do more of? What can I do with less of? I aspire, not to stuff or style, but more love.

Is Strong Sexy?

2011-10-18T14:43:00.001-04:00

I was asked recently what I thought about men watching women’s sports for the eye candy. Did I think it was bad, the interviewer asked? My immediate thought was, yes, of course. I don’t want men watching women athletes for the turn-on, I want men to be watching for the strength and grace and prowess of the players; because the women are just as good athletes as their male counterparts. When I thought further about the question though, my feelings about the issue got more complicated. In thinking of World Cup soccer, a sport where the women are fierce, fast, strong and covered in mud…well, if men find that sexy, how much better that is than the media-generated ideal of fragile bunny beauty, a mere willow wisp, toppling over from the weight of her surgically enhanced breasts.

ESPN seems to think that strong women are sexy, or at least their magazine’s 2011 Bodies We Want issue capitalizes on this new direction in women’s sex appeal, with its photo spread of modestly posed nude photos of top ranked athletes, women and men, showing off just how rippling a woman’s abs can be.

The bodies on display are, indeed, beautiful. And if we women are killing ourselves trying to live up to some mythical beauty ideal, wouldn’t it be nicer if the ideal were not quite so mythical, and instead something real. I feel certain that Hope Solo is not photo-enhanced for television while she is playing soccer matches. And though I will never play World Cup soccer, I can aspire to be my strongest self. The only thing stopping me from my own rippling set of abs is the sit-ups I don’t do (okay, and maybe chocolate cake). Not only is the strong, tough, active woman ideal far more attainable than anything we see in Playboy or Vogue, because it is less constricted in its definition, the strong ideal is healthier, physically and mentally.

When I say healthier, I really mean it. The beauty ideal propagated in our society is ruining girls. Beauty and sexuality have become so completely intertwined as to be indistinguishable. A Report of the APA Task Force on the Sexualization of Girls found that the increased sexualization in magazines, marketing, television shows, movies and song lyrics harmed girls’ interpersonal relationships, fostered greater body dissatisfaction (as if that issue needs more kindling), and its companion—eating disorders, increased depression, generally affected physical health, and even led to diminished cognitive skills (apparently they posed math problems to girls trying on sweaters and girls trying on bathing suits, and those trying on sweaters scored much higher).

The Disney princess effect is sucking the life out of girls, leaving them on the front stoop, waiting for Prince Charming, instead of outside running around in the fresh air, where they might not look pretty-in-pink every moment and their tiara might fall off. The Women’s Sports Foundation reports that girls drop out of sports at a rate of 6:1 versus boys. And a Girl Scout study showed that many girls between 11-17 years old don’t play sports because they think their bodies don’t look good.

And even if girls do think their bodies look good, there are a lot of messages out there that we shouldn’t be using our bodies for sports anyway. Passing through Times Square subway station these last weeks I’ve been struck by the new Levi’s ad, which shows boys skateboarding and doing tricks on bikes wearing their jeans, whereas the girl’s jeans are down around her ankles (she’s ostensibly pulling them on, after what, who knows, since she’s standing beside an SUV in the middle of nowhere), flashing us a good look at her lacy panties. The tagline is about creating our legacy. So…boys’ legacies lie in extreme sports and girls’ in their undergarments.

I think that’s enough bad news for now. And lest it’s not obvious, when I advocate for a new beauty or sexy ideal, I’m not advocating for sexually provocative sports uniforms. Scantily clad beach volleyball players do not advance the cause. The Lingerie Football League is not part of the healthy new ideal I’d love to see. Leveraging what Catherine Hakim calls our Erotic Capital (i.e. our sex appeal) in her book of the same name, will not, in my opinion empower us, as Julie Ruvolo suggests in Forbes blog post, “If You’ve Got It, Charge For It”: The Feminism 2.0 Manifesto. Instead it sets women up against each other, in that eternally unhealthy competition for men’s attention, and ensures that aging will continue to be seen as the end of our power and worth—Ruvolo sets that age at 35, so I’m way out of time anyway.

What we want is to redefine sexy completely. There’s hope. The ESPN body issue is a slight breeze, perhaps portending bigger winds of change. And there’s The Kicking Queen, Brianna Amat, who recently became Homecoming Queen and kicked a winning field goal for her football team (all male, except her) on the same day.

One question is whether men will still find the eye candy soccer player (or football player or runner) sexy when they have to deal with the actual strong woman behind the shin guards.

Another question—should that even matter?

Girl Changes Her World

2011-10-10T11:23:00.002-04:00

You may have noticed, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the under-layers of that eternally provocative question—“why are we here?” Maybe there doesn’t need to be a reason for everything. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. But isn’t it nice to have a reason for something as important as our existence? At a fundamental level, think of how much more reliable and motivated you are when someone else is counting on you for something. Showing up for someone else feels good, right? So is that where we might locate some of our reason for being, our purpose?

I was reminded of this in a stark way reading Leymah Gbowee’s, Mighty Be Our Powers, about coming into her womanhood and finding her strength and activist core in Liberia during the brutal civil war in that country. At one point, speaking about coming out of a long depression (brought on by an abusive relationship, not to mention the horrors of the violence in Liberia), she begins to feel the power of meaning in her life, “I wasn’t sitting home thinking endlessly about what a failure I was; I was doing something, something that actually helped people. The more I did, the more I could do, the more I wanted to do, the more I saw needed to be done.”

Leymah’s story is a we-shall-overcome tale, if ever there was one. But most of us, thankfully (!), do not face such overwhelming challenges. Our worlds are relatively peaceful and easy. Complacence is natural. Nothing in our direct field of vision seems to “need” us. Yet, that feeling Leymah had is, I think, still familiar. Most of us have days we sit at home feeling like failures, then something demands our presence, and I don’t mean just physically, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and there’s no space left for despondency.

I spoke to one young woman who found her opportunity to contribute in her own backyard. Paloma Wiggins is a junior in high school in Yellow Springs, Ohio (pop. 3200). She started running in the 7^th grade, when one of her friends encouraged her to join the cross-country team. The distances seemed crazy long at first, but it didn’t take much time before Paloma had fallen in love with running over hill and dale, with the feeling that comes with being involved in a sport.

When the small team of five girls got to high school, they decided they at least needed t-shirts, so people would know they existed. The boys’ team had shirts, oh yes, and other PR perks, like free frosties at meets. Paloma, passing over the bake sale, suggested the team organize a 5k event in town for girls and women only, as a way of fundraising for their team. 150 women turned out the first year. “I realized, this was about more than raising money for my cross-country team,” Paloma says. “I saw how invigorating and powerful and supportive it was to have a women-only event. And hearing the women’s stories, ‘this is my first 5k’ or ‘this is my first run since my husband’s death,’ well it was amazing to feel that I was helping women through things in their lives, and helping them feel active, healthy and productive.”

Paloma founded Simply Women Ohio three years ago, after that first 5k event. Although the 5k is the main event of the year (217 women and girls showed up this year—a huge turnout for the size of the community), her organization embraces a broader mission. Simply Women has also established a leadership in athletics award, which will be presented each year to the graduating senior female athlete at the Yellow Springs high school who best demonstrates an enduring model of leadership and a lasting commitment to female athletics. In other words, not necessarily the best athlete, but the girl who is a team player, who encourages others and gives back into sports, not to mention taking her studies seriously.

Paloma’s mission, through Simply Women, is to create broader support structures in the Yellow Springs community for young women participating in sports and other healthy activities. In the short term, Paloma is already searching for her successor, because after next year, she’ll be off to university and she needs someone on the ground in Yellow Springs to carry on the day-to-day work. Any takers?

Not all of us find our purpose so early in life. And that’s perfectly fine. If we’re listening, our minds, our spirits, our bodies even will let us know what to do when the time is right. Start simple. What things get you up happy in the morning? Notice what makes you feel good. Explore those avenues and you just might find your Simply Women Ohio opportunity.

This post appeared on the Huffington Post under a different title.

Shoot to Score

2011-09-19T11:34:00.001-04:00

When I ask, Olivia says she thinks she’s been playing soccer for four, maybe five years. Five years, her mother, Jane, clarifies. So Olivia (Liv to most everyone) has been playing soccer for half her life (and maybe it ought to count for more, since for at least the first eighteen months of her potential soccer playing life she wasn’t yet walking).

Liv plays a lot of soccer. Last spring, for example, she played on a club team that practiced for an hour and a half on Tuesday, Friday and Saturdays, played games Sundays, and had what’s called academy practices on Monday and Wednesdays (of which Liv was only required to attend one, but always attended both). Her own hour and a half practices and extra academies were apparently not quite enough, because on Tuesdays her younger brother’s team’s academy practice was before hers, and Liv would play with them for that hour and a half, too. For the record, Jane wanted me to add this important not-a-tiger-mum-disclaimer: All add-on practices are at Liv’s behest.

One of Liv’s favourite add-ons is when there’s a scrimmage between the girls and boys teams. “The games get stronger and more physical when the girls play the boys,” Jane says. “Like if we really want it,” Liv says, “we have to put more power into the ball, and be more aggressive. So we’re everywhere, running fast, dribbling, passing and taking more shots on goal.” Like having the confidence to race Nascar rules in Ski Cross, the girls’ game goes up a level when they face off with the boys, an opportunity for the girls to show themselves just how much game they’ve got.

All the playing has paid off. Liv’s good. She plays on the best club team for her age. In the summers though there’s no club team, so Liv participates in the local soccer camp. And it was there this summer that Liv’s commitment to and understanding of her sport was tested in a new way.

The girls were playing Around the World, a fast moving drill that mimics game conditions and tests a player’s ability to shoot on goal from different angles. Girls rotated in and out of the goal keeping position, as they chose. Liv was up and took her shot on goal. June, the goalie, a Hope-Solo-in-training, tried to block Liv’s ball with her wrist and broke the growth plate in her wrist. Or at least, that’s what Liv learned later. At the time, June stopped playing, but the no one knew how serious her injury was.

The next day, neither June, nor her older sister, Martha (a friend of Liv’s) showed up to soccer camp. And when Liv called Martha, to ask if she’d come over to play, Martha said she was going to the doctor with her mother and June, to check out June’s wrist, which was probably broken, maybe from soccer camp. Liv hung up the phone and dissolved in tears, telling Jane, “I KNOW I broke June’s wrist.” Jane called June’s mother immediately, to confirm the story.

Despite Liv’s distress at the phone call, later that day, Liv went over to Martha’s for a sleepover, and June acted as if everything was fine between them. It wasn’t until the next morning that things got strange and uncomfortable. At the swimming pool with Liv and Martha and her cousins, June started to act like her broken wrist was Liv’s fault, after all.

Even if it’s been a long time since you were ten-years old (as in my own case), I bet that, like me, you can still remember at a cellular level the pain of being shunned by other girls, no matter how brief the moment. Hell hath no fury and all, well that applies equally to girls as to women. I would not wish it on anyone.

Liv retreated to her mother’s side to recoup her mojo, and Jane recommended she text her club team soccer coach, Noah.

Noah has coached Liv’s club teams for the past two years. His philosophy is to coach the whole person, not just the athlete, and he well understands the leadership and independence he is instilling in his young soccer athletes (his “little warriors” as he calls them), particularly the girls. One of his practice (and game) rules is that a player is never supposed to say, “I’m sorry” on the field, during play. Something I can imagine girls having trouble with, since we’re socialized to apologize for any aggression. After all, a proper girl isn’t aggressive, right? Ha.

An aside, Natalie Angier offers up this perspective, in her book, Woman: An Intimate Geography, “Aggression and depression sound like two different, even polarized phenomena, but they’re not. Depression is aggression turned inward, directed against the self, or the imagined, threatening self.” So perhaps one reason for the significantly higher incidences of depression in women is our propensity to apologize for any aggressive tendencies we might accidentally manifest, say, on the soccer field.

Of course, the girls on Noah’s team can say sorry afterwards, but so long as they are playing clean and fair, there’s no apologizing mid-flight for the accidental hurts inflicted. It’s sports. It happens. Noah’s rule saves a lot of time and breath.

Liv texted Noah that she had taken a shot on goal and broken the goalie’s arm, asking him what she ought to do. Noah texted back, “Get her an ice pack,” and then, “Can’t wait to see you strike the ball when you get back [for the club team season].”

Word got around the soccer camp community about the incident. One coach said to Jane, “If Olivia were a boy, she would have been hoisted on the other boys’ shoulders.” But another coach made a backhand comment to Liv about breaking June’s arm.

Liv has had some bad moments, though once she’d texted with Noah, she never revisited any guilt or uncertainty about her blamelessness. That was solidly past tense. She’s glad, too, that the summer soccer camp doesn’t overlap with the club team, so its unlikely the story will get around the gossip mill. It’s just easier if she doesn’t have to answer, “You broke her arm, really? Was it by accident?” And she is sure of this: “I felt bad, because June was hurt, but it wasn’t my fault.”

Liv says the incident won’t hold her back in her game. Three cheers! That’s playing soccer like a girl.

Workout With Purpose

2011-09-16T09:53:00.001-04:00

We workout for all sorts of reasons—maybe we do it to de-stress, or to lose weight, to get stronger, or to be healthy, or for all those ends and others. All good reasons, but beneath this first layer of forces driving us out onto the roads or trails, into the pool, to the yoga studio, or the gym, resides a sub-layer that is the deeper core of meaning we bring with us into everything we do. That is: we nurture our physical, emotional and spiritual health, so that we can live our best life.

As integrative physician Tieraona Low Dog, MD, of the Arizona Center for Integrative Medicine at the University of Arizona in Tucson, said in an article in Delicious Living, “When you make health the goal rather than viewing it as a resource, it’s easy to get stressed out, rigid, and narrow-minded. Health is what helps you live the life you want—it’s a resource, not a destination. (my italics)” She is talking about the negative stress we can bring to the very act of working out. For example, working out to get thinner, and beating ourselves up every day we’re not thin enough (never mind, by what media-mediated standard we might be judging the result); or working out to get stronger or faster, but in the process actually wearing ourselves down and getting super-cranky.

I would take this resource-not-destination thought another step further, and point out that if you are inclined to feel that we are here for a purpose, and that part of our raison d’être is to make the world a better place (after all, what else could it be? Certainly not to make the world a worse place, right? Besides, what better way to feel that we have agency in our lives, than making a difference in our world), then having the resource of our good health and well being is a key ingredient in our ability to fulfill our purpose.

Pilar Gerasimo, in her Manifesto for Thriving in a Mixed-Up World, goes further still. She says that being healthy is a revolutionary act by which we reclaim our vitality that is both our individual right and our collective responsibility. Big words those—“right” and “responsibility.”

Indeed.

How we are in the world matters. How we approach our workouts is just one aspect of how we are in our lives. Not a separate aspect, mind you. We are one person, consistent within ourselves at our essential center.

Lest this all sound a bit high-minded and unattainable, I’m not talking about becoming Gandhi, quite the contrary. I am referring to the small things, the every day things. Most action we take has the power to make the world a better or worse place. How we treat the people around us. Did you smile at the barista when you got you’re a.m. coffee? Or were you scowling for your caffeine, your mind already hours ahead into your day? The very energy we bring to our life affects those around us, and ripples outward. You know what I’m talking about—those people who make you feel good, just by being around them (and their opposites). And when we are strong and healthy, how much more likely it is that we have that positive energy to spread around. That’s who we want to be. And in the end, that’s really why we workout.

Sounds heavy. But in fact, adopting this perspective can bring an incredible lightness to your workouts. Instead of feeling the pressure of the goals you may have set for yourself (that you may be fixating on, or beating yourself up about), you are lifted in the updraft of energy that purpose creates.

You can also find this on Huffington Post.

Vote, Run, Lead

2011-09-09T18:03:00.002-04:00

I was privileged to meet with dynamo activist Tiffany Dufu this morning, whose bracingly organized mind and big ideas on women's leadership had me glued to my chair while she talked. And I tried not to interrupt too much with questions and my own views on how sports fit with her flow.

Tiffany is the President of The Whitehouse Project, which, as you may now guess, means the "run" in the title of the blog post does not refer to the kind of run I'm usually talking about...but have no fear, I'll bring it all together (the function of my somewhat one-track mind). The Whitehouse Project has for the past decade, through its Vote, Run, Lead program, identified, encouraged, educated, trained and generally set women on their way in politics. New initiatives coming will focus on leadership in other key arenas, like business.

One of the difficulties women face on entering politics is their often innate (genetic? socialized?) aversion to public declarations of ambition. Not just, "I want to do this." But also, "I'm the best person to do this." As Tiffany said, it's as if women believe in the Santa Claus of affirmation, like somehow if we do a good job someone will notice and pat us on the back, without us ever having to call attention to our efforts. We know how well that works out. Where is that Santa guy?

Politics teaches women how to own their ambitions. And if you've read my blog before, you probably already know where I'm going with this. But I'll go there anyway. So does sports. There, I said it, again. Because we're not out of the woods, and reminding is reinforcing, until owning our ambition is encoded into our very DNA. Sports (and involvement in politics) helps shift our consciousness from "maybe someone will notice me over here, tucked in the corner," to "here I am and I want this."

You can vote, run (for office), lead, or you can vote, run (on the roads or trails), lead. The important part is to know, own and capitalize on your strength. That means putting your skin in the game (i.e. vote), owning your strength (i.e. run) and mining the value of your strength (i.e. lead). We're here for a reason (here as in, on this earth, in this world). Let's not waste our time waiting for Santa to show.

The Gift of Not Finishing

2011-08-31T13:28:00.002-04:00

Last week I set out with my partner to do a 20-mile trail run in the South Yuba River canyon, from Little Washington to Purdon Crossing. There would be some elevation gain -- okay, 6,000 feet to be exact -- but we took the optimist's path, and set that detail aside. True, we arrived late to the trailhead (okay, noon on a blazing, 95-degrees-in-the-shade day and oh yes, there was quite a bit of non-shade on the trail). And between us we only had three liters of water. You wouldn't be wrong in thinking that we had taken our optimistic thinking too far, perhaps even into the realm of trail running for dummies.

Now when I have a goal in mind, I can get a little dogged (like, canine-sinking-his-teeth-into-a-toy-to-never-let-go dogged). Not to mention that we had cars parked at each end of the hike, so the exigencies of transportation created an added incentive. I wanted to finish.

By mile six things looked less than promising. The map was studied. The words "campsite" and "road" at one of the trail junctions flashed like Times Square billboards...more than eight miles further along. Running became run-hike-run, which became run-hike-hike-hike-run, and then hike. I wondered (however fleetingly so, it is not to my credit) about the appropriateness of leaving one's running-partner-in-extremis by the side of a road, and running the last five miles alone, just so I could "finish."

When we reached the road, at just over four hours and 30 minutes into the progressively slowing run-hike, I knew we were finished, and that what we'd done was more than enough. It was then, when I dropped my 20-miler chew toy, that I found the balance in the day.

The road was un-trafficked, in an area that brought to mind Deliverance (cue the banjo!), as unfair as that comparison likely is to the actual residents. We passed a couple of roads (or driveways?) leading off into the dense and uninviting woods. The next house, set back in the woods, was at least visible. At the gate, a tiny rock was painted with the words "inquire about our guest cabin." Was the cabin referred to the structure with the tin sheet roof and the caving-in walls, set some 25 feet from what seemed to be the house proper? Was there even a door on the cabin? Was the sign ironic?

And how about the large dog cage, empty of dog? I imagined a menacing one called it home. Already I was picturing big teeth, saliva dripping from the bottom of the dog's chin as it prepared to attack. I walked down the drive toward the house with trepidation. No dog. Just two little cats, heads popping up and then bounding away, tails pointed skyward. I knocked on the rickety screen door. A woman in her mid-fifties answered with a friendly smile. She offered her phone -- a landline -- to call into Nevada City, the nearest town, for a taxi. The area was off the mobile phone grid, naturally. She went back to cutting hearts out of a spot-patterned bed sheet. Still a bit worried, I asked after the dog, who was no longer, she told me. I breathed an internal sigh of relief.

But there was the pig. I had time. The taxi we'd called wouldn't arrive for at least half an hour. The women led me into her bedroom, adjacent to the kitchen where I'd come in, there, lounging and snorting at the end of her bed, on her own crib mattress (complete with sheets and extra bolster pillows) was Ruby, a 160-pound Vietnamese pot belly pig. Seventeen years old, arthritic and ailing, Ruby was a former service pig. She had visited hospices, hospitals and schools in her prime and had sported the pig-fashions of the day. I crouched down to pet and chat with Ruby. I looked at her baby book, which included a younger Ruby in a Sugar Plum Fairy outfit.

Inside myself, I felt a fresh flow of energy, as my internal rhythm re-calibrated from the truncated exertion of the run to this new, unlooked for experience, finding the adjusted harmony in the day.

In addition to the introduction to Ruby, the woman offered me stories: that retired miners liked to spend the summer at the nearby campground panning for gold in the South Yuba River, the very area which was the source, as she told me, of the wealth that had built San Francisco; that raising organic, pastured chickens to lay Omega-3 enriched eggs is hard work, best done by the young; that pig rescue organizations have a job on their hands (pigs start breeding at four months and are essentially as prodigious in their procreation as rabbits, much to the shock of casual pigs-for-pets owners); that her area (though not she herself) was the supplier of most medical marijuana to the Sacramento area, hence the unwelcoming cast to most of the properties around.

When the taxi arrived, 45 minutes later, the driver parched and unimpressed by the condition of the road, I was sorry to leave; and not sorry at all to have not finished the run. Despite my dust-caked legs and the twigs in my hair, I felt clean and refreshed. A day I might have viewed as a failure had been an unprecedented success.

We didn't force the run. Like water encountering an obstacle, we flowed around the challenges, finding the most natural course for that day.

The felt experience of that South Yuba day was like I was back on my slackline (like a tightrope -- follow the link to see what I mean), which I've been playing with, and perhaps it was the familiarity of the sensation that made meeting Ruby possible.

I've been practicing walking backwards on the slackline, also turning around, though I'm hardly beyond beginner in the forward walking department. What I've noticed in all of my efforts, is that I can literally feel, physically, in my body, how getting frustrated foils my intent, how I can only execute a maneuver once I let go of the angst-y need to succeed.

One more vivid example of that physical-mental feeling in action happened one day as I rode my mountain bike home from the grove where I usually slackline. The ride is not particularly technical, but then I'm low-skill mountain biker. There's one particular rock, maybe the size of a cushy, upholstered footstool, that's been menacing me since forever (okay, for the past three summers). The trail winds around the rock in a sharp-ish turn, flanked by thick tie-your-bike-up mountain shrubbery. I have always balked at the last minute, and put a steadying foot down. But this one day, as I approached my rock-nemesis, I was feeling a nice post-slackline calm. What was the worst? A tumble in the bushes? A chain ring in my calf? Been there. Done that. I glanced at the rock and it seemed to soften, the path seemed to widen, and around I went, and have done ever since. No force. Just flow.

To me that experience feels like slowing down my energy, by which I don't mean sapping or diminishing my energy, rather I mean gathering my energy inward, moving toward my center, my place of balance, a state which can never be achieved through pushy frustration.

And that physical feeling, practiced over and over, gets in some sense dialed in at a cellular level, and slowly, slowly translates into life itself.

You can find this blog on Huffington Post, too...

It's Not About a Better Body

2011-08-19T13:35:00.002-04:00

I have tried all sorts of different workouts in my time—in addition to all the outdoor things I partake of, from running and cycling (off and on road), to cross-country skiing, snowshoeing and hiking, to kayaking, rock climbing and swimming, I do yoga and what’s variously called Physique57 or Bar Effect (or Core Fusion, or Nalini) classes. In what feels like another lifetime (during my law school years), I was an aerobics instructor. And I’ve tried all sorts of gym classes (despite my non-membership), from kickboxing, to step classes (yes—that goes back some years), to pole dancing and Zumba.

Some of these pursuits promise to make me longer and leaner, to re-shape my body to the ideal—I wish. Actually wait, really? Is that really why I’m engaging in a particular activity? Other activities promise me a calmer mind and Gumby’s hamstrings. The first sounds pretty good, the second sounds implausible, unless I’m willing to give up running (not!). Some of my sports make me no promises. My mountain trails have never spoken to me about their intentions for my body, or at least not that I know of.

What I do know is that far too many workouts are pitched as answers to the mythic pursuit of the perfect body. Mythic—because the very idea of perfection is a myth: Perfect by what or who’s standard? Society’s? By which we mean exactly what?—media generated images of beauty?—By which what I really mean is media manipulated and distorted (aka falsified—I mean you, Photoshop and your ilk) images of the unreal.

How can we possibly think that there is one standard of beauty, when we know (we really know) that each one of us is an individual with our own particular tastes? You think steak is the perfect food and my pick would be hummus. You feel perfect in pink and I feel best in black. You define musicals as the perfect entertainment and I’m not happy unless I’m crying in my theater seat, no soundtrack please. You get the idea. It’s no different for bodies.

To pursue perfection is a trap, a rat maze with no escape. Perfect is a confining concept, one that holds up a rigid not-every-person’s-ideal as a benchmark for all of us.

Instead, I propose we think of the pursuit of “excellence” over perfection. Excellence is individual, though paradoxically, also less subjective. That’s because excellence comes from inside ourselves, it is our mastery of the particular field we have chosen. It is investing our efforts at our personal maximum level in pursuit of our best self, holding our own selves to the highest standard. And this excellence is far different from perfection, that more confining concept, which implies the best of the best of the best, as defined by the whole entire world.

As Carl Jung said, “Perfection belongs to the gods; the most that we can hope for is excellence.”

So to burden our workouts with the end goal of achieving the perfect body is to pursue the impossible dream. Not because you can’t do it. Because the end goal does not even exist!

Uh-oh. If our goal is a chimera, where does that leave us?—On the couch with a box of chocolates? (Not that I don’t love my couch and chocolate). Of course not, or at least, not until we’ve finished our workouts.

We simply cannot be working out just for better bodies. The good news is that deep down we’re not that deluded. Studies have shown that women who are encouraged in a workout setting with the carrot of positive reinforcement about the health and happiness benefits of their exercise are far more likely to enjoy and stick with a workout. Whereas workout settings, which use the stick of negative self-image, shaming the participant into thinking she needs a smaller bum, thinner thighs or a flatter stomach, foster recidivism.

Why we workout matters.

Here’s why I do.

At one level, I work out because I want to be outside, rain, snow or shine, to feel the elements against my skin and know the seasons are changing by the taste of the air I’m breathing; because I want to be strong, to test my mental and physical endurance, to show myself what I’m capable of; because I will not go gentle into that good night, as the poet Dylan Thomas says; and so I can lounge on my couch in a state of well-earned-body-tiredness and eat those chocolates.

At another, deeper level, my workouts brings me great joy and that is reason enough. I am feeling pleasure in my very fibers, the pleasure of sweat, of effort, of turning “can I?” into “I can.” The other morning, running alone in “my” mountains, I started to wonder if my eyes were playing tricks on me. The trail in front of me was streaked with bands of unexplainable light. I blinked, wondering if something was in my eye. Then I realized that what seemed to be coming from inside my eye was actually the sunlight reflected off the veritable web of early morning, as yet undisturbed, silk spider filaments, which criss-crossed my path at ankle level. I was suddenly filled with such gratitude for the privilege of experiencing such beauty and my luck at being physically able, that I spread my arms wide and shouted nonsense-happy-sounds. Don’t worry, no one saw or heard, so you don’t need to be embarrassed and pretend you don’t know me.

The next time you are engaged in your active pursuits, stop a moment, feel the “why” of why you are doing the workout. As Eckhart Tolle recommends in Power of Now, scan your physical-emotional being and ask, am I happy? I hope the answer is yes. If not, find the workout that gives you that answer.

This post can also be found under an alternative title on the Huffington Post.

An Overdue Thank You to My Readers

2011-08-08T19:58:00.001-04:00

Today I received an elegant and gracious letter from a woman who had recently read Run Like a Girl. Each time I receive a missive like this, I am moved anew. Selfishly, I wrote a book because I am a writer and I love writing, the very act grants me inordinate amounts of joy. Yet, what started as this selfish act has yielded me a more profound result than ever I anticipated. Some of you, who have read the book, have been inspired or moved to reach higher, and discovered that you could. For the opportunity to participate in the tiniest way in that discovery, I am grateful down to my bones.

I’ll leave it to Yann Martel to say better what I am fumbling to express. As Martel wrote in Beatrice and Virgil (italicized explanatory note is mine), “Henry (the protagonist) had written a novel because there was a hole in him that needed filling, a question that needed answering, a patch of canvas that needed painting—that blend of anxiety, curiosity and joy that is at the origin of art—and he had filled the hole, answered the question, splashed colour on the canvas, all done for himself, because he had to. Then complete strangers told him that his book had filled a hole in them, had answered a question, had brought colour to their lives. The comfort of strangers, be it a smile, a pat on the shoulder or a word of praise, is truly a comfort.”

Indeed.

The Confidence to Race Nascar Rules

2011-08-02T14:08:00.002-04:00

It’s been a couple of years now since I interviewed some of the women in my book. Granted, that’s not quite long enough for a really shocking “where are they now?” But I recently had the chance to catch up with Brett Buckles, who was, as some will remember, in the midst of recovering from a race career ending ski accident in Tignes, France. I was curious to know how she was adapting to her non-pro, or amateur athlete life in the slow lane (by her standards, not mine). And I should be clear here, when I say amateur, I use that term with the greatest respect. After all, the Latin root of the word is amare, which means, “to love,” as in—we do our sports because we love them, not because we gotta.

I also wanted to know if Brett had competed in a rodeo yet, one of the things she’d told me was on her list. She hadn’t…yet.

That’s because Brett is busy with about a million other things. To begin with, she’s coaching our future Ski Cross Olympians. There’s not much of a Ski Cross field in the North America yet, though it’s an established sport in Europe. It’s a fast and furious version of downhill ski racing, in which 4-6 people are on the course at the same time, competing head to head, with Nascar-style rules—“rubbing is racing.” No malicious contact is allowed, in case that wasn’t obvious.

The girls she coaches, 7-10 nationally, at any given time, are, unsurprisingly, slower to take to the sport than the boys. Fear, as you can imagine, is your biggest enemy in the sport, as it is in life, though perhaps a little more obviously when you’re hurtling down a mountain, trying to avoid skirmishes with others doing the same. Based on my fear of small rocks while on the mountain bike, I suspect I would not be good at Ski Cross. Before you leave the gate, Brett says, you have to be 100% confident in yourself. According to Brett, it takes considerably more effort to build the girls’ confidence in themselves. She blames at least part of this on how we are socialized, what she calls, “the being feminine thing,” which tells us we can’t kick ass and still be a girl.

Still. This is still an issue. Sigh. I wish for girls (and women, of course) the confidence to race Nascar rules, in whatever they do.

Fortunately for the girls Brett coaches, and injury notwithstanding, Brett-beats-all-the-boys-Buckles is still faster down the course than the 15 and 16-year old boys she coaches (I wonder how that feels for the boys?), so she can show her girls what’s available to them. So even if most of the time they are learning how to go faster by chasing the boys, at least they know, because they’ve seen it with their own eyes, what a woman can do.

Brett still feels the itch to race, if not professionally, and even if she finishes DFL (dead fucking last). When she has that goal out there, it’s the nudge she needs to push herself to the limit, or beyond—and that’s the pleasure zone for Brett in sports. She’s taken up mountain biking (no surprise) and may compete in triathlons, though she doesn’t love running (no surprise there, either, since even top speed isn’t going to get the wind whistling in your ears).

When she’s not training her girls, or herself, Brett is working on a career in journalism, writing on the gamut from snow sports to reggae music reviews. On the side she’s making jewelry. I think we can safely say that Brett has not confined herself to a darkened room to nurse her self-pity, something I needed to remind myself of on occasion, as I’ve traveled my own nano-length road (by comparison to Brett) to recovery.

p.s. I got out for a first mountain bike ride this past weekend and worked up an honest-to-goodness sweat—what joy!

2011-07-29T15:28:00.001-04:00

Something a little different today…a tantalizing recipe (if you are inclined to the chocoholic, as I am) from Erin Bolger, the author of The Happy Baker-A Girl’s Guide To Emotional Baking.

Why? Well, another summer weekend is at our doorstep, many of us will be heading out on our longer workouts of the week, or maybe some are even doing races. Treats are in order, don’t you think?

But first, from Erin, by way of intro:

“Running. Some of us may have taken up running to get away from our exes. Some of us started for a healthier lifestyle. I basically hit the treadmill when I decided to go freelance from my comfy job with benefits and I thought running would strengthen my lungs and get me off of my expensive asthma puffers (I was right). I was also ending a long-term relationship and nothing helps you get over a break-up better than a hot post break-up bod!

As great as running’s been though, it’s not my go-to activity. Most of you run when you are stressed … I bake! I’m an emotional baker. I forget about everything when I am baking and just go to my happy place.

I have a serious sweet tooth and could easily replace cookie dough for all meals. Since this is not always the healthy choice I have created a yummy and nutritious cookie combining two of my favourite things … coconut and chocolate. Now this is not a low-fat cookie so you can’t eat it like it’s going out of style but I have been known to have one for breakie!

Happy Baking & Happy Running!”

Ditto from me. Enjoy your weekend workouts and treat yourself! Here’s how…

Chocolate Chunk Coconut Cookies

½ cup coconut oil

¾ cup coconut sugar

2 eggs

1 ½ tsp. vanilla

1 tbsp. unsweetened cocoa

1 cup unsweetened coconut

½ cup coconut flour

1 tsp. baking powder

½ tsp. baking soda

pinch of sea salt

100 grams dk chocolate, chopped (I used 72%)

Makes 2 dozen cookies

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

In a mixing bowl blend together the oil and sugar until combined. Add the eggs and the vanilla; blend. Add the cocoa; blend. Stir in the flour, coconut, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Mix thoroughly. Stir in the dark chocolate pieces.

Make dough into 1-inch balls. Place on a lined cookie sheet and flatten with your fingers. Bake for 8-10 minutes. Let cool & Enjoy. Store in a cool dry place in an airtight container.

For more of Erin’s emotional (and let’s not forget, yummy) baking recipes, you can visit her at www.thehappybakerchick.com.

Why I Am a Vegetarian and Diana Nyad

2011-07-22T17:56:00.001-04:00

I suppose I might have titled this, “Why I Am Not a Flesh Eater,” if I was to most closely mimic Bertrand Russell’s famous speech and essay title, Why I Am Not a Christian, off of which I was riffing, but that sounded a bit rugged for my taste, though, come to think of it, so is swimming with the sharks, which is what inspired this missive.

A friend sent me an email the other day asking, “What do you think about the sharks?” She was referring to the flurry of reader comments around a story about Diana Nyad, who, any day now, will swim from Cuba to Key West—103 miles, which is predicted to take somewhere around 60 hours. If it wasn’t already impressive, Diana is 61 years old, which certainly adds a “Wow” factor to her athletic endeavour. But there was this business of the sharks.

Re-Posted from HuffPo with title change

Apparently, most long distance swimmers who have taken on this particular challenge have swum in a shark cage, which is, as it sounds, a cage surrounding the swimmer, protecting her from those animals. The drawback (at least, a swimmer like Diana considers it a negative) is that the cages are tied to a boat and dragged along behind, which means the swimming is easier and faster (in 1997 an Australian did the Cuba-Key West swim in 24 hours with the cage-advantage).

Instead of a cage, Diana will be flanked by two kayakers with shark shields (electric shock rods) and there will be four shark divers on board the support boat, ready to dive in and spear threatening sharks to death.

To death? I missed the part where the sharks volunteered to give up their lives for Diana’s swim. I have no love of sharks in particular, but I’m not sure why creatures living in their own environment, way out at sea (we’re not talking about holiday-makers at the beach a la Jaws), may be punished for doing what they are genetically engineered to do, so that one of us humans, can pass through their environment on a personal mission to prove her strength and endurance.

Don’t get me wrong, I think personal missions of strength and endurance are to be celebrated. Such quests, as Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi wrote in Flow, enable us to expand our concepts of our selves, which, in turn, builds the self-confidence that “allows us to develop skills and make significant contributions to humankind.” All good so far. And don’t get me wrong on this next—in the person vs. shark, I save the person. Still, there’s a difference between an accidental encounter and a courted encounter. As athletes, we take great care to respect our bodies, should we not extend that same respect to our environment, others, to other creatures as well? Should our athletic endeavours come at others’ expense? Diana and her sharks disturb me.

Not as much as Food Inc., which I finally got around to watching, which lifts the veil on the food industry, exposing the insidious cycles of corporate control, government support, animal cruelty and, worst of all, how this fosters our diabetes epidemic. As Eric Schlosser points out in the movie, if our food system of factory farming disdains and disrespects animal, so will we adopt this same mentality toward other living things, humans, strangers, foreigners, people with whom we disagree.

Both Diana’s sharks and Food Inc. reminded me of why I am a vegetarian. I have been so (with some early recidivism) since I was sixteen, close to 2/3rds of my life. Why?

I recently came across a Sikh story, told in Tara Brach’s book, Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life With the Heart of Buddha, which conveyed, more lyrically than I ever could, why I made this choice. The story (and I quote directly from Brach’s book):

An aged spiritual master calls his two most devoted disciples to the garden in front of his hut. Gravely, he gives each one a chicken and instructs them, “Go to where no one can see, and kill the chicken.” One of the men immediately goes behind his shed, picks up an ax and chops off his chicken’s head. The other wanders around for hours, and finally returns to his master, the chicken still alive and in hand. “Well, what happened?” the teacher asks. The disciple responds, “I can’t find a place to kill the chicken where no one can see me. Everywhere I go, the chicken sees.”

Indeed. I cannot eat something, or rather some formerly living creature, which I could not look in the eye, and then kill. The rule is my own, for me (I would not impose it on you), because not only the chicken sees, but also I see myself, and then I must live with myself. One of the cornerstones of health, something we are hyper-keyed into as athletes, is the ability to live comfortably with oneself. As much thought as we give to our workouts, that and much more we need to give to others in the world.

In Sickness and In Health

2011-07-17T19:57:00.001-04:00

My latest post on HuffPo

The words of the traditional marriage vow might just as easily apply in any circumstance in which we join our lives with another’s, through marriage, civil union, or any other long-term domestic partnership, through birthing or adopting. The promise is not always explicit, but it’s there. I will not abandon you in your time of need. Of course, we often do. We’re human and imperfect after all. Of all the people to whom we might owe this obligation, in sickness and in health, there is one we often don’t notice, one who we cannot abandon, except through the most radical means; and that is our self.

I am stuck with me, no matter what. I’ve recently had a disconcertingly up-close-and-personal engagement with my own obligation to myself in sickness.

Five weeks ago I was colonized by bronchitis. All during the week prior I’d been clearing my throat to the point of annoyance, my partner looking at me sideways as I ahem-ahem-ahem-ahemmed, as if I was trying to get everyone’s attention to make a very important point. Out for a morning ride with a friend, I felt exhausted and cough-y, and finally gave up on the workout and headed home after only 2 of our usual 3 loops of the park. I got into bed and there I stayed, for one week, then another, and another. And the bed became the couch, because in the end I couldn’t get in and out of bed. My coughing so severe, that I fractured ribs on both sides.

I have been very lucky in life. I’ve never broken a bone. I’ve never been sick for anything longer than 5 days, and even then, not felled. Even when I had chicken pox a few years ago, an experience that can be gruesome for adults in a way it apparently isn’t for children, I slipped through the illness with relative ease. Last year when I sliced open my knee and had stitches, I was unable to do anything but walk for a couple of weeks, but the pain was manageable, the end clearly in sight from the outset.

So these past weeks have been unlike anything I’ve been through before.

I should start by saying—I am still very lucky. Bronchitis and fractured ribs are nothing, in the grand scheme of the available perils, and yet it is the very mundane-ness, which caught me short. For so little, I felt that I had stepped out of the current of my own life. The world was moving on around me, but I had slowed to a near stop. Week by week, I cancelled everything on my calendar. My most important obligation was to myself, to get well.

Things I couldn’t do with bronchitis (or at least not without inciting coughing almost to the point of vomiting):

--breathe deeply

--roll over in bed

--eat dairy, or vinegar, or anything spicy, and any number of other foods, which seemed to change by the day

--drink seltzer, or juice, or alcohol

--laugh

Things I couldn’t do with fractured ribs (or at least not without pain on the Richter scale):

--breathe deeply

--lean over the sink to wash my face or brush my teeth, not to mention spit out the toothpaste with any force…wash my hair

--open and close the front door of my apartment and my apartment building

--put on and take off underwear

--pick up my cat for a dose of purr-therapy

--take a full jug of homemade iced tea out of the fridge

--laugh

At some point along the way, I read a Buddhist blog, which encouraged slowing down, savouring, for example, each small sip of a glass of water—something I was forced into doing by circumstances. And while I agree that stillness and noticing the moments in our lives is a practice worth cultivating, I recognized too, as I hadn’t before, how much joy I take in gulping down my water, of devouring life with gusto. Noticing the small pleasures does not always require that they be slow and measured. It is the noticing that matters more than the stillness. But until I can zoom and gorge and guzzle again, I am noticing slow-style.

Almost daily I re-jig my expectations of myself. I’ve been walking in the morning. At first I walked at quarter speed. I wanted, still want to cry at times, when a fleet woman glides by, legs roped with working muscles. But I’m also enjoying the new pace. I have had time to notice the morning dogs—the big white dog of uncertain breed, with the turned out front right paw, the panting Bulldog, the fresh shaven Yorkie. Just yesterday as I caught up to a man walking slowly ahead of me, I smelled his baby before I saw the infant in his arms, that sour-milk-powdery-sleep scent of the first months of life. Running, I would never have caught that whiff, I would have passed by too quickly.

In low moments, when I longed to sink beneath the waters of self-pity (I hope I am beyond that stage now, but nothing is sure), I wondered if I’d ever get better. I wondered who I was. I wanted an explanation of why I was sick, but one that would jibe with who I thought myself to be. In the beginning, I tried to deny the pain. I like to think of myself as having a high tolerance; therefore I shouldn’t feel so much pain from coughing. When I learned that I’d fractured several ribs, the lens re-focused. Oh yes, this is painful, but I have a high tolerance, so I’ll get through this without depending on the prescribed painkillers. Not so easy. I needed to re-assess. I wanted, in sickness, to hang onto some preconceived notion of strength and resilience with which I identified myself. As if I might lose myself.

But I am right here, where I have always been, by my side, in sickness and in health. I have some weeks to go. I don’t know how many. I know that one day I will wake up and go about my day. At first, I won’t notice that there is no coughing to notice, no pain to notice. Then I will. Notice. I will think, “I’m myself again.” But it won’t be true. I’m myself now. That is a thing worth noticing.

Blueprint for a Bogey

2011-07-01T09:48:00.000-04:00

I love go-carting. I need only get behind the wheel of a go-cart and I start laughing. On my middle brother’s wedding day, we took him go-carting in the morning, and we laughed more than we drove. I recently lucked upon an exhibit at the Glasgow Gallery of Modern Art called, “Blueprint for a Bogey.” In Glasgow, a bogey refers to a homemade go-cart, built of whatever is around, and then driven with reckless abandon by their child-creators. The exhibit was about “play”—the way in which we interfere with or restrict children’s instinctive desire to play, how we seem to lose our innate ability to play as adults, and how we might reclaim that prerogative.

Did you furrow your brow at that last sentence and think, “Playing isn’t appropriate for adults,” or some version of that thought? As adults we are so good at burdening ourselves with responsibilities, obligations, and expectations, that we sometimes feel shackled to our lives. Playing is the opposite—free, light, spacious, and unbounded. After all, play is a creative engagement with the world, without end, or purpose. Sounds grand.

Yet, as adults, we too often find it challenging to play. Everything we do has to have an agenda, even things that look, at first blush, like play, are, on closer examination, really pursuits in which we are aiming toward a goal—to achieve a certain skill level, to do a race or event, to get fit or lose weight, to win.

I was recently out playing on my slackline with my partner. That is, a tightrope-like piece of webbing, easily secured around two nicely spaced trees; and, in our case, low to the soft, grassy ground. A dog-walking woman asked, “Are you training for something?” Her question gave me pause. My only objective was to have fun; to relax; to enjoy hanging out in the park, listening to the thump of the basketball on the nearby court, watching the amazing variety of dogs as they sashayed past; to lean up against the fat tree and feel the rough ridges of bark digging into my back when it wasn’t my turn on the line. Was I being too aimless? Did I need to get more serious?

As adults we like to have an answer to the question “why” when we are doing something. We feel uncomfortable if there’s no good reason to pursue a particular activity. Add to that that we feel uncomfortable if we aren’t good at something. We reach a certain age and think we ought to be accomplished at everything we pursue. Think—how limiting is our desire or need to be expert. Add on top of that our fear of looking foolish, which increases with our age. Think more—how limiting is our desire or need to be thought well of.

Playing unfetters us. And what a relief it is to live, even if for only short interludes, in the wide-open expanse of playtime. How much more creativity and energy we will be able to bring to the rest of our lives.

Only days after I saw the Glasgow exhibit, a group of girlfriends took me out for a “mystery activity” night. I was instructed to meet them on a particular corner, wearing casual clothes, no skirt or dress. When I saw the mechanical bull in the middle of the appointed venue, I almost balked. No way. Not with people watching me. I’d make a fool of myself (I didn’t know at the time that Sex & the City had apparently bestowed a certain cool on the activity). Then I stopped to think more about that last—foolish? In whose eyes? Why? And why did I care?

I rode the bull. It was fun, and almost as exhilarating as go-carting. Like a child, I could have gotten right back on for a second ride.

Re-posted from Huffington Post

First Huff Post...

2011-06-17T15:30:00.001-04:00

Just up--my first piece on Huffington Post: The Unifying Goal or The Goal of Everything.

Check it out.

If You Like That...Then You'll Like This

2011-06-13T11:02:00.002-04:00

I recently read Kristin Armstrong’s new book, Mile Markers: The 26.2 Most Important Reasons Why Women Run. I was moved to read the book, because in looking at my own book on amazon.com, I’d noticed that hers came up as both one of the “buy these two books together” books, and as one of the “people who bought RLAG, also bought…” books. So I wanted to read what other books my readers were reading.

First, you are probably all much more “in the know” than I am, but I didn’t realize she was “the” Kristin Armstrong, if I’d ever actually internalized Lance Armstrong’s (he of so many Tour de France victories) ex-wife’s name. In fact, to own up to my exceeding dimness on the day I read the book, I thought it was an interesting coincidence that the author, whose last name was Armstrong, had a “wasband” (her neologism, which I loved), whose name was Lance. Her ex-ness is not really relevant to the book, except to the extent that she took up professional writing and serious running post-divorce, which is an impressive and happy state of affairs, for we, her readers, and, according to her in her book, for her, too; because Kristin has a lot that’s lovely to say about running and its place in our lives, or more precisely—in our hearts.

Here’s just a few bits I liked…

The expression “sweat sisters,” which she uses to describe the girlfriends we run with and pour our hearts out too and seek solace from and laugh with and give solace to and laugh with. She doesn’t mention them, but I’d add sweat brothers, too.

She refers to studies (which I haven’t yet been able to track down, but which sound intuitively and common-sensically right on) that show “that the best way to foster positive body image in girls is for their mothers to speak kindly and positively about their own bodies…” Kristin goes on to say that she is careful to make a point of complimenting her own figure in earshot of her daughters. Even better, of course, would be if she actually believed the compliments enough to say them to herself out of earshot of her daughters. But hey, I’m not that evolved yet, so I can’t demand it of others.

When talking about identity and how running can be a touchstone of identity in hard times, she writes, “[W]hen we breathe deeply into one passion, we provide oxygen for others.” Oh yes. I like that idea of oxygenating all our passions, by beginning with one.

On confidence and setting an example of confidence for others, she writes, “We have to be willing to be seen if we want to earn the relationship to be understood. If our lips are moving but our actions don’t match, we become a badly dubbed foreign film, without benefit of subtitles.” A bit of a mash-up metaphor, but very apt and effective. I remember the French-dubbed version of Sex & The City (the movie) I saw in a tiny gymnasium in Southern France. It turns out there’s not much to dubbing when a large proportion of the dialogue is just squeaks and squeals over handbags and shoes.

And on hills, “You simply cannot become soft or complacent if you seek hills on purpose. You practice something enough times when it doesn’t count, you can bet your shapely bottom that you will have what it takes when it does.” And to give context, she means more than just the hills we run, she means all the stand-ins for hills we face in our lives. This passage vividly reminded me of the repeated passages of Owen and John practicing “The Shot” in A Prayer for Owen Meany, about which I’ll say no more, for those of you who haven’t read it…except this—read the book. I read it in one sitting during law school exams, when I should have been studying, but didn’t, because I couldn’t put the book down (p.s. I did very well on the exams). Anyway, as Kristin so aptly points out, hills are a way of practicing our own “Shots,” preparing for the unexpected rigours that assail us in life.

Made me look forward to my summer runs in the mountains of CA.

Women Tell Me..

2011-06-06T10:23:00.003-04:00

Prompted by the Today Show last week, I've been privileged to hear some inspiring women's stories. I wanted to share a small sampling.

From Gwen

“I was NEVER athletic growing up, always the last picked in gym class, etc.” As an adult in the 70’s, Gwen discovered that she enjoyed walking, and even aerobics. But still, “I never ever ran.” Then her oldest son, Danny, died of leukemia at age 25 in 1998.

Gwen told me, “I joined Team in Training and trained for a marathon! My first marathon was Dublin in Oct. 1999. I did that before I did any 5Ks or anything.” Gwen trained to walk the race, but in the midst of the race, around mile 18, she decided to run. She just wanted to get finished. Then she ran another Team in Training marathon in Anchorage in 2000, and she’s still running. Gwen is also studying and teaching yoga now. As Gwen says of her running, “OK. . . I am far from the fastest one out there but I have fun and keep going. Running has been medicine, religion, love and prayer.”

As running has been to so many women.

From Anne

At 64-years old, Ane is a 27-year, 9 time breast cancer survivor. She says, “I have it now - but I refuse to let in run my life. I have been extraordinarily lucky!”

In 1992, after a very debilitating second bout of cancer, Anne built up to walking in 5K races. Then, in 1998, a friend challenged her to walk a half-marathon. And Anne walked the Disney half in January 1999. “I am currently training to race walk my 7th half-marathon in Portland, Maine on October 2 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.” Anne’s goal is to finish the 13.1 miles in less than 3 hours.

Anne says, “I firmly believe that this exercise and all the challenges have helped me so much with fighting this terrible disease.”

Well I, for one, am not going to argue with her on that point.

From Kristina

Kristina’s father always told her that she "ran like a girl," and he didn’t mean it the way we do, he meant it in, as she says, “a sort of sexist/joking/condescending way, which I didn't realize was demeaning and damaging to my self-esteem until recently. I actually always participated in the joke.” And why not?—we are programmed to believe our parents, at least for the early part of our lives. For the first 28 years of Kristina’s life, she “HATED” running. In fact, she reports that she spent her twenties in a drunken supor and gained 50 pounds. She had created her own perfect catch-22, in which she hated herself for being fat, so she drank, which caused her to get fatter. I think that defines a vicious cycle. As Kristina says, “my depression got the best of me and I did all the things girls with poor self-images do.” But luckily for Kristina, somewhere underneath the weight of depression and despite the fog of alcohol, she decided to join a weight management program at a local hospital. Finally, this year, after one false start, she started to taste some success. “I went on a strict 1200-calorie diet with no exercise other than my part-time weekend job as a ski instructor. I also stopped drinking. My ski buddies (well, drinking buddies who skied sometimes) told me I was no fun anymore and gave me a very hard time about my efforts to get healthy.” Not only was Kristina’s lifestyle change difficult, the "loss" of friends took its toll. If that wasn’t enough, Kristina was dating a condescending marathon runner (it’s sad, but true, not all runners are nice people). Her boyfriend told her that if she really wanted to lose weight, she ought to register for a 5k. He may have been condescending, but his advice wasn’t wrong. The guy I was dating at the time was a marathon runner (and the condescending guy you describe in your book) and he said, "If you really want to lose weight, register for a 5k." Kristina asked her mother what she thought about her daughter running a 5k; to which her mother helpfully responded, "you'll never be able to run a 5k."

I don’t get it—what’s to be gained from diminishing one’s own daughter in that way?

No matter. Kristina told me, “I've now run three 5k races, and a 4-mile race, and I'm registered to run the Falmouth Road Race (7 miles) in August. In less than four months I've lost 38lbs and I'm happier than I've ever been. I'm still counting calories and working on losing that remaining 12lbs. My relationship with food has changed dramatically and I'm growing veggies on the back porch of my apartment, getting organic produce delivered to my house weekly, and learning how to cook. It was empowering to get rid of the mean boyfriend, but I am still grateful for his advice. p.s. When I finished my first 5k I sent the photo to my dad with a note that said, ‘I still run like a girl.’"

Indeed, she does.

From Suzanne

Suzanne is the CEO of an agency in Florida and has been trying to lose weight, mend a broken heart, generally get her life back, but it simply wasn’t happening; or at least not until she started training for the SheRox Sprint Triathlon in August 2011. Training, as she says, “thinking all the time that I couldn't do it.” Wrong. In fact, Suzanne proved the opposite to herself, “I can not only do it, but I am good at it. Now, my confidence level is through the clouds into space, my weight is going down, my workout buddy and I have signed up for other events here in Florida and other states, I am so much better at my job and finally...FINALLY healing.”

Gwen, Anne, Kristina and Suzanne are showing us all what it means to run like girls.

Tyvek Is the New Black

2011-05-31T11:42:00.001-04:00

I had finally crested the hill…okay, hill is an understatement, when describing a 6 kilometer climb, with an elevation gain of 395 meters. I was on the way down, a precipitous descent, during the course of which I was going to lose all the elevation I’d gained in less than half the distance. Night was falling. In the gloaming, I could still make out the Cape Breton highlands crowding in around me. The sky was pre-navy blue, with smoke-dark cloud motes. The temperature had gone from wet-chill to warm-still and cloying as we’d turned the corner and begun to lose altitude.

I was high on exertion, but I could feel my energy was leaking away, and there was no little Dutch boy to staunch the outflow. Then I saw the van-top LED display, scrolling its bright red message, just for me, “Run Like a Girl!!” And standing beside the van were my can’t-miss-them-in-those-outfits teammates, cheering me on. Just in time. I felt the swell of peacock energy that comes when you know someone’s watching; more still, I felt the grace of support, and was supremely grateful.

I was halfway into my second leg, Leg 9 of the Cabot Trail Relay. A gorgeous 24-hour, 17 leg relay race around the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia, which took place this past weekend. My team, Seventeen Runners, are longtime veterans of the race, but my partner and I were newbies, recruits by a friend of a friend and so on.

I didn’t do much by way of team sports when I was growing up, and so I’m not accustomed to team events. I’ve gravitated more to solitary sports, which, I suppose, is not surprising, since I’ve also chosen a somewhat solitary career, as well. So this event was something new for me in more ways than one, not to mention that I’m not an all-nighter kind of girl either. There was more…

In the days and weeks leading up to the event, the “reply all” emails had been flying around with increasing velocity. Food. First Aid. Vans. Accommodation (other than the vans). Leg distribution. So much to coordinate. And, in the midst of the flurry, Tyvek suits—yes, full zip-up coveralls, with hoods…made of Tyvek…available at your local hardware store. Just kidding. Not. Apparently the Tyvek suits were the team signature, as it were. Plus, my partner David and I were assured, they were efficacious at warding off the damp, chill, which was about 100% likely to descend at some point during the race, if not persist for the duration.

“That is so not happening,” was my first thought. This is a level of un-cool to which I can’t sink. I read an Op-Ed piece by Jonathan Franzen today, in which he admits to being a birdwatcher, despite the pursuit’s uncoolness. I’m not sure where each of birdwatching and Tyvek suits are on the cool-ometer, but probably reasonably close to each other. David bought us Tyvek suits. I vowed to return for refund after the race. Team spirit-shmirit.

I boarded the plane to Halifax with some trepidation; this wasn’t really “my kind of thing.”

How little I need have worried. First, there is the Cape Breton landscape—impossible to resist. Then there’s the purr of the hangover Scottish accent the longtime Nova Scotians still have. Then there’s the race.

I soon realized that it was all a moveable party, progressing from one start/finish line to the next. We learned the drill (and we’ll be much better next time!) of drive, identify teammate, pull over an ample distance ahead, cheer, and repeat cycle. In between, were the “lockdowns,” when we were not allowed to drive on the course, giving the runners a chance to get into the rhythm of their legs, before the flow of cars and vans clotted up beside them. Lockdowns were a relaxing time to chat, have a bite to eat, put your feet up in the van, or perhaps find yourself dancing to the music emanating from someone’s speakers. And the Tyvek suits…it turns out that they are highly visible, night and day, a huge bonus when you’re trying to find teammates at the beginning or end of a leg, or spot them on the road. Oh, and yes, the suits were protection against the bone chilling cold and misting weather. More practical and equally as visible as the one team whose “uniform” was tighty-greenies, as I thought of them—shamrock green men’s briefs, with little else.

To spot my Tyvek-garbed team, in the waning light, as my running zeal was fizzling, was exactly what I needed at that moment. No gel or gu or fortified sports drink would have done as much for my spirit. I was suddenly all-too-keenly aware of what a privilege it was to be part of the team. To be a teammate. To be an energy-source for another person. Now that’s cool. Maybe it’s what a bird feels like when it’s being “watched,” by Jonathan Franzen, or anyone, for that matter.

I won’t be wearing a Tyvek suit around Manhattan anytime soon. But you’ll be able to spot me easily next year at the Cabot Trail Relay…just look for the strange, white coveralls.

Run Like a Girl Makes Me Think of…

2011-05-19T16:16:00.000-04:00

On Monday night at a great event at the JCC in Manhattan, I asked what people thought of when they heard the expression “run like a girl.” These are some of the answers I got (unedited and unexpurgated):

Walk like a man. Flailing around. Inept.

Who wants to run like a man? All I imagine is a Vin Diesel or the Rock, huffing and puffing. What a gorilla! I’d rather be a girl.

Reminds me of my dad saying, “It’s a good thing you don’t run like a girl,” perplexing to me when I was a teenager.

When I was in middle and high school, the most popular girl, Denise, was a total jock—and a great runner (and v-ball player). I envied her, and that’s one thing I think of.

I think fragile—in part because of the skinny, colt-legged 8^th grade girl runners, who look so fragile, but really, they’re pretty fierce.

When I was a young girl, running like a girl meant to pretend to run but to make sure to look good at the same time and not mess my hair and dress sexy at the same time.

Sissy.

In school, I hated gym, pretended to have cramps as often as possible and now I am a committed runner and biker. What happened?

Run like a girl implies youthful exuberance, letting go, achieving an early goal---being an achiever right from the start. I see a movie with a young woman out on a broad swath of land, running down a lane, the wind in her hair…she is happy and so are we joyous watching her.

Makes me think of running wispily, uncoordinated and sort of mincingly. Reminds me of my daughter playing basketball in middle school and they were crying and playing at the same time.

Makes me think of a non-purposefully kind of gangly running. Not goal oriented.

Reminds me of running so fast that my feet barely touched the ground. I was thirteen, skinny and never so free. Reminds me of when I was in 8^th grade, and I beat all of the boys on the high school track team in the 100 yard dash. But there was no girls track team for me, the girl who could outrun all the boys.

Being weaker, or made to feel weaker—even though you know you can do it better, just lack confidence.

Trying to keep up with a man. Walking quickly while wearing heels. Elementary school relay races. Anti-gay slurs.

Reminds me of relay races in grade school. Girls weren’t as fast as boys, and never would be! So why ever try to win?

Running freely, like a seven-year old.

I once had a t-shirt that said, “whoever said last man standing wins never asked the girl to play.” I wore it till it shredded.

Makes me think of an uncoordinated, legs and arms, flailing, clumsy girl—trying to run, but barely doing it.

Youthful, carefree, bliss, yet vulnerable.

Makes me think about my jogathon when I ran 9 miles in 2 hours. I was one of two girls that ran this much. I felt proud, and I showed the guys that anything is possible if you put your mind to it.

Then: Endless summer afternoons playing kickball with the kids (boys and girls) on the block. The losing team was subjected to the paddy-wack treatment by the winning team before the winners pranced around the losers “running like girls.”

Do not look butch. If you are running for your life, run like a guy.

Reminds me of what my ten-year old serious softball playing daughter is learning to do: throw like a girl! And that is meant in a good way. She has had the good fortune of wonderful male and female coaches and we’ve watched many high school and college softball games. The upshot—she’s learning to throw like a girl—and she’s got a bullet!

Gawky, aimless and silly.

Clumsy and uncoordinated.

Run freely, with wind on one’s back.

When I was told that I run like a girl—it meant that I did not have good running form. Anyone could run faster than me. My arms were all wrong.

I remember 10-12 year old kids making fun of a boy who “ran like a girl.”

Reminds me of the term “take back the night” From the marches of the 80’s—it’s about reclaiming something that was taken.

Being so confident as to be able to overcome cultural bias—without blinking—and just do it!

I picture a woman with a very short skirt, high heels, probably drunk, running to try to get a taxi.

Means…watching an Ethiopian or Kenyan woman win the marathon. Game on men!

Run like girls, emphasis on the plural—there is something magical, unique and indescribable about the sisterhood between female athletes. Rock on title IX.

Running feels like freedom—like being a kid again—joyful…

Reminds me of being made fun of by the older kids on the playground in school.

Forget the “like a girl.” Just RUN.

Got ambitions?

2011-05-11T15:11:00.003-04:00

A friend of mine recently had the good fortune to participate in a women's leadership forum. As part of the materials, she received the transcript of a fantastic speech, given by the woman in whose name the forum was founded; a speech, which eloquently defines the challenge women face when it comes to ambition.

Highly recommended reading: Judy Elder's speech; given to the Toronto Board of Trade as part of the Women's Television Network 'Gift of Wisdom" series. To view the speech, click the link here and then the second link on the page you will land on, which is titled "Mothers, Fathers, Men, Ambition."

Own ambition audaciously!

I Missed the Part Where I Asked...

2011-04-28T14:27:00.002-04:00

Running across the George Washington Bridge this a.m. I passed a man on a bike (yes, I was running, he was on commuter wheels); a minute later he cycled up beside me and proceeded to advise me on arm position. --??-- I missed the part where I asked him for advice. From whence this urge to be an unsolicited advisor?...to a woman...natch...because it seems highly unlikely that said commuter cyclist would offer unprompted style tips to a man running.

And what about his advice?--not wrong--drop my arms to ninety degrees--which, strangely, I happened to be working on that morning, as I was trying out new minimalist shoes (thank you, Newton), so I was already concentrating on form (apparently insufficiently, at least according to my new volunteer coach). But the "rightness" of the advice is beside the point, it was the unwelcome, chauvinistic intrusion into my own peaceful concentration.

I'm a girl though, I thanked him and smiled (weakly, I admit). I'm not the only one, right?

Retarding Progress

2011-04-26T11:21:00.002-04:00

Some disheartening news about Title IX an article today...turns out that so-called "roster management," aka padding and/or manipulating team rosters, is a preferred method for "complying" with Title IX. How disappointing.

Just when we think things are getting better, to whit, women's ski jumping becoming an official Olympic sport...

Lest we forget though, this is an effort that's been going on a long while. None other than famed, French writer Emile Zola, a master of social realism, recommended in 1900 that, "riding, swimming, cycling, gymnastics, all these should form part of a young girl’s education." You can read Zola's whole article on this wonderful blog post on Women Talk Sports.

Our task?--to keep on keeping on--one day at a time, one woman at a time, as we participate in sports, as we introduce it, and model it for the girls in our lives.

Running Mind

2011-04-19T09:26:00.004-04:00

The other day my brother Noah reported, in an email titled "like sister, like brother," that he had fallen and scraped himself up on a run. It's true, I've been known to incur some damage on runs. Once, in South Africa, on a run along a cobble-y stoned waterfront I managed to scrape not just my knee and palm, but also my chin, so that all our photos of the hike we started the next day (the amazing Otter Trail) feature my road rash soul patch. In one triathlon, I wiped out in the first three steps of the run, and gouged my palm, which set me up for a rather rugged look crossing the finish line with blood streaks on my leg, where I'd tried to wipe off my bleeding hand. Any of you who have been reading this blog for a while, or my book, will know about the time I sliced my knee open. Then there was the time...but really, you get the picture already.

Noah said he was going to be more careful about not letting his mind wander on runs.

It got me thinking about how nuanced that balance really is--the one between letting our minds roam free, while our feet carry us along, and being focused on our run. For many of us, running, especially, though not only, if we are alone, is a magnificent opportunity to air out the clutter in our brains. How often have you solved a problem on a run? All that psychic space can give our minds the freedom needed to find solutions, to see more clearly. Yet, we know, too, that if, instead of letting our minds float, we are perseverating over something instead--obsessing, rehashing, engaging in metaphorical scab-picking--then chances are we aren't focused enough on our run...oh, hello (crash), where did that tree root come from?

It's similar to the challenge of savasana (corpse pose), the final relaxation pose of virtually any yoga class. Yes, we are meant to relax, but mindfully, not so much as to fall asleep. Because to fall asleep is to lose the thin thread of focus we are meant to maintain to preserve the meditative quality of savasana.

So it is with running. After all, running can be a powerful moving meditation, too, but that requires our presence. We can't be fussing around inside our heads. Next time you find your mind agitating (as distinct from floating) on a run, stop the spin cycle and create an intention to be present for the rest of the run. How much clearer and cleaner you'll feel when you bend down to unlace those shoes at the end.

And on the topic of running and our minds, a friend forwarded me this fascinating RadioLab interview with Diane Van Deren, a top ultra runner, who got into running when she began having epileptic seizures, as a way to focus her energy away from an imminent attack. She would literally leave her running shoes right at the door, and when she felt the "aura" of an oncoming seizure, she would drop what she was doing and head out the door in her running shoes immediately, do not pass go. The strategy worked, for a while...I'll let you listen to the rest...

Running With Benefits...

2011-04-12T14:49:00.002-04:00

Sunday morning I woke up too early, or at least too early for having celebrated a friend's birthday the night before, to the prospect of an all-day board meeting. Not that the board meeting, per se, was something to dread, it was, after all, for a non-profit, The Possibility Project, about which I can't say enough good things. It was more the idea of sitting still and paying attention all day, on a weekend. I didn't have the heart to get up early enough to squeeze in a run before heading up to the meeting (which was going to take some time by subways and buses), but then I thought--what else is running for, if not to get me there?

I run a lot. But not in a useful way. As in, running is almost always an end in itself--to stay in shape...for...well, for more running. Why not put my running to actual use? Earn it's keep, as it were. So I packed up a little backpack with my meeting notes, a change of clothes, and other quick-change essentials like eye cream (yes, I am a girl), and headed up to the meeting on foot.

How wonderful. With every step I cleared out the cobwebs. Then came the real bonus, as I ran into the northernmost reaches of the island of Manhattan, places I'd never been before, and over the Broadway bridge into Riverdale, more places I'd never seen up close. The map I'd studied before leaving came to life, as 218th street showed its face. Oh, and note to self, flat street maps miss key information, like the fact that there are very very steep hills as you run up and out of Manhattan.

And the meeting?--relaxed and focused = productive.

I call that running with benefits.

Strong Spirits

2011-04-08T11:51:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago my partner David and I went out to cheer for the runners in the NYC Half-Marathon. The day was clear and cold, the air extra-chilled, as it blew in off the Hudson River on the west side, where we had found a good viewing spot. We waited for some time, stamping our feet to keep warm, my hands pulled up inside the sleeves of my coat. And then, without fanfare, without even an accompanying bicycle (as all the other leaders would have), the first athlete on the course came through. She was alone, cranking the hand cycling apparatus of her racing wheelchair with ferocious energy.

She set the standard of athleticism in the race. Though there were many fine runners who passed by a short time later, the beauty of their gaits, their power and almost surreal speed, was eclipsed by her spirit. We whooped and clapped as she sped past; and when David and I glanced over at each other mid-cheer, we couldn’t help but laugh—we both had tears in our eyes. The same question had occurred to both of us. Would I have the same courage or spirit?

I thought of an expression my mother uses, “There, but for the grace of the universe, go I.” Indeed.

When I met Yolanda Jackson, a week or so later, I recalled the expression again.

At sixty-four years old (you would never guess it!), Yolanda radiates a slow burning, steady energy. From her red, red lipstick, to her spikey short hair, to her signature Mexican silver bracelet, which attaches by long-link chain to a matching ring on her middle finger, Yo (as her friends call her) is one of those women you see and want to hang out with.

We’re lucky she’s still around to hang out. Three years ago she was diagnosed with Stage 3 pancreatic cancer, one of the most deadly iterations that disease offers. Yet, much against the odds, Yolanda is not just still here, she’s a force. “I didn’t lose one night of sleep over that diagnosis. I just said to myself, I’m not giving in to this. I’m not going to feel this badly. I’m not going to look like someone sick.” Despite surgery, chemo and radiation, she only missed a few weeks of work. She was hit with every side effect in the book, rashes, peeling skin, pain, nausea, fatigue, the walking-on-hot-coals feeling when her feet touched solid ground. Instead of focusing on the severity of her discomfort, she focused on work, on living life as normally as possible.

She continues to work at the Women’s Sports Foundation, where she’s been for more than twenty years; and she’s still physically active, going to the gym 3-4 times a week, and walking, often as much as 7 miles, on the weekends, staying tuned to what her body will allow on any given day, but at the same time not giving up on her body, because some days its awfully tired.

Where does such strength and resilience come from? In Yolanda’s case, it started with her father, who always told her, “Remember, you’re a Jackson, and a Jackson can do anything.” Yolanda started proving that on the sports field.

As a girl, sports started for Yolanda in the summer recreation program’s Playground Olympics. At the tender age of six years old, she was competing in the then-called “midget” category, sprinting to victory in every foot race, winning more trophies in long jump and the softball throw. She went on to play softball, basketball and volleyball through high school. She learned to play tennis in the convent, and later still she took up cycling, squash and golf.

Yes…You read that right…Yolanda was, for a period, Sister Helene Marie. That’s a whole ‘nother story. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you totally hanging. Here are a few tidbits. Yolanda was “called” to be a nun when she was in high school. So straight after graduation, she drove up to the convent, where, surrounded by friends and family, she entered the order. With a short break, precipitated by an illness, Yolanda committed herself to the cloistered life and became a professed nun. As a nun, she attended college, studying sociology, in preparation for what was to be her work at an orphanage on Staten Island. But her studies, as studying can do, began to raise questions, and with the questions came doubts. Birth control was a big issue at the time, something the Church forbids. Why?—classmates of Yolanda’s asked her. And she found she couldn’t answer, at least not to her own satisfaction. She began to investigate what else in the doctrine made her uncomfortable, and Yolanda found that her questions and doubts could not be allayed. She left the veiled life.

Yolanda still goes to church. “I’m not an A&P Catholic,” she says, referring to Ash Wednesday and Palm Sunday, the only two days many Catholics show up for.

She goes on weekday mornings, when the spirit moves her. “It fuels my soul.” And she goes for the community, much like the community she finds at the gym, on mornings she’s not at church.

Yolanda’s reservoirs of strength and resilience run deep, from family, to sports, to church.

On that last, I found myself resisting its importance, as I was writing this, not being a huge fan of organized religion. But then I thought about the beautiful film I saw this past weekend, Of Gods and Men, based on a true story of eight French monks in Algeria, who were caught up in the brutal civil unrest of that country, and ultimately died for their pacifism (the provocative question of the value of their sacrifice is one I continue to wrestle with); and I was reminded how important it is to believe in something outside of ourselves—for me it’s the gorgeous mystery of the universe’s complexity and the energy we create through our existence—for others it may be the more specific tenets of a religion. Ultimately, we make our spirituality, and in that making, we connect ourselves to the world (assuming religious belief is not used to elevate or separate the believer above or from others). And I believe that connection gives us strength. Yolanda is evidence of that.

My bailiwick though is the connection between sports and resilience; and on that, Yolanda says, “Not only did sports ensure that I was physically strong going into the cancer treatment, so that I could survive the disease; but my participation in sports meant I had the mental and emotional strength I needed to get through.”

Bunny Athlete

2011-04-01T15:23:00.002-04:00

Question--what do we think about Roberta Mancino?--squirrel-suited skydiver, who has posed in the altogether (aka her birthday suit) for the publicity boost it gives her.

I feel mixed. On the one hand, I think, ugh, she's bringing us all down, by perpetuating and pandering to the market, which gives scant coverage to women athletes, unless they are in their scanties. On the other hand, I think, savvy girl, playing to a paying audience and making her way. She's just a working girl, like the rest of us.

We can be athletes, without being bunnies. Yes, it's true that exigencies of the market seem to dictate that women need to pretty-up and strip down, but the market has also, at times, suggested that investing in sub-prime mortgages was a good idea, or that high-fructose-corn-syrup is a food we ought to consume...ultimately we have choices, right? If we don't want to follow Roberta's lead, or invest in the dodgy, or eat Star Trek-like food, we don't have to. All power to us. It might feel like tilting against windmills, to stand for what we believe, but doesn't it make us feel better in the end?

Roberta does what works for her. We each do what works for us. And what we do, is an expression of who we are.

What do you think?

Inside and Outside (Our Bodies)

2011-03-28T11:11:00.001-04:00

I recently came across these last lines of James Wright’s gorgeous poem, A Blessing:

Suddenly, I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would

Break into blossom

The poem, though titled “A Blessing,” does not refer to any religious belief, rather it reminds us of the spiritual in nature and in ourselves, without intervention of a large organization, imposing its fixed precepts and long codes of principles. While I love the poem (in case you couldn’t guess), when I read it, I thought, “mind” not “body.” As in, “if I stepped out of my mind”…I’d go further and say, “and if I stepped into my body.”

Because that’s the challenge, isn’t it?—that our minds are obsessing about our bodies, whether we’re slim enough, or tall enough, or have the right hair, or have calves too thin or too thick, or the right shape and size breasts, or…well, I’m sure you have your own list. We aren’t really inside our bodies, instead we’re looking at them from the outside, ever the critic, constantly evaluating, judging, and generally wrinkling our nose at ourselves; and, all too often, others, which is, after all, just a manifestation of our own unhappiness with ourselves—misery loves company and all that, plus picking on someone else helps us feel better about our own failings—yuck, what a way to live.

We are already too much outside our bodies. Instead, we need to step away from our minds, those insidious producers of thoughts, and step into our bodies, into our senses, and into how we feel. Right now. Cold. Hot. Energetic. Tired. Fidgety. Still. Blah. Delicious.

Our bodies are talking to us. Let’s listen with an open mind and tender heart.

Then, gently, so gently, we will begin to blossom.

Be A Living Example

2011-03-23T11:37:00.001-04:00

Waking up, the grey morning was illuminated by the fresh fallen snow, sticky on the trees and grass. The thermometer said 40, but with the snowy rain, it felt colder as I ran through the near empty park to a workout. One of the few runners I passed was a man running with a baby jogger (kudos to him), equipped, of course, with a transparent plastic cover to protect baby from the elements.

It’s not that I never see women running with their babies in the inclement weather, but still…I have often heard variations on this theme—“It’s too cold (or wet, or windy, or or or) to take the baby out.” Thus does the woman deny herself the opportunity to run. Deny herself.

Too often, mothers feel selfish when they claim time for themselves, when they prioritize their workouts. Men…not so much. In conversation with two mothers earlier this week, they were bemoaning the fact that they had forfeited Sunday runs at the behest of their children. Their children had pressed their guilt button—something most clever kids know how to locate in an instant. Yes, of course, children are a priority. But let’s face it, for the vast majority of you who are reading this, your children are not suffering from neglect. Sure, weekend time with your family is important, but so are you, and so is your emotional, mental, spiritual and physical wellbeing. Giving yourself short shrift is counterproductive. Yes, your children have your attention, but is it undivided and patient, or is it yearning for the run you missed and impatient, because you need some time to yourself to clear your head and get the blood flowing?

But there’s an even more important reason to prioritize your own workout. How do children learn what’s important, how to behave and who to respect?—from adults, and more specifically from their parents. Mothers need to demonstrate by example that a woman may prioritize her own time, otherwise how will her daughter ever know she can? Mothers need to demonstrate that strong women are important and respected. The only way to truly do that, is by being a strong woman, who respects her own needs. And it’s not just daughters who are looking for examples of strong women in their lives; it’s sons, too. Mothers, you are raising boys who will ultimately treat women in the way that was modeled to them at home.

Not only should mothers claim time for themselves; they set a living example when they do, one that will resonate through the next generation. How excellent—getting your run (or bike or walk, or swim, or or or) is an important feminist statement.

Go for it—rain or shine!

Soccer + Skates = Roller Soccer…Who Knew…

2011-03-18T11:13:00.001-04:00

June Solomon grew up in Trinidad & Tobago, which, in case you have geography holes in your knowledge, as I did, is two islands under one government, controlled at various times in history by the French, Spanish, Dutch and British; and is one of the richest Caribbean islands, because it has oil reserves. And, even more interestingly from an RLAG perspective, it was only the second island to elect a female prime minister in the region. End of Geography 101 diversion.

June was the third of six children, raised by her single mother, who still found time to encourage her oldest daughter to participate in track and field excelled early at sports, training with one of Trinidad’s top coaches for a time, whose values and work ethic mirrored June’s mother’s. For herself, June’s biggest goal was not athletic though, it was to finish her education, not only for herself, but also for her mother, who, with six children, had not had the opportunity to finish school, as she had wanted.

At twenty-one, keenly aware of the unfavourable economic climate and the general lack of opportunity in her country, June came to the United States, hoping to pursue her sports, education, and help support her family. For years she worked as a nanny, saving money to put herself through university, taking the live-in jobs, where she could save the most. “I’ve always been a good saver,” June says. She continued to work part-time during school, and has remained good friends with many of her former employers.

In 1999, she graduated from Temple University with a degree in Kinesiology, a particular passion of hers. June always loved studying science and the inner workings of the human body. Back in Trinidad, she once won a science award and the prize was a forensic pathology textbook, which she treasured.

During school she took up skating—aka rollerblading. She was part of the once huge skate groups, who would explore Philadelphia (and other big cities) on epic tours during the night. In 1998, at a “Skate of the Union” event in DC, she met Zack. He was there promoting a new sport he’d invented, soccer on skates…roller soccer, as he called it. June noticed his skates first—Rollerblade E-Pro’s, the same model she had, still so new that almost no one wore them. Then she noticed he was dribbling a soccer ball between his skates. Never shy, not after dealing with coming to a new country, she skate-kicked the ball around a bit with Zack and the rest…as they say…is history. Instead of working on the physical side of sport & athletics, June ended up on the business side. Getting even more education to support her new direction—a Master’s degree in Sport Management from the University of San Francisco.

By 2000, June was working full time with Zack to build and promote the RollerSoccer International Federation. A bit about RollerSoccer—it’s five on five, no off-sides, no slide tackling (can you imagine? Ouch), and a lower, wider goal. And, here’s the interesting part—it’s co-ed. Why?—because it’s an equal opportunity sport. “Force and size are not factors, it’s agility, fitness and technical skill,” June says. “So there’s no reason men and women can’t play together.”

It’s been a challenging journey, and, as June says, “Like everything, it takes time.” Interest in skating in the US had waned in favour of skateboarding, but recently there have been indications of a resurgence of interest in skating. June and Zack are persisting. They are putting everything they have and earn back into their dream. “If you truly believe in something, why should you give it up if other people tell you to?” says June. Instead, June looks past the challenges, and finds one thing at a time to focus on for the future. One more tip, “I surround myself with motivators.”

As of now, there are more than twelve countries with RollerSoccer clubs, including Belgium, Brazil, Cameroon, England, France, Germany, India, Italy, Norway, Pakistan, Slovenia, and the United States. In the US there are players scattered around the country, and the challenge is to find people willing to start a club. “Most people would rather join, than lead,” June says. Still, June is working on creative ways to build the sport, including a certification program in the early planning stages. She’d love, too, to launch RollerSoccer Youth Programs (RSYP) in cities across the US. She has her work cut out for her, and she knows the road won’t be easy.

“Skating could be all work for me now. So I try hard to strike a balance with fun. I love dance skating with my divas in the park!”

‘Kick ‘n Roll’ and keep skating like a girl!

Still On My Tristram Shandy Hobby Horse…

2011-03-14T12:46:00.002-04:00

…yes, balance; perhaps because it is so elusive, there one moment and gone the next.

A couple of weeks ago, after a gorgeous run on the coastal trail of the Marin headlands across the bridge from San Francisco, I returned to childhood for an exhilarating half hour—my first time on a slackline. That is, a tightrope-like piece of webbing, easily secured around two nicely spaced trees; and, in my case, low to the soft, grassy ground. To even place my first foot on the slackline the initial few times caused uncontrollable shaking. At first I thought, this is impossible. Never happening for me. Only by dint of extreme presence, concerted focus, and, of course, relaxed letting go (and there’s the rub, of course), was I able to still my foot on the line and even, for a moment, bring my other foot to the line, for a tentative first step.

I felt like I was on the verge of total combustion. To be so there, in that moment of balance, was exquisite…and completely unsustainable…for now.

Because if you’re like me, once we get beyond those first delirious moments of learning something new, and being 100% present to the learning experience, our inner critic comes knocking again. Hey, let me in. Don’t leave me standing on the stoop. Wearily, we open the door. And in bustles Agnes (that’s the new name I’ve given my inner critic), just bristling like the village gossip, dying to tell us how things really are. You can’t…that’s waaay over your head…

Makes a girl want to put her fingers in her ears and chant, blah, blah, blah, I’m not listening. Practice self-compassion. First step—close the door in Agnes’ face (you don’t even have to be polite about it, because I know how much we all like to be polite). Letting Agnes horn in on our fun is not balanced.

I’ve been slacklining a couple more times so far. Once on a grey and rainy Sunday morning alone, in a near-empty park; and the world looked rosier afterward. Once with my partner, which reminded me of what a treat it is to just play with a friend, no agenda. Agnes isn’t allowed to come. And as a consequence, I enjoy slacklining enormously. The dance of finding balance in my physical being is a rush—I took five whole steps on Saturday—and I find that I carry the feeling with me for at least the rest of the day; the feeling that everything is more balanced in life in general. Not to mention the feeling that there are so many new things out there to explore.

Balance can be acquired—through patience and practice, in our bodies and in our minds. How fortunate!

Why Watch Our Watch...

2011-03-06T17:26:00.002-05:00

I did one of my favourite NYC runs yesterday—up to the little red lighthouse under the great grey bridge (i.e. the George Washington Bridge). I’ve done the run too many times to count, but still I put on my watch to measure how long it was going to take me. I suspected I was going to be slower than usual, because of some chattiness in my hamstrings and IT band.

I felt good. Halfway through I thought to myself, “I feel pretty fast today.” Then I looked at my watch. Nope. I was so happy to be doing the run, I didn’t care; except that small piece of me, that watch watching part, kept murmuring, not as fast today as usual, are you?

I’m not a professional athlete. I’m not training for anything in particular. Why even wear a watch? Those numbers could get a girl down if she’s so inclined.

And then there’s this…in a yin yoga workshop yesterday, the instructor told us that it wasn’t how stretchy we were that mattered (thank heavens for that), rather it was our “intention and effort,” which defined our progress. So, in my case, the fact that I’m sitting completely upright, while everyone else is folded in half, head to knees, isn’t relevant. What’s important is that I’m intending to fold in half, and I’m working as hard in that direction as is safe with my less-than-Natalie-Portman-like hamstrings.

On my run, intention and effort were present; it was just the usual pace that wasn’t. And while I whole-heartedly agree with the yin instructor’s view, I still think the watch bears watching sometimes. Not as an old communism-style tool of self-criticism, but as a reality check. By which I don’t mean, be real you’re not as talented as you think you are. Rather, as a guide, a signpost, to let you know how things are in your body, so that you can know what reasonable intention and effort are for that day or that week. Your body is talking to you, if you listen. The watch helps you listen. I’m tired. I need rest. I need more stretching. I need a slower re-introduction to running after two months of xc skiing (that’s what mine was saying).

Me and the couch spent some quality time together as a result.

As for my watch, I’ll still wear it. But it’s not the boss of me. It can’t tell me if I had a good run or not. That’s something my body and my heart get to decide. I had a great run up to the lighthouse.

Mice Were Sacrificed...But the News is Good

2011-03-03T09:48:00.002-05:00

The New York Times reported on a study today, which found that exercise keeps us young. This is not exactly news, I don't think, but it's always heartening when science confirms what "seems" to be the case. The results, as you'll read, are quite startling, actually; and more than ever suggest that doctors ought to be prescribing "athletic effort" more often.

I recommend self-medicating!

When Am I a Runner?

2011-02-28T17:21:00.001-05:00

Last week at Outdoor Divas (a store I heart!) a woman asked me, “when can you call yourself a runner?” Her tone was tentative, and she told me that she wasn’t sure she was entitled to the moniker yet.

I was stumped.

My immediate reaction was to say, “you’re a runner if you think of yourself as a runner.” Period. End. Finis. That’s all she wrote. I wanted that woman to own her accomplishment, to feel the power of her running, even if she sometimes walked during her run or didn’t run more than 3 or 4 miles, or wasn’t as fast as lots of other people (and why should she care about them anyway?). But that answer was too facile. Too much along the lines of “think positive and good things will happen.” Well, yes, although you generally have to actually “do” something positive, too, and that’s where things get more effortful.

And once I’d thought about the question some more, I realized that I had an answer; or at least an answer for me.

Some people define being a runner by whether a person has done a marathon or not. Nope. That’s not my definition. How confining. Besides, where does that leave sprinters? Others define it by other distances or whether you race and so on.

For me, you are a runner when you do two things: First—you create an intention around running, often in the form of a commitment of some kind, setting a goal. That goal might be anything from, “I’m going to build up to a mile without walking over the next so many months.” To, “I’m going to run 30 miles a week come May.” To, “That marathon is mine.” And so on. Second—and this is where it gets picky on my part—I think a “runner” runs at least some of the time outside. Because to me, running, as a first principle, is that thing we did as children (when we were girls and boys!). Remember when everywhere we went, we went at a run? Upstairs, downstairs, across the lawn, on the sidewalk to the brink of the street; terrifying, exhausting and exasperating parents everywhere with our precipitous manner of moving through life. That was running, as we first knew it and loved it.

When can we call ourselves runners? When we hit the great outdoors, at least sometimes, with a commitment to be a runner. Simple as that.

Happy trails!

Not even halfway there...

2011-02-22T13:26:00.002-05:00

Some days I think about how much time I have left for all the things I want to do. On dark days, it doesn't feel like enough. On good days, it feels like incentive to do it now. But the story about Ida Keeling in the New York Daily News opened a new world of possibility.

Ida just set a world record in her age group for the 60 meter sprint distance. Her age group?--over 90. Actually, she's well into that age bracket at 95.

As you'll see in the story, she's not had an easy time in life, but for the past 30 years exercise has been a true companion for her: "It's so uplifting," Keeling said. "Instead of giving these children jail time, they should give them a sentence of exercise. That would wake them up."

Hear. Hear.

As for me, I'm excited to learn that I'm not even halfway there yet. What a gift!

Bananagrams, skiing and balance

2011-02-16T12:27:00.001-05:00

Lately I’ve been mildly discouraged by my cross-country skiing. Why am I not getting better? After all, I ski a lot for the two months I spend in CA. I’m not talking about fitness. Unlike some of the other sports I do, xc skiing is heavily-reliant on technique. The better your technique, the more efficiently you can ski, which equals skiing further and faster, with less effort and so on. So once again I’m taking some ski clinics, hoping to unearth what the barriers to improvement are for me.

Preliminary digging has unearthed the realization that one of the big ones, maybe the biggest key to unlocking any kind of step change in my skiing, is also one of my hobby horse topics here—balance. Or rather, lack thereof. On dry land, as it were, my balance is decent—I once stood on one leg for three minutes in aid of a friend’s daughter’s school project (and this in the middle of a convivial dinner). But on snow…on skis…while moving…well, let’s just say it’s a very different picture.

So I’m doing drills—all sorts of permutations of skiing on one ski (there are more than you would think), plus at the end of every workout I throw down my poles and try to lift each foot up and unclip my ski at knee level or so, instead of bending over and unclipping, with my feet solidly on the ground. Oh yes, people have wondered what I’m doing, and the only consolation is that if they try my unclipping drill with me, they mostly discover that it’s more perilous than it looks.

But I digress (and will further, of course)…are you familiar with Bananagrams? Sort of like Scrabble on speed, each player picks 21 letters and begins building their own scrabble-like web of words. Each time any player uses all their letters, all the players have to pick up another letter and integrate it into their word-web; and so on, until all the letters are used up. One of the keys to playing the game is the willingness to de-construct all your lovely, hard-won words and re-build from scratch. If you get too attached to what you’ve already done, you will find it difficult to excel in the game. Just so, if we become too attached to how we do something (for example, skiing), then we block our progress to the next level.

So I’m trying to think of my ski clinics in Bananagrams terms.

Our ski instructor tells us that balance is teachable. Yippee for that mercy. The downside is that generally things will get worse before they get better (uh huh, that old saw again). To construct a better technique, I first have to de-construct my current, flawed technique and build up from the basics—starting with my balance, that is. Instead of relying on my poles, or my ability to speed up my tempo to accommodate for imbalance (something I can sort of do because of my fitness level, but which is really just a crutch to avoid real improvement), I need to slow down my cadence and allow for the possibility of falling over.

Why?—because in the long run, the better my balance, the easier pretty much everything will be in xc skiing. And, as my instructor points out, the more balanced we are, the more prepared we are for all the things that throw us off balance. Is your brain tick-tick-ticking like mine over that last statement? Sounds familiar indeed. The basic principles of balance apply everywhere in life, and I really mean everywhere—from our physical pursuits, to our careers, to our relationships, to our self-efficacy…you name it. And here’s a cool thing—if we practice balance, in any of those areas, our practice will pay off across the board. As we begin to “feel” balance in our bodies, so it translates to our psyches and vice-versa.

Of this we can be certain—we will be thrown off balance, on our skis, as by life. The more we practice this learnable skill…I don’t need to spell out the rest.

Frustrating, yes. But also exhilarating; because the beauty of something that’s teachable, is that it’s learnable (okay—that was stating the obvious). There have been a few moments, nothing more than a hair’s breadth of an instant, when I’ve felt the balance I’m working toward. Each time it’s happened, I’ve spontaneously cried out with surprise. To feel yourself learning something new, now that is glorious.

RLAG 5-Word Memoirs

2011-02-10T16:36:00.002-05:00

Here’s a fun sampling of some great creative energy:

There’s snow stopping me now!—Kristy [p.s. you have to say it fast to hear the true beauty of this one…p.p.s. this was the random draw winner!]

Strong, steady, tough, ready – ME!—Kristen

Mental toughness shapes physical beauty—Teresa

Heart break healed by running—Karen

It is my "me" time—Riki

Coffee's best with tired legs—Melinda

Downward-dog felt good, at last—Libby

Still looking for second wind—Mindy

Fell in love with myself—Geneva

Man ahead, pass on left—Jill

And then I surprised myself—Diti

Cleared away all the confusion—Natalie

I felt an immense peace—Marcia

Joy carried my legs along—Genet

Part II: We've Come a Long Way Baby

2011-02-07T16:58:00.003-05:00

[Previously on this blog....we left Nicole DeBoom's story just as the first running skirts were coming off the production line...]

Within twelve months Nicole had hung up her pro-shoes and switched gears to full time entrepreneur and amateur athlete.

“I was in the prime of my racing career,” Nicole says. “I could have done five more years. “

But not only was Nicole herself pro, she was married to a top-flight pro athlete, a world champion even, and she knew how much it would take to stay professional, and she knew those sacrifices (or perhaps that brand of selfishness) weren’t going to make her happy for the next years. A former competitive swimmer (she even made the ’88 Olympic trials), she loved swim coaching and getting involved with the kids’ lives. Not possible as a pro. Besides, kids are germ machines. Not just kids, their parents, and then, by extension, everyone who comes in contact with the parents. In other words, having a social life—haha, I don’t think so. As a pro, not only are you exhausting yourself with an intense workout schedule, even if you have the energy to go out, the risk of getting sick needs to be adjusted for at all times, as Nicole pointed out. You can’t even go out in cold season, and when people come over, all you notice is every time they cough or sneeze; and what they touch, so you can make a note not to touch it. Getting sick could be the end of your season. Getting sick could mean $10k down the drain, just for missing next weekend.

Nicole missed socializing. She missed having people around. And when she switched gears from athlete to entrepreneur, the #1 core value of her new company was (and still is) relationships. No surprise then that Skirt Sports’ brand mission is, “inspiring women to include fitness in their life”—because Nicole doesn’t want to just sell cool clothes (I’m wearing one of hers as I type, because I haven’t been able to bring myself to take it off yet after my xc ski this a.m.--I've even attached photographic evidence), she wants to make a difference in women’s lives.

Certainly clothes can make a difference to our attitude and the likelihood we’ll get out there—you know it’s true, when you have that adorable new something to wear, you want to get out there and feel good in it. Shallow?—maybe. On second thought, maybe not, because if it gets you out there, well that’s a pretty important result. But Nicole is not just inspiring women to get out there with fun designs, she’s taken her corporate mission many steps further.

So now the last fast forward…to 2011… After several years of bootstrapping and a couple of investor injections from family and friends, Skirt Sports is doing well enough to focus not just on improving its products, but on giving back to the community. In addition to their Skirt Chaser 5ks in Denver and Tempe, the company’s Kick Start Program gives women with barriers to fitness help in setting and reaching the goal of doing a 5k. Each of the fifteen women selected, in both Denver and Tempe (the communities where the program operates), are paired with a “personal motivator,” a women who is willing to share her energy and enthusiasm for running with the Kick Start participant, and be there all along the way providing company and encouragement.

Launching soon is the next, logical iteration of Kick Start, Nicole’s initiative called Kick it Forward, in which women who are not in one of the Skirt Sports geographical communities can also participate in a Kick Start type program, in which pairs of women, a personal motivator and one of her women-friends-in-need of support, apply together to be part of the program.

The programs are win-win-win-win (fear not—I will really cover all four wins). Women on both sides of the equation are benefiting—getting fit and feeling better about themselves on one side, and learning the important leadership skills of motivating and inspiring others on the other side—and that’s the just the first two “wins.” Participation in the program also comes with the third “win,” of the occasional discount on Skirt Sports products.

And the fourth win?—Skirt Sports is tapping into, increasing and leveraging the richest resource available to the company—“The biggest power we have found is the energy women have. They want to be a part of Skirt Sports.”

Do we have energy?? Indeed!

And, while we're on the topic of energy--don't forget to save a bit of that energy to write your 5-word RLAG memoir and be entered to win a $75 Skirt Sports gift certificate!

First Ever RLAG Giveaway!

2011-02-03T14:21:00.003-05:00

Win a $75 gift certificate to Skirt Sports, in the first ever 5-word “RLAG” memoir contest!

Whaa?—Based on the 5-word memoir (for example—Never finished anything except cake), the 5-word Run Like a Girl (RLAG) memoir is a new variation, centered around the theme of how, why or when you’ve run like a girl. And…what’s running like a girl? It’s being strong and happy in our physical being. It’s challenging ourselves (to do things athletic and non-athletic) and daring to fail. It’s hanging on to our Let’s-Go girl spirit, even as we are women. Here are a few examples of 5-word RLAG memoirs:

Strong legs carried me far.

Toenails fell off, kept going.

Believed I could, and did.

Fleet feet in short skirt

Send in your 5-word RLAG memoir (pictorial accompaniment always welcome) to me, at mina@minasamuels.com by Wednesday, February 9 and you’ll automatically be entered to win a $75 gift certificate to Skirt Sports (think cool, hip, cute, sexy and versatile workout clothes). Not only that, anyone who signs up for Skirt Sports e-newsletter will automatically be entitled to a 10% discount anytime—how great is that?

5-word word memoirs (and pix) will be published here. Memoirs may also be published on Skirt Sports' website or Facebook Fan page. And p.s. if you don’t already “like” our FB fan pages, do it now!

The Fine Print (except in this case bold and obvious): Please put “Skirt Sports Contest” in the email subject line. To be eligible for the gift certificate, you must have a US shipping address.

Part I: We've Come a Long Way Baby

2011-02-03T13:58:00.005-05:00

Or so Virginia Slims claimed quite some time ago…and now we really have.

Evidence?

Well, I’m currently reading Gail Collins new book, When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to Present, an in-depth look at the history of feminism. The book is a reminder of what we fought so hard for. I was struck, for example, by an anecdote of a woman who was kicked out of court (traffic court, no less, where she had gone to pay her boss’s traffic ticket, to add insult to injury) for wearing slacks (I love that word—it’s the one Collins’ uses in the book) instead of a skirt. The incident happened in 1960. Fast forward thirty years…I worked for a law firm in the early nineties that would not allow the women lawyers (i.e. me) to wear pants to work. The day I quit that job, I started wearing pants almost every day, until the day I left. Nice pants. Slacks even. Pants that went with my jacket to complete my “suit.” And yet, that act felt thrilling and defiant, even though I had nothing to lose, since I’d already quit.

So for me, skirts, as much as I love (and loved) them, were always a bit of a sign of weakness, or imposed femininity.

Fast forward some more, but not really that much, through a generation of women slightly younger than I who enjoyed the benefits of Title IX and growing up with the feeling that they could be and do anything they wanted, and that being feminine, did not exclude being independent, that running like a girl, in other words, meant being strong. Now, instead of shying away from skirts, as we did from the expression “run like a girl,” it was time to reclaim skirts as part of our power.

We’ve arrived at 2003. Enter Nicole DeBoom, professional triathlete, Title IXer (that's her in the pic, smoking the boys on bikes). She’s out for a run one night in the dead of winter and catches sight of her reflection in a shop window as she passes by.

“I look like a boy,” she thinks.

Then, “Why can’t I look pretty? There’s nothing wrong with looking pretty while running.”

Nicole cuts her run short and goes home, her brain doing PR mile splits. On a piece of paper she writes, “women’s fitness clothing that you look and feel good wearing.”

Now Nicole knew a thing or two about fitness clothing. As a pro athlete she got a lot of free shwag from sponsors and other clothing companies. But mostly what she got were men’s size XS clothing, or women’s clothing that looked, or felt, like it was made by men. Sure there was some cute stuff, but that was all the après workout gear, as if a woman changed her nature once the workout was over. Forget that age-old (and hopefully dead) dichotomy of Madonna-Whore, now it’s Athlete-Feminine, as if those two are an oxymoron.

Nicole’s speeding brain pauses briefly to consider the example set by Juicy Couture, a company that had managed to make sweatpants, the least sexy of all apparel, actually look hot. And she thinks about how busy most women who workout are, how much they’d like versatility in their workout clothes, so they don’t end up doing errands in their running tights or shorts.

Where to begin? Well, with Nicole’s least favourite of all running gear—shorts. The options available, before Nicole mixed in, were spandex shorts, which required physical perfection, which meant they could be worn happily for about a one minute window a year; and regular shorts, which rode up, or looked …well…you know how running shorts look, there’s a good reason why you don’t see that silhouette spilling over into other fashion arenas; and what’s with that strangely baggy underwear?

Nicole moves from dream to reality. She hires some people she can barely afford to help with sewing. She sketches her own designs (and no, you didn’t miss the part where she studied drawing or clothing design). Her first running skirt (likely the first ever running skirt, period) is made with regular lycra from Joanne’s Fabrics, no athletic grade, fancy tech wicking, four-way stretching, or performance compression.

In September 2004, after run-testing a few prototypes, Nicole debuts one of her skirts at Ironman Wisconsin, wins the race; and would have won best outfit on the course, if that had been a category. Not to mention that she blazes a whole new direction in how strong women are going look in the heat of competition.

A week later she places her first order for skirts and Skirt Sports is born, launching in early 2005.

STAY TUNED...TO BE CONTINUED...

In the meantime, if you're checking out Skirt Sports' website, check it out a little more closely, because you might have a special opportunity to pick out something fun for yourself. Details of a contest and giveaway of a $75 gift certificate to Skirt Sports coming in a blog post shortly!

Views from Provo Canyon

2011-01-27T15:43:00.002-05:00

The word "blog" just sounds messy, doesn't it?--lumpy, unfocused, apt to lose the point and head off in a different direction...so it's the word's fault that this post is going to be a bit tangential to RLAG-ing.

Got back yesterday from the Sundance Film Festival, where I was reminded of what one of the possible permutations of a perfect day is for me. The day starts with a cross-country ski high up in Provo Canyon, on trails which cross avalanche run-off and eventually make me feel like a bird, soaring in the canyon cleft above the trees, the sun baking me on the uphills, but not yet strong enough to ease the sharp chill of the downhills.

Then, once my body has had its chance to work up a sweat, it's my mind's turn to work, with three movies in a row at the Sundance Screening Room (we like the quiet part of the festival and stay away from Park City), followed much later by a dinner of deliciousness at the Tree Room and an opportunity to dissect and discuss.

And so...what I saw, in order of preference:

Happy, Happy, a Norwegian film, which some of you probably already know is one of my favourite filmmaking countries (along with Finland and Iceland, of course!). A very dark sex comedy plus drama, in the classic Scandinavian model of somewhat depressing circumstances (and snow, naturally) shaded by a strong will to find the happiness that's possible and accept the strangeness of the world.

On the Ice, a first feature by a Native Alaskan director, set in the bleak, yet stunning landscape of Barrow, Alaska (more snow), where two childhood friends, now on the cusp of adulthood, test the limits of their loyalty to each other when they are involved in a gruesome accident on a seal hunt.

little birds, a first feature from a former Boston gang member, two girls coming of age in a nowhere, poverty-stricken town on the edge of the Salton Sea; one struggling to escape her childhood and the claustrophobic future which seems to be bearing down on her, while her friend seems to cling more to the naivete of girlhood, though (somewhat predictably) it is her who sees more clearly how brutal the loss of innocence will be for them.

The Salesman (Le Vendeur), a Quebecois film, set in a snowy landscape (yes, more of the white stuff, it was a bit of a theme) north of Montreal, where a pulp and paper mill is shutting down and a car salesman keeps on keeping on, even as the pervasive mood of tragedy gets more personal. A beautiful meditation on what it is to be happy, or even just to survive.

Lost Kisses, a mess of an Italian film, in which the heroine tells people that a statue of Madonna has spoken to her and the resulting miracle mayhem.

Page One, a documentary ostensibly about a year inside the life of the New York Times, as a structure to explore the constant obituaries being written about print media, and the importance of in-depth analysis in media. Yes, I agree, real research and analysis is sorely lacking from a lot of the "instant" or "online" media, which threatens to replace venerable old institutions like the print newspaper. Yet, the movie categorically fails to address the fact that print is being replaced, whether or not the smart, but hoary, chain smoking, unhealthy and rumpled newspapermen portrayed like it or not; oh...and yes... I do mean "men," because women were largely absent from the film. So the real question, in my mind, is how not to throw out the proverbial baby with the bathwater--the baby here being intellectual rigour, deep research and thoughtful analysis; and the bathwater being dead trees turned into paper on which we print the resulting articles. In case you didn't guess, I found the movie somewhat smug and ostrich-y--this from a girl who is very happy to have a real old-fashioned book coming out soon and still uses pencil on paper to mark up manuscripts.

In short, and in case it wasn't obvious--the first four are well worth seeing (if the stories sound appealing and you can find them!) and the last two can be skipped without regrets.

If you've read this far, and indulged my movieholic-ism, I will say that the next blog post, coming very soon, is back square in the middle of the spirit of running like a girl--an interview with Nicole DeBoom, the founder of Skirt Sports.

Moving Toward Discomfort

2011-01-18T22:58:00.003-05:00

At my favourite Yin Yoga class tonight at Tahoe Yoga, Walter (the owner of the studio, a chiropractor, and teacher extraordinaire), talked about noticing our reaction to the discomfort we feel when holding yoga poses for the long periods of time that are signature Yin (anywhere from 3-5 minutes, during which time pigeon pose takes on a whole new complexion). More than noticing, is exploring that reaction while we're in the pose. Do I want to run away? Do I fidget? Do I tune out--as in my case, where I'll realize my pose got sloppy and I was thinking about what to wear next month when I'm in Denver for a book event? And most importantly, what information does this give me about how I react to discomfort in the rest of my life?

Dis-comfort, to be not comfortable, un-comforted--sounds like something to avoid. Yes. Well, actually no. We can't. So better to meet it, than dodge it. Because dodging it is really just an exercise in exacerbation, not a solution.

Long ago I took a self-defence class, not much stuck with me, except this--if someone tries to snatch your bag, hang on tight, but don't try to resist the snatcher, instead, move in the same direction. Not a natural reaction, but efficacious in many instances. In most cases, the culprit will be so flummoxed by your surprising reaction that they will loosen their grip on your bag. Presto, the bag is in your control again.

Discomfort is a purse snatcher. Lean into it and you might just be surprised to feel that discomfort loosen its grip.

Still dubious. Think about your workouts. Not so comfortable all the time, right? (And I'm talking here about the discomfort of challenge, not of injury) But then, one day, all that discomfort comes together into a day of sublime ease and you wonder if your shoes, or bike, or boat or swimsuit have a hidden motor you weren't aware of. What felt hard yesterday, feels great today.

Moving toward discomfort is moving away, in sports as it is in life.

Living Lightly

2011-01-17T13:13:00.003-05:00

I am not a monogamist. So while I'm passionate about running, I also adore xc skiing, not to mention hiking and any number of other things that get me outdoors. And then there's the non-athletic things I love, movies, for example.

The other night we went down to Nevada City (in CA, not Nevada!) to the Wild & Scenic Film Festival and saw two fantastic environmental activism films. One, Truck Farm, was about a creative guy in Brooklyn who decided to grow veggies and herbs in the bed of his pick up truck. Along the way he visits roof "farms", window "farms" and other farms in New York city, as he thinks about how we might feed ourselves in a more sustainable, less impactful fashion. The second, Bag It, looks at the deleterious (extremely!) impact of plastic on our lives, the lives of the animals we share this world with and our planet. Suffice to say that one particularly wrenching scene showed a scientist going through the contents of a dead albatross's stomach, which contained--no joke--10 (yes, 10) plastic bottle caps.

So what does this have to do with running like a girl? Well...to RLAG is to live the best lives we can, which is going to get pretty hard if we don't take care of where we are living (not to mention we want our beautiful places to run and cycle and hike and swim and climb and and). RLAG is also understanding that we are the authors of our own happiness, which includes our health and therefore includes...you see where I'm going with this...the health of this amazing blue ball we call home. So here's one small action we might all undertake--as athletes we drink more than our share of water (and sports drinks), let's try to make as much of that consumption from our own bottles, and not single use, disposable bottles.

Run like a girl. Live lightly.

Being Reminded

2011-01-14T14:44:00.001-05:00

Waking early this morning, I watched dawn break. First in her fierce red glow, blossoming behind the mountains, like an ink stain spreading, then diffusing into paler pink and purple streaks; until finally day arrived, grey-blue at first, the sky clear but for the insubstantial threads of clouds above the peaks, still one-dimensional in the flat morning light. Below the valley was obscured by a softly rolling ocean of mist. Then the sun shone, now fully risen and the world turned on in all its three dimensions, shadow and light.

I went cross-country skiing, up to my favourite high spot, which overlooks Donner Lake. But the lake was hidden beneath the mist and I was high up in the sunshine, like a plane flying above the clouds. I was alone with the hills and trees and snow, the only sound my skis on the cold snow, scrape-y from yesterday’s rain, and my ragged-y breathing.

This is what “it’s” for, I thought.

It—meaning—skiing, and by extension, working out, being healthy, being in shape. What a privilege. A good reminder, too.

Because I’ve been a tiny bit sad this cross-country ski season, missing my best ski friend, who just had knee surgery. I’ve even felt sorry for myself at times (I know, I know, you don’t need to tell me that’s lame)—until I remember that I’m skiing and she is at home with her leg in a passive motion machine, working on healing.

I wish I could bottle the morning and bring it to Kristen, so we could drink it in together.

Running and Writing

2011-01-12T13:42:00.002-05:00

And now…part two—as promised—on running for writers.

Used to be that writers were classically thought of as paler still than bookworms, possibly undernourished, definitely pickled by years of alcohol abuse and generally not the sort of physical specimens one envied. If that was ever true, it’s not now. As Murakami pointed out so aptly in his book, writing takes stamina, so why not run (or do some other sport) to build that stamina? Not to mention (as he does, too) that the discipline and stick-to-it-ness demanded of sports is essentially the same as what writing asks.

Same question as yesterday—how to start?

Lace up your shoes. Open the door. Take a deep breath. Starting is the hardest part of any run, of any workout (not to mention of writing a book). Once we’re started the inertia of continuing the activity in which we’re engaged takes over, but getting out there—why? Do I have to?

Nope. But why not try it a few times and see how it feels. Like trying on different perspectives, or what we call “points of view” or POV’s in writing (for example, first person, or third person), why not try out a different perspective on life, a new vantage point. After all, that’s what writers are good at. Think of getting out there as the real life equivalent of inhabiting a character’s personality. Say to yourself, “I am a person who…runs, cycles, does yoga, zumbas, swims, walks etc…” and then try the activity on for size.

In writing it’s important to let go of your thinking, thinking, thinking mind, that conscious part of yourself, which is, let’s face it, a bit of a know-it-all, always saying things like, “I’m the kind of person who…” or “That’s not my kind of thing,” that’s not necessarily knowing yourself, you might just be stuck in a rut.

Instead think in broader terms, such as, “I am (or want to be) healthy and happy.” Yes, I suppose I did just open the door to the age-old debate of whether writers (or any creatives) need to be depressed and unstable to truly access their artistic nature. So let me shut that door right away, because I don’t believe it for a minute. Being healthy and happy, in the face of what life throws at us, is hard work. We all have enough challenges and setbacks to fill the pages of multi-volumes, without expressly prolonging our suffering.

Go ahead. Think of it as a writing exercise. And in the process, you’ll learn something about yourself. Better still, your mind will be free to do what it wants, fill up with fleeting ideas, empty, fill up again.

Just like writing.

Writing and Running

2011-01-11T19:51:00.001-05:00

I’ve been (belatedly, if that’s possible with reading and books) reading Haruki Murakami’s, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. I should say that he is (by my lights) a very serious runner, a fact I only point out because it’s often not the case when fiction writers write about running.

His second chapter is titled, Tips On Becoming a Running Novelist. Hey, I thought to myself, that’s me. The essay is a lovely meditation on the similarities between writing and running, the work of it, the gift of it, the joy of it, the solitariness and so on. My partner was reading over my shoulder as I started the chapter and he asked, “So is the chapter about how to write if you’re a runner? Or how to run if you’re a writer?”

Good question.

Well, it was really about neither, but his question was thought provoking and I thought I’d undertake, in this and my next post, to look at both sides of the coin, both questions he posed.

So, to the first—on writing for runners.

It seems like many (possibly most) people I talk to have a “story” inside of them they want to tell.

How to start?

The same way you start running, actually; that is, one foot in front of the other, or in the case of writing that would be one word after another. When you first start running, it doesn’t have to make sense. In fact, if you aren’t the type to sign up for races and set goals, but would rather just enjoy running for what it is, then it may never “make sense,” at least not sense in the way people think things automatically do if there’s an end in mind. Happiness, of course, is an “end,” and a sensible reason to do something, we just haven’t counted it as such, though that’s changing.

Writing is the same. It’s best to start without an end in mind, without a sensible reason (i.e. I’m writing a novel or a memoir or…). And then see where your mind takes you. In fact, think about your mind when you’re running alone (which is how you’ll be when you’re writing)—your mind is roaming around freely. You might set it the task of solving some problem, but likely it will take off on a tangent. Write like that! Put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and just start, no editing, no erasing, no stopping and pondering.

Just like running.

Own Success Or Else...

2011-01-06T15:05:00.002-05:00

Check out this great TED talk by Sheryl Sandberg (of Facebook).

One of the many great points she makes is that when men are asked about their success, they generally attribute it to themselves, as in, "Yes, it's true, I'm great." Women, on the other hand, are more apt to attribute their success to luck (huh?) or to help they received from others or others with whom they collaborated. In other words, women are saying, "Yes, but..." about their success.

I'm all for collaboration. In fact, I think it's something we need a lot more of in the world. And I certainly think that giving credit to others where credit is due is vital. Yes, but--as women are prone to say, and so I'll say it, too--we also need to learn to take credit. Sharing success around is a different thing from disowning the success itself. The latter is what women have too much of a tendency toward. Because it turns out that when we own our success, we actually have more; and when we don't take ownership of our success, when we are too busy giving the success away, then we risk bankrupting ourselves along the way. (Success is not like that old singsong about love--something if you give it away you end up having more, and so on.) Succeed. Embrace that success. Succeed more. That's the upward spiral cycle we want to hitch our star to.

Sports is a good place to practice, because when you run that PR, or cycle up that mountain, or ski down it, for that matter, there's no one else you can attribute that success to, really. Yes, coaches help and so on, but in the end, it's you who did it. The truth is inescapable--you'll just have to think to yourself at some point, "I am fabulous."

Try it some time!

An Upcoming Event in Denver

2011-01-05T18:06:00.003-05:00

For anyone who might be in the Denver area on Thursday, February 24th, come by Outdoor Divas, a fantastic women-only outdoor store.

The Snows of Kilimanjaro

2010-12-29T11:55:00.007-05:00

So...Africa...I've been back for coming on a month and no blog post about the adventure yet. In blog years (which are even more swiftly accumulated than dog years) that's probably the equivalent of a decade, and, indeed, it does feel like a long time ago that I reached the summit of Kilimanjaro, peaking just ahead of the sun, and then watching the light leech into the glacier and crater on either side of Uhuru as I headed back down.

Then last night I was reading, belatedly, Hemingway's The Snows of Kilimanjaro. A short story about a man, a writer even, who is dying of gangrene caused by the prick of a thorn he didn't treat with iodine some weeks earlier on his journey. He waits for death on the savannah, near the base of Kilimanjaro, while his companion, a woman he cares little for, waits for the rescue he no longer desires.

A strange coincidence.

I was back in the support van on the fourth day of the run from Mombasa to Kilimanjaro. Two days earlier I'd injured both my big toes so badly I couldn't participate in the run anymore. I felt like a failure. What had gone wrong? I'd run 30 miles the first day and 21 the second day, but something must have been strange with my gait, I suppose; some adjustment to the long miles I was hoping to put in over the 6 days of the run. Or maybe I was just a wimp and couldn't take the pain. I had blisters, yes, but worse, my toes were swollen tight, the skin stretch, the nails fit to burst off my toes. Other than popping the blisters, I'd done nothing to take care of my toes. Then, sitting in the van, as it drove slowly alongside another runner, I felt a cool drop slide down my foot. The blisters, instead of healing and re-filling, as they usually do, were seeping. I'll spare you the rest of the details, except to say this...flies buzzed and settled on my toes. David said, "Now will you put on some iodine and cover those up?" Indeed. Not to mention the double doses of Advil I started to take for the swelling. Things improved. And unlike Harry, in Hemingway's story, I was able to continue the journey. By the time we reached Kilimanjaro I was able to walk without too much difficultly, and I guessed that the uphill would be no problem and would give my toes extra time to heal before they had to endure the downhill. Fortunately, that theory worked out in my favour. And fortunately for everyone else, it's not sandals season, so no one has to look at the aftermath.

But I've jumped ahead, again. I'm giving you Africa in puzzle pieces, which will, I promise, fit together into some kind of picture by the end. It is, after all, the season of puzzles, or at least my family always seemed to have a complicated one going over this time of year.

The run--215 miles in 6 days, from the Indian Ocean to the base of the tallest freestanding mountain (19,300 ft). The roads--for the first 3 days we were on the main trucking route from the ocean serving Kenya and the surrounding African countries. Yes, it was as busy, terrifying and smoggy as it sounds. Never mind the heat. Then 2 days on a less traveled dirt road, through Masai country and Tsavo West, a game reserve. Yes, again, that means watch out for "game"! On the fifth day we crossed the border into Tanzania and the last day took us to the Marangu gate of Kilimanjaro.

My personal run highlight--Running on day 2 with three schoolgirls in uniforms, no shoes, carrying large jugs of laundry detergent and small plastic bowls (for food? they looked too small for washing). The girls (all under 14) ran about 2 miles, chatting to me the whole time...in Swahili. So I followed suit, and chatted right on back at them...in English. When we reached what appeared to be their school, they peeled off. Later that same day a teenager ran with me for some time, whether he was a bit loco or not is anybody's guess (our van drivers were concerned), but he was hare-fast, and popped in and out of huts along the way, always catching me up after his stops, always carrying his toothbrush in his mouth, clamped down despite his giant smile, an extra pair of pants in his hands, and his head bobbling with pleasure.

After injuring myself I spent a day wallowing in self-pity and then pulled myself together to play proper support for the other runners, and discovered that when I let go of the feeling that I had "failed" by injuring myself, I enjoyed my new role immensely. Along the way the driver, who was a bit of a professor, gave me Kenyan history lessons, so that I learned just where the Germans, crossing into Kenya from Tanzania, had laid down their arms at armistice in WWII.

Next up was climbing Kilimanjaro. And, as a friend of mine says, "This was not my first rodeo."

19 years ago I had climbed Kili, or rather, I climbed most of Kili. On the day we were to summit, my then-husband was hit with bad altitude sickness and we turned back together. So for almost two decades I carried around this thought--"I could have made it." But I hadn't. And I wanted to know. This trip was going to clear up unfinished business, or so I hoped. Well, you already know the answer, since I gave it away at the beginning.

When I finally reached the summit, Uhuru Peak, it was still dark. I first glimpsed the summit in flashes, literally. Seeing the traditional mountaintop flags and the wooden sign announcing the summit lit up in the lightning poof of a camera, then disappearing again, like a hallucination. I started crying, overcome by relief and happiness in equal measure. The shroud of darkness began to lift, and grey-eyed Athena's early morning light leaked in, barely rose, more like a black and white photo, the soft greys of the glacier, huge cliffs of ice that looked as if they had been shaved off by a giant wielding an ice pick, the crater a grey savannah, softened by a layer of misty clouds.

We hiked down to Kibo Hut (from where we'd come), and then made the decision to hike down and off the mountain right away, another 20 miles. The day was exquisitely long and unending. Far from living in the moment, I wanted nothing more than for it to end. I had done what I'd come for, and I did not have the energy to re-focus on the descent properly, as gorgeous and varied as the terrain was.

Once down and showered, after a day that had lasted from midnight to 6 p.m. already, I finally had a moment to really consider what had happened; and what I felt was a deep sense of contentment. The feeling was not ecstasy, nor that electric glow I've sometimes felt after doing something exceptionally difficult (say...Pikes Peak), but something DNA-deep, a sense of opportunity re-captured, something we so rarely have a chance at, a setting right of things, a confirmation that I could do what I'd always thought I could. The question, the scintilla of doubt that had assumed a post in the corner of my mind was put to rest, banished.

I let the new feeling settle. Become a part of me, in the way each new experience we have can cause tiny shifts in our self.

Exhale.

Inhale.

This Poem Rocks...

2010-12-14T13:48:00.002-05:00

Just read this on Megan Hueter's great blog, Because I Played Sports; and had to share it. We can't have too much of this message, especially in the face of preposterous-ness like the new Lingerie Football League (I kid you not)!

Maybe It's My Fault: From a Female Athlete

(Thank you, Michael Jordan and Lebron James, for inspiring this)….

Maybe it’s my fault.
Maybe I led you to believe
That I don’t deserve to play,
Or that girls don’t belong in sports.

Maybe I let you think
That women’s sports is easy..
Or that my whole life,
I haven’t worked just as hard as the boys.

Maybe I let you think
that I’m OK with the fact
that MY championship game isn’t on TV
Or on the front page.

Maybe I let you think
that I’m happy with you crediting my dad,
my husband or my coach,
and forgetting about me.

Maybe I let you think
That girls don’t have passion.
That we don’t get mad, kick, or punch.
or get angry at the referees.

Maybe I led you to believe
That it’s OK to criticize my body, or sexuality,
And not my game.

Maybe that’s my fault.

Maybe I let you think
That instead of doing an interview,
I’d rather pose naked the cover of a magazine.

Or that I’d rather be doing yoga,
Or talking about a new diet,
Than showcasing a sneaker line.

Maybe I let you think that,
Because I like baggy clothes,
Or refuse to wear makeup,
It means I’m a lesbian.

Maybe I led you to believe
That I like to play football in my underwear,
Instead of just liking to play football.

Maybe, for some reason, I led you to believe
That I don’t want muscles.
Or that I can’t get strong.

Maybe I let you think
That it’s OK to market our events
With less effort than the men’s.
Or that it’s OK to repair the stadium during MY season
But not his.

Maybe it’s my fault that you don’t see
That holding out for a better future
Is my only motivation.

Maybe I’m what’s wrong with women’s sports.
Or maybe…
You’re just making excuses.

Barbie Be-Gone

2010-12-13T09:18:00.003-05:00

Stuck in traffic on Madison Avenue yesterday my wandering gaze was drawn to the windows of the Barbie store and its large media screens featuring what I assume are all different Barbies, though frankly it's hard to tell the difference, other than hair colour.

I was somewhat disappointed to see that the store looked jammed with shoppers; women, of course. We are so good at perpetuating the most damaging aspects of the very thin ideal, which wreaks such havoc on our psyches. A recent study showed that girls aged five to eight who played with a Barbie reported lower body-esteem and a greater desire to be thinner compared to girls of the same age who played with a doll that had more realistic body proportions.

Don't we want the next generation of girls to grow up with better self-esteem and a stronger sense of self, whatever her proportions?

Jodi Norgaard does. And she's doing something pretty cool about it. Jodi ran track and played tennis as a child, and she still loves to be outdoors and active. She says that when her own children were small and she'd had a rough day, her husband would come home from work, take one look at her and hand over her running shoes. "I'd leave exhausted and come back refreshed!" she says.

Naturally, she wanted her young daughters to grow up with a healthy sense of themselves and their bodies, and how those two were connected. She enrolled them in the Girls on the Run program, and even coached at GOTR herself, which incidentally, I wrote about some time ago in this blog. But every time she tried to find a doll for them, the toys' messages were "grow up fast, wear short skirts and put on makeup."

No thanks.

And then her experience at GOTR and her failed efforts at finding the right doll switched on a lightbulb in her brain--and Go!Go!Sports Girls was born. While I admit I'm partial to Ella, the runner girl doll, with her crazy, kinky hair and bright orange singlet (uh-huh sounds like a mini-me), really all these dolls are pretty darn cute, whether they're playing tennis, golf, softball, basketball or soccer, or doing gymnastics, dance or swimming. That's right, Jodi has founded a company that makes dolls with a message: Be active; live a healthy lifestyle; and dream big and go for it! A message we could probably all use a little more of, so nice to have it in the house for the little girls in our lives.

These Go!Go!Sports Girls kick Barbie's ass!

Sports Expanding Horizons

2010-12-08T11:00:00.002-05:00

Today is the National Women's Law Center's Rally for Girls' Sports Day, and so I'm going to go backwards in this post, to the moment some years ago when I "discovered" running.

It's 1993 and I've just just moved to New York City. I'm studying for my Master's of Law at Columbia. I know no one, except a few people in my classes, but hardly well. More, for the first time in my life I've built up to running 10k in one go!

One day in the law library, a woman I hope to befriend asks me about my running.

“Oh I run about ten, three times a week,” I say airily. I am, if the truth be told, somewhat intimidated by her. She has run marathons, something inconceivable to me.

And really, I have only once run three times in a week, but I am determined to do it more often, so I feel only mildly guilty telling her it is an established habit.

“Wow,” she said, “You’re really serious about running, that’s great.”

I walk away feeling the pleasant pricklings of pride until I realize...oh no...she thought “ten” meant ten miles, not ten kilometers. I have never run ten miles in my whole life! I have misrepresented myself—unwittingly of course, but I am still mortified.

I go home, thoughtful. I take advantage of my student-flexible schedule. I put on my shorts and shoes, and go to Central Park. I run one loop. Ten kilometers. Or as I am now trying to think of it, six miles. I run a second loop. Twenty kilometers. That's twelve miles. My conversion math is getting better.

My feet hurt. My hips feel misaligned. Salt cakes my temples. My skin tingles and my hair stands on end. My lungs expand and open up, so that I breathe in an entire world at my disposal. I have just run the furthest I ever have in my life, twice over, and I feel amazing.

Only a few hours earlier I wouldn’t even have thought it was possible. It is as if I have opened a door to an alternate universe, my own Narnia, or Alice down the rabbit hole. What next? I think, newly plugged into a high voltage of potential. What do I think I can’t do? I’ll do that! Maybe, I think, there is no such thing as an I-can-only-dream-of list.

Sports show us dreams are possible. Goodbye "she's just a dreamy girl." Hello, "she's a kick-ass dreamy girl!"

Run Like a Girl on Amazon

2010-11-10T15:15:00.002-05:00

The book doesn't come out until March, but if you like to be the first girl in your 'hood to have the latest thing...you can pre-order Run Like a Girl now online and it will arrive on your doorstep in late February, likely before it even hits the bookstore shelves.