All My Life, In All I Do, Soli Deo Gloria

Finding My Voice, Learning to Fly

I never really fancied myself an overachiever.  I tend to go right up to "hard" and then back off (wouldn't want to break a nail, or scrape my knee).  But something about the training process as a triathlete has given voice to a determinaton I never bothered to muster a nod toward, for I never knew it existed.

Last year, I heard a yoga instructor (speaking of how a pose was uncomfortable) say, "you have two choices, you can either come out of the pose, or you can choose to settle into the discomfort and work out how you will make your way through it."  I'm a 'come out of the pose' kinda gal.  I'm lazy, and have a strong aversion toward discomfort.  I see pain and I'll take the 20-mile loop around it (as opposed to the 1-mile straight line thru it) to avoid discomfort.

However, during this journey toward my first triathlon, I have found myself, 9 times out of 10, settling into the discomfort, working through it and in conjunction with it.  Those 9 out of 10 times are when the determination finds voice to work out the logistics of getting through the discomfort while grasping bits of strength to use in the future from the process.  It tweaks and adjusts my swim stroke, my cadence in the water.  Adjustments to my down stroke and subsequent uptake on the pedals on a hill as others pass me.  Adjustments to heavy feet and weary legs when I hit the ground running after I come out of the bike saddle for my post ride run.

I'm exhasuted and probably will be for a long time as my body adapts.  But its an exhaustion fueled by accomplishment and fortitude.  I pause to look over the last five weeks, where I came from and where I am now, I realize that this triathlon was never about 'facing my fears' as I've so often retorted.  Rather, all along, it's been about finding my real voice, birthing my inner fortitude. I came to conquer my fears, I'm walking away having found my voice which has given me wings to fly...and fly I shall, see you at the start line.

Nakedness of Vulnerability

I'm halfway through the fourth week of an eight week journey that'll end with my first triathlon.  I'm a runner who's happy languishing midpack.  But as you know, this year, I'm confronting my fears.  And one of my fears is the triathlon.  No particular reason (other than my poor swimming abilities) for me to be fearful.  It's just that after 'breaking down' while training for my first marathon a few years ago, I've been overly tentative at pursuing things I deem to be out of my reach physically.

Tonight, I'm due at the pool at 8:00 PM where I'll work out with my triathlon training group.  In the interest of full disclosure, this is the first time that I will attend a pool workout with the group.  The other three previously scheduled workouts, I've shunned because of my fear.  I'm not afraid of the water, or swimming, or drowning, I'm afraid of being vulnerable. 

This whole process of training has been incredibly emotionally draining.  I signed up and paid to participate in a training group where I knew no one.  I've attended training sessions two sometimes three times a week, pushing my body and my mental capacity to deal with fatigue to levels beyond what I thought myself capable.  I've hobbled thru minor injuries, and made major adjustments to my regular running and training schedule.  And I've done it all by myself. 

It's hard to be vulnerable, allow someone to break you down and rebuild you, when there's no familiar faces around to confide in.  It's hard to push through the discomfort when there's no familiar voices raised in support of your endeavor.  It's hard.

And it's going to be even harder for me to stand on deck at the pool in my red speedo racing suit and my black swim cap and clear goggles waiting for my turn to jump in and swim (or at least what I think is swimming) in front of my training group.  I fight back tears even now as I consider it.  I don't want to be vulnerable, I don't want to be naked.  I've had my fill of laying bear my weaknesses to strangers.  I want to have someone there with me that I can look at and they'll smile and I'll know that no matter what, it'll be okay.

I know, it sounds as if I'm making a big deal out of nothing.  But it's where I am right now.  And I thought writing this would be a good 'rehearsal' of being vulnerable in front of you so that maybe in an hour and 15 minutes when I stand at the edge of the pool, my naked vulnerabilty won't be so bad.

Audience of One

Slowly shuffle/limping from the gym floor to the locker room last night, I was so proud, so excited that I had overcome me.  But I was a little sadden that I had no one to share my butt-kicking accomplishment with.  Well, I have friends, I could've texted.  I could've emailed my trainer, she would've been proud.  But no one would have understood how tired I was when I got to the gym.  No one would've understood the long pep talk I had to give myself just to go to the gym as opposed to going home after a mentally draining 12-hour day.  No one would be able to relate to the three times I almost walked out of the gym, abandoning my workout, but continued anyway.  No one would be able to understand the mental mountain I climbed to do what I did.

So I didn't make any calls or shoot out any emails.  I blogged about my workout, but what I wrote could not capture the depth of persistent fortitude that I had to mine.  Although I fancy myself a creative wordsmith, even I, in my vast vocabulary could not communicate the personal meaning of my accomplishment.  But all that doesn't matter to me, because I know what I've accomplished.

I once heard a speaker talk about how he doesn't care what others think, because he plays for an audience of one.  God.  His life, his ministry, his words, his every breath is orchestrated that he would please only one, The One, God. 

It doesn't matter if no one ever knows how hard I work on a daily basis to prepare myself to compete.  It doesn't matter if no one ever congratulates me on a workout well endured or a personal goal obtained and surpassed.  All that matters, to me at least, is that I know, and MY audience of One, The One knows.  For He is ever with me encouraging me,  emboldening me on, ever closer to my goals. 

When The Old Guy Quits

This past weekend, I was cataloging stuff I'd written in the past four years and came across this, and had to repost it, because this is the way I've been feeling lately.

The line I’d been standing in began to move pouring its way into the darkened room that had been cooled to a blissfully comfortable 65 degrees. I’d just finished a speed workout on the treadmill and was not looking forward to the next thirty minutes, but the class was a part of my training and I knew ‘phoning-it-in’ wouldn’t cut it.

I followed the people in front of me dropping my iPod, headphones and towel on the floor, marking my spot and headed for the wall to grab an exercise mat from the quickly diminishing pile.

Two times a week I find myself in this same room with these same people moaning and groaning, bending, pulsing, extending, flexing, relaxing, retracting molding and strengthening my core muscles. I hate it! Everything we do hurts, and it’s hard! It doesn’t matter how many times I attend the class, the instructor constantly changes the workout, meaning the class never gets easier.

I’ve found that the only way I can make it through the class without crying or getting up and quitting is to find an old guy and position my mat beside his. And my mantra thus becomes “when the old guy quits, you can quit.” I figure if the old dude can do it, I in my spry youthful vigor can cowboy up.

Last week, exhausted from the speedwork I had done previous to the class, I found my old guy, set my mat down, grit my teeth and steeled my way through the night’s workout that focused on the obliques and the erector spinae.

We opened by stretching our backs, so easy, and it felt so good. Then we moved on to our sides where we were told to bend our legs, lifting them sideways and then bend our torsos up to meet our legs. Within the first five reps I was feeling the undeniable searing pain of my obliques being torn up and my lower legs, already fatigued from my run, screamed in protest as I squeezed them together and lifted one, two, three, four…the relentless combinations continued. One after the other, we were on our backs, on our sides, standing up, holding dumbbells.

Halfway through the class, I snuck a peek over at the old guy, and he was still going, he was struggling, but he was still going.

In the past, when I’ve grown fatigued during a race, instead of dwelling on how tired I was or how much further I had to go, I’d focus on those passing me. The woman with the stroller, the overweight guy I’d seen walking back at mile six, the guy with the full rucksack and combat boots, the man that had to be older than my dad and I tell myself, I WILL NOT BE BEATEN BY THEM!

I frantically search around within my fatigued being and smush together the remaining crumbs of energy resolute to finish the race, cross the finish line, all the while yelling in my head, YOU WILL KEEP GOING ‘TIL YOUR LEGS FALL OFF, WHEN THE OLD DUDE QUITS, THEN YOU CAN QUIT! Those words have carried me across many a finish line, over countless hills, thru innumerable rain storms and sub-zero runs.

Last night, as I positioned my mat beside the designated ‘old guy’ I smiled at him, and he at me. He said to me, “you gotta be my motivation tonight, you’re young and full of energy, so if you don’t quit I won’t.”

Pressure old man, PRESSURE!

With ten minutes left in the class, I was close to tears from the discomfort in my core and the weariness of my legs from the squat workout I had done prior to class; the old man snuck a peek over at me and said, “hey young buck, if the old man can do it, you can do it!” I rolled my eyes, said a few choice words in my head and persevered those last few minutes.

At the end of the class as I gathered my iPod, towel, and headphones and replaced my mat the old guy approached me smiling, wiping sweat from his eyes, he said, “hey, young buck, I’ll see ya Wednesday.”

Thanks old guy, I will see ya Wednesday, and when you quit, I’ll quit, but it doesn’t look like that’ll happen anytime soon.

If It Takes All Night

I was so tired, I fought back tears.  I wanted to give up and call it a night.  Halfway through my workout, I was spent.  This workout, much more challenging than last week's.  I could give up.  The only one who'd know would be me. 

But I can't.  I didn't.  I pressed on.

Each rep, each set, I completed as she'd instructed.  Each plyo jump, each sprint, each lunge with 25 pound plates in each hand, I fought through.  My body going on pure will alone.  My mind fatigued, screamed, begged, bargained for a reprieve.

I paused, doubled over.  Sweat dive bombing from my brow, my chin, my chest, hitting the black padded weight room floor.  I stood, next set, endeavoring on. 

The seconds between sets grew longer, the muscles in my legs and arms spasmed uncontrollably.  I breathed deeply and whispered to myself "I don't care if it takes all night, I will do every rep and every set." 

I wonder how many times God has whispered to himself as I drug my feet whining and complaining my proclamations that I could go no further.  How many times has he whispered to me, "If it takes the rest of your life, you WILL get this."

An hour and five minutes later, as I sit on my couch digesting my high protein dinner, and trying to find the strength to shower and crawl into bed, I, with unabashed pride, applaud my efforts this evening.  I didn't want to do my workout.  I wanted to quit halfway through because it was too hard.  But.  I.  Kept.  Going.  And I finished.  All of it.  Everything I was told to do. 

It didn't take all night, more like an hour and 15 mintues.  But who cares?  I finished.  I ran through the tape.  Every step.   Every rep.  Every set.

Lord, there's a lot you're working on in my world right now.  Some of it is hard.  Having to break life-long behavioral patterns isn't even in nodding acquaintace with 'easy'.  However, despite the tears, sweat, quivering muscles, fatigue, nausea and a lot of empty excuses, I promise I'll finish every step, every change, every character building exercise.  All of it.  Everything you tell me to do. 

Even if it takes all night or the rest of my life.  

Rest

I am so very tired.  As my training ramps up in preparation for triathlon training in a month, I continue to tear down my body and build it up, tear it down and build it up.  I make sure every night to be in bed by 9:30 and lights out by 10:30, yet still struggle to get out of bed before 7:30 every morning. 

I've pushed hard and cajoled myself through workout after workout and am proud of how far I've come.  Today is a well deserved day off and as much as I want to at least go walk or ride a bike thus 'actively' recovering, I'm fighting the urge and just sitting still, on the couch.

Tomorrow training will pick up again bright and early at 6AM.  But for right now, I'm enjoying my rest, from working out, from blogging, from even moving. 

I Hate Push-Ups

I hate push-ups.  The title says it all.  As I was typing the title, my mom's voice was in my head saying "Novia Renee, we do not hate anything, that's an awful strong word."  Not strong enough mom, not strong enough!  In the thirteen months I've worked with my personal trainer, there's yet to be a week where she hasn't inserted push-ups in my workouts.  It's like they're in cahoots.  Deb and push-ups.  Push-ups and Deb.

And what's even more maddening is that as soon as I get good at one kind of push-up, she changes it up and gives me a harder version.  If you think there's only a few version of push-ups, hang out with my trainer for 55 weeks...'cuz she's come up with more than 55 different ways to do them.  This week's work out, I get to pump out 90...yeah that's right you read it correctly NINETY push-ups six sets of 15, but they're not consecutive, they're in between other upper body scorchers...I wanna cheat, I wanna only do some of them or none of them at all.  But I do everyone...all 90 of 'em 'cuz I know she can tell.  She's clairvoyant like that. 

Recently, I settled in my spirit how to be kind to someone who I'm not particulary fond of.  So much so that others had complimented me on my graciousness and asked what had changed.  But then, BOOM, another person enters my life who I despise.  To no end.  A lot.  And the cycle has started all over again.  Just when I thought I was doing good loving my neighbor, along comes another troll for me to be kind to. 

That troll, is my push-ups.  This afternoon, I realized (after thirteen months) that my trainer wants me to  be so strong, that no matter how I'm asked to do them, I can pump out push-ups in my sleep, when I'm awake, when I'm tired, at the end of a butt-kicking workout when my arms are quivering with fatigue, with one eye closed, with one hand behind my back, suspended from one foot, you get the point.  She wants me strong no matter the situation, so just when I get good and strong, she changes it up, confusing my muscles and building more strength.

Likewise, this, my new irritation.  God wants me to love my neighbor.  Period.  Doesn't matter where I am, or who it is.  He said, "love your neighbor as I have loved you."  So what? I got good at 'loving' one unlovable person. Go me.  But now it's time for a new variation on unlovable, thus, enter a new person.  And I go right back to the beginning again, flexing that 'love the unlovable' muscle.   My guess is the unlovables will continue to come and invade my space, until I can love my neighbor no matter what, without even thinking about it I just do it.  It's second nature.

Thirteen months in I may be stronger, but I still hate push-ups...I pray that this exercise in character development takes hold quicker than the push-ups have.

The Summer of Novia

Earlier this summer I sat with a friend of mine waxing philosophic about life, the universe, other people, myself.  And I came to a pretty sad conclusion about myself.  A conclusion that urged me to “borrow” a term from a runner friend: “The Summer of Novia”.

A few summers ago, my runner friend decided to dub the summer, “The Summer of (insert his name here)”.  He dedicated the summer to his running.  Nothing got in the way of running, everything else faded away in the light of being a better, faster, stronger runner.  It was his summer and he emerged a stronger runner, posted a sub-4 marathon and was a healthier individual.

That night with my friend, began The Summer of Novia, where I’d be doing some much needed interior and exterior work.  Nothing else matters this summer, everything else is put on the back burner, nothing will slow, stop or interrupt this quest. 

A month in, things are going good, changes are being made, undesired walls are pleasantly beginning to show signs of eventual topple.  I have tangible hope that on the other side of The Summer of Novia those conclusions about myself that so greatly distressed me, will no longer exist in the negative, but will change to the positive which will power me on toward a happy, peaceful fall. 

Here’s to the heat of the Texas summer burning away all my chaff!  And The Summer of Novia rolls on!

I Run

I run to find my sanity.

 

I run to quiet the voices that say "I can't."

 

I run to hear the cheers of other people at the end of a race.

 

I run to find out what lies on the other side of my presumed threshold.

 

I run to prove to myself that I'm stronger than my mind wants me to believe.

 

I run to keep my "child-bearing" hips at bay.

 

I run to avoid hereditary illnesses.

 

I run to better yesterday's run.

 

I run to regain control of a life that's more and more not my own.

 

I run to find peace.

 

I run to flush out pent up anger.

 

I run because I don't have the gift of hand-eye coordination that makes other people good at other sports.

 

I run because when my run is over, I feel a sense of accomplishment.

 

I run because I heart food...a lot...a whole lot.

 

I run because my orthopedic surgeon has three chilren that go to private school, and somebody's gotta pay their tuition.

 

I run because I can.

 

I run...

Beyond

In my mind lives a voice. A very loud and sassy voice. The voice exists to irritate me.

When I'm running and start to slow down, it yells at me. When I think about stopping because I'm tired, it cusses at me and calls me names (yes, you read that right, it cusses at me!).

When I think I'm going to die, and start arguing with it in order to convince it that its in my own best interest to stop and walk, it tells me to check my heart rate monitor which always tells me that I'm a long way away from a heart attack and that despite what the 'sane' portion of my mind insists, I'm NOT going to die (I think my heart rate monitor and that evil voice are in cahoots!) and I keep running...

It's a hateful little voice. There are times when I choose to heed its badgering and push beyond my pain and fatigue. There's also times when I ignore it's maniacal barking and choose to quit and call it "a workout" before finding out what lies beyond the exhaustion.

On days that I choose to heed the unrelenting barrage of commands and endure my perceived physical road blocks, I find that beyond my mind's capability to cope, there lies a peaceful place of achievement. Beyond all reason and sensibility, beyond that last mile I thought I couldn't bear, beyond the point where my mind shuts down and all that remains is my legs moving in fluid motion, my feet rhythmically marking off distance inches at a time, I always find strength.

There's another voice that lives deep within my being, one thats a bit more loving than it's beastly antithesis, one that daily reminds me to Whom I belong.

There are days when road weary with life's race, I plop down, refusing to get up. From that gentle voice emerges hands. Hands that sometimes pull me to my feet kicking and screaming tenderly prodding me on. While other times, those scarred metacarpals gently lift me from my brooding perch, pulling me to rest against a heart that beats my name.

Sometimes, I find the courage to find out what's beyond my perceived weariness. Sometimes, with much apprehension, I choose to trust that voice which wooes me in dulcet tones and take one step beyond my fatigue, one step beyond the heaviness that bleeds deep into my bones, one step beyond me.

On those rare occasions of borrowed fortitude, I find that one step beyond my weaknesses, one step beyond my ineffectiveness, one step beyond my battle fatigue, lies freedom.

"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest
-Matthew 11:28