Just today, I officially committed to running on a Ragnar team. The race happens in June of 2014, at Wasatch Back in Utah, which I guess is the “original” Ragnar. I’m excited, and surreally motivated. In fact, I’m even tempted to go buy one of those nifty little “Team Ragnar” jackets and wear it around this winter to keep myself inspired about the whole thing.
A funny thing happens to me when I sign up for a new kind of running challenge. I immediately start figuring in my weekly training program, planning my next veggie-heavy supermarket shopping spree and promising my body that more hill work and squats, and also less fat cells around my waist, will be a reality of the near future. I start to daydream the perfect outcome to the race: finally being in the best running shape of my life, soaking in amazing views, impressing my friends as I blast out new personal records, et cetera.
Ragnar is no different. In case you’ve never heard of it, Ragnar is a 200-mile relay race where up to 12 team members share vans that exchange runners for their individual legs of the adventure. You don’t sleep much, you live in very close proximity to eleven other people who you hopefully like being in close proximity to, and you run three 4-8 mile sections of the course through the mountains, all night long and into the next day. Besides this and the fact that it commands an almost solemn brand of respect among most trail runners (and a rather interesting brand of scrutiny by the rest), that’s really all I know about Ragnar. Needless to say (if you know me), I’ve kind of always planned to run one of these races someday. Someday, when I have a stronger running body, a bigger group of running friends and the motivation to do it. Right now I’ve actually got two of those, and the third is going to require a lot more squats.
Let me interrupt myself here to acknowledge that yes, in the last two paragraphs I have mentioned getting in shape three times. You probably noticed that. What you didn’t see was that while I was typing out those paragraphs I was also scarfing down a donut from the pink box of evil that Shawn’s friend Damon brought into our home this morning. And I’d freely blame Damon for my complete list of diet faux-pas if it weren’t for the fact that I also bought a large chocolate bar AND a package of red velvet cupcakes at the supermarket last night, and definitely drank half a bottle of white wine with them after dinner. And I would definitely blame PMS for the chocolate splurge if it weren’t for the fact that I’m on birth control pills.
The truth is, even though on the everyday I tend to cook like a spokeswoman for clean eating, I still eat crappy food way too damn often. When I go to the grocery store I sail mostly around the outside of the building, filing half my carriage with fresh produce before adding meats, eggs, whole wheat items and toilet paper. Desserts in our house comprise of frozen real-fruit bars – you know, the ones that contain a grand total of three pronounceable ingredients, and are about 70 calories apiece. Sure, they come in packages of 6 for $4.99 but we consider them an investment in our collective avoidance of cupcakes.
Except, of course, when we buy cupcakes.
And that’s just it: there are so many exceptions to our insanely healthy at-home menu that it feels like a self-deception every time I look at the overflowing fruit-veggie bowl in my kitchen. There is almost always beer and wine in our house. And if we run out, it’s like a red-alert emergency to restock before Friday night’s OMG-it’s-the-weekend beer and grilled chicken dinner night. We go out to eat together a few times a month and, I’m sorry, but we aren’t ordering salads. Then add in the hash runs I attend twice a week on average, which pile on the calories of two to three heavy craft beers plus a not-very-healthy meal, and snack items that I never buy at home – thus tend to indulge in guiltily every couple of weeks, as that feeling of cheesy-Doritos-and-soda-pop-deprivation starts to set in.
Throw all of that onto that super-fun, once-a-month cupcake buying adventure, and today’s Boston Crème donut just sounds like another day in the life, doesn’t it?
As I’m writing this I tried to avoid pointing out that my exercise regime hasn’t looked like any arguable interpretation of the word “regime” in about eight months or so – but now that I’m halfway through it seems inevitable that I’m going to talk about it anyway, so get ready.
I mean, I gotta admit it: for the most part, I no longer run long. I no longer do core exercises. I no longer do hill repeats or sprints or even fartleks (yes you’re right, I just put that in because it’s a funny word and I have a 12-year old’s sense of humor). Hell, I don’t even carry my Garmin with me anymore. And that’s because I don’t care how far I run. I tried to tell myself this is because I’ve finally dropped my sophomoric vanity about arbitrary running goals, but really it’s because I don’t run far enough for it to matter anymore. In fact, I haven’t run more than about seven miles since my 50K back in May. And it’s not even that I’m in a running slump – I still love it. I’m just not pushing myself anymore. In other words, I’m fucking lazy.
Now, if you’re reading this and getting worried that it’s some desperate cry for help or advice on diet and exercise, please don’t. I assure you this is just my style of self deprecating humor, sprinkled in with a lot of useless, go-nowhere complaining. I know that I am overweight right now (at least three socially-inept male hashers have already taken it upon themselves to remind me of this in the last couple of months). And yes, I even know why – and as referenced by my inconsistent eating habits, it’s pretty clear that it’s not just about genetics.
Or is it?
I mean, the most annoying part about being overweight is not that I’m a runner and that 99.998% of all the runners in Southern California are thin, so I stand out (although that’s really annoying, yes). It’s that I’m supposed to be ashamed of being overweight because I obviously must eat like a pig. The reality of the situation is that while I don’t pray to the gods of perfectly clean eating 100% (or even 80%) of the time, I do have a refrigerator stuffed full of fresh produce and lean meats that make up just about every meal I prepare at home. Except for the very rare occasion, I don’t buy soda. I don’t buy ice cream. I don’t buy potato chips, macaroni and cheese, frozen dinner items, canned soup, cow’s milk, American cheese, microwave popcorn, candy, cookies, white bread, anything with the word “diet” or “light” in it, or any product that has to tell me it’s “gluten-free” because it thinks that’ll fool me. My overall eating habits aren’t very different from my average thin runner friend. Most thin people cave in to the occasional chocolate bar/cupcake/handful of cheesy Doritos, just like me. So yeah, I happen to put on weight a little more easily than some people, but I don’t see why I’m supposed to be ashamed about that. Because I’m really not ashamed. I have a different metabolism. Some people have curly hair. It is what it is.
The only thing I legitimately have to feel bad about (and I do) is this damn lazy streak. I’ve had access to far too much beer for my own good, and it’s making me fatter, drunker and lazier. “Running to the beer” is a really fun idea, but in practice it’s like trying to bail out a sinking boat with a spoon. My reward for a great hard run used to be an even better run later on, not 400 calories of dark beer that my stomach will make me pay for tomorrow morning. And I used to do more than running before, too. I did core work after every run, lifted weights and took boot camp classes. Yeah, that was back before I was married, when my arms weren’t floppy and my weight was below the “overweight” line at the doctor’s office. Although to be completely honest, my diet was pretty much the same then as it is now, only without as many veggies.
Okay this is where I’m going to stop before the useless complaining really kicks in. Instead I should go buy that Ragnar jacket so I can wear it in anticipation of my exciting new race endeavor. And then maybe I’ll hit up a yoga class, or head out for a run with the dog, or I dunno…..maybe throw that pink fucking box of donuts into the dumpster. And the rest of the red velvet cupcakes too.
But not the chocolate, no way. That shit stays. I’m PMS’ing, dammit.