Barefoot Monologues

A Journey of the Sole

Category Archives: soapbox


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Where Have All the Strong and Mighty Cowgirls Gone?

I have had a string of observations lately that I think might be interesting to put here. Just as back story, I currently own a home in southern New Hampshire, and I work just a few miles north of Boston, Massachusetts. So generally speaking, I live amongst a pretty open-minded population. This makes me pretty happy. Kids with dreads and tattoos, lots of skinny jeans and interesting mop hairdos, also some peacoats, schoolish glasses, and Starbucks coffee shops filled with MacBooks. And lots and lots of runners. Runners everywhere. In fact, I drove home tonight from an event in Saugus, MA, and I counted 11 runners before my tires hit the driveway.

What I’m getting at here is that even though I see a ton of runners practically everywhere I go in this very open-minded region of the country, it’s rare to see a pair of bare feet or even minimalist shoes. And to take it one step further: with the exception of personal friends and the few “barefoot” races I’ve attended, I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve run by a woman wearing minimalist footwear. I just…don’t see it.

Hard to tell if it’s the cause of, or the response to, a possibly chilly female consumer climate, but there is a distinctive inequality of selection and style between men’s and women’s minimalist footwear. For example, men’s color choices will often be bright, gorgeous and plentiful, while the women’s colors are boring or much more limited. Not only that, but often the women’s version of a new shoe will come out weeks or months after the men’s one appears, or be a totally different shoe altogether. Almost like it was an afterthought.

Do these companies fail to understand that women in general are fashion devotees, likely to consume any beautiful thing we can use to decorate our bodies? No, I don’t think so.

Do minimalist shoe makers not care about women engaging in the sport of natural running? Very unlikely.

I believe the problem isn’t obtuseness in the minimalist shoe industry. The problem is women themselves.

Think about every time you’ve seen some beefy dude powering down the track or hefting gargantuan weights at the gym. Every time you’ve turned on a football game to to watch colossal men bashing into each other at the fifty yard line, or soccer players bolting across a wide field and deftly kicking a black and white ball towards the goal line. When men perform feats of strength and endurance it’s just another day in the life.

But when a woman shows a high level of strength and endurance it’s like we’re all watching She-Ra battling the Evil Horde. She’s a superhero. She’s a biological enigma. Or better yet, she’s out of her goddamn mind.

Generally speaking, aside from the obvious musculoskeletal differences that  make women physically weaker, women possess just as much strength as men. And in some non-physical ways, maybe even more. Overall, women can endure just as much toughness as men, and we can grow physically strong in the same myriad of ways. And although they will rally and cheer at that last sentence all day long, but most women don’t actually believe it.

I don’t know if it’s a side effect of our being raised on Barbie and princess tiaras, but for some reason I find that most women generally believe they need help with everything. They think that they need help bringing the groceries in, killing the spider in the basement, purchasing a new car.

They are ready and eager to accept that their feet need help, too. In my observation, more women believe they need extra cushioning for their delicate little cotton-candy-pink-painted footsies, and are much more likely than men to jump on the “test my gait” bandwagon at the local running store.

Now, I’m not trying to dump on my gender here. I’m also not suggesting that women are gullible or that all women runners are these high-maintenance pink and purple princesses (although some are). But I do find it an interesting dichotomy to be in when you are a woman and you’re also a barefoot runner, training for an ultra-marathon with all the boys. I mean, there just seems to be this huge divide between the feminine chick and the hard-core runner (who is usually a dude), because there’s almost nobody in between. And since I rather prefer it over on the hard-core runner side, sometimes it’s easy to forget that I’m still a chick.

What I wonder the most is how things ever got this way. I mean, where did all the feminist rebellion go? Back in the late 60’s women would have been wearing Vibram FiveFingers while they burned their bras, if they were wearing any shoes at all (and if Vibram FiveFingers existed). Women had real power back then. And I don’t mean the “man-hating feminist” label that people nowadays like to pin on the Women’s Rights Movement (the amazing time of change, by the way, that included our receiving equal rights to vote, own property, apply for divorces and take birth control pills). For a time, women saw themselves on an equal playing field with the men.

But the strong arm of women’s equality has slackened, in my opinion. The widest slice of the female American culture that I’ve seen these days is from women who are perfectly content languishing under the cushy roofs that their husbands put over their heads, with no other ambitions than that of raising perfect little rosey-cheeked babies and baking perfect little pies from scratch, just like their grandmothers did back in the 1940’s. There is absolutely nothing wrong with having those ambitions, of course, but it’s disappointing to see so very few women my age in America like me, who feel any kinship at all to those sharp, capable, fiercely independent women of the feminist movement.

Fortunately, I have met a few women along the way who do fit this bill. Most of them have become good friends of mine and I am grateful for this. I was also grateful when I saw Merrell’s new “Pretty Strong” website, launched for the sole purpose of educating women in the barefoot and minimalist running movement (and to sell lots of shoes too, I’m sure). The new site is gorgeous, information-packed and it communicates a message that I definitely dig.

But seeing that site also raises a note of discord for me: Why do we feel we need this separation from men – one that seems to suggest women can’t work out just like men do? Why must we be spoon-fed by a nifty teal and orange marketing campaign (charming as it is), informing us that we can indeed be “strong” and “pretty” at the same time?

My answer is I don’t exactly know. But I’d love to hear what you think.

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Two Runners, a Jogger and a Cry-Baby: How a Bad Advertisement Became a Good Motivator

Are you a jogger, or are you a runner?

Yeah, I know – you’ve heard the debate a thousand times before, so have I. But I’ve always been fascinated by how the question so thoroughly encompasses a social conflict as well as an internal one for many of us. And this label game is just a tiny reflection of the bigger elitism vs. cynicism picture, seen just about anywhere among groups of people. But I find it particularly interesting as it applies to the sport of running, because where you are on the scale is, really, sort of up to you.

But sometimes it can seem like it’s not up to you. Product marketing is getting shrewder and ever more marginalizing these days. And it’s starting to get personal. Pearl Izumi, for example, recently released some controversial ads that highlight the elitist end of the runner vs. jogger spectrum, like this interactive brochure, and this photo ad:

One of my favorite bloggers, VanessaRuns, wrote an article the other day that presented a favorable opinion of the ads, and then immediately felt pressure to redact most of what she said and post an apology about it. I don’t necessarily want to get into how I feel about that in this post, but I will say I am ashamed of the person who would subscribe to an intelligent, free-thinking woman’s blog, and then decide to bring an air of censorship to it the moment Vanessa writes something he or she disagrees with. It goes against everything we are as barefoot runners who live a lifestyle of tolerance, acceptance and inclusiveness.

But Vanessa wasn’t the only person who had something to say about the Pearl Izumi backlash. Jason Robillard writes that people who are offended by such advertising are just being babies (his usual logical stance, along with a teachable moment thrown in for good measure), this blurb at Fitsugar.com expresses total disgust, and Darren Rovell over at CNBC writes here that he isn’t sure what to think about it. Seems Pearl Izumi really got some attention with this ad. Which is….well, exactly what an ad is supposed to do. By definition, it is a brilliant campaign! Unlike this one, which pretends to be brilliant but is actually very stupid:

But besides being a hot button for everyone with two thumbs and an opinion, Pearl Izumi’s ad campaign can be interpreted as a call to arms for all who love to run. And I mean Really. Love. to run. Hear me out on this. Sure, at first glance it might look like a bunch of elitist bullshit written to exclude all the fatasses regular people like me who can’t run a sub 4-hour marathon (or even train for one without stopping for beer halfway through). That’s how I first reacted to it, anyway. But then as I spent more time trying to understand how I’m supposed to feel about the message, I realized it wasn’t actually excluding me at all.

Because I think of myself as a runner, and nothing in that ad takes that feeling away from me. Frankly, I kind of identify with the whole “run like an animal” thing. It’s powerful imagery, and it fits in with how I would describe my feelings about running.

What I’m saying is that how you react to this ad campaign reflects your own opinion of yourself as an athlete. Just take a minute and ask yourself: Are you one of the “runners” they’re talking about, or are you a jogger? Where do you feel you place on the spectrum? How do you describe yourself to non-runners? Do you even care what these ad guys think about your running abilities? And who are you supposed to be comparing yourself to, anyway?

And that’s what a lot of this backlash comes down to: comparisons. People routinely look at others and then look down their own deck of cards to see how it stacks up. If their own stack falls short, it can result in some bad feelings. I know, I do it all the time. And here is what being a runner looks like today in my mirror:

  • I started running 2 years ago, but before that I jogged like a moron for about 8 years
  • I run in minimalist footwear only (and sometimes barefoot)
  • I typically run between 15 and 20 miles per week
  • I run 3 to 5 days a week, but I’d run all 7 if my legs allowed
  • I have run 5k, 10k, and half marathon races
  • My longest non-race run so far has been 12 miles
  • I am somewhat overweight and generally prone to injury
  • My comfortable running pace at the moment is between 10:30 and 11:00
  • I run at my comfortable pace, or slower, about 80% of the time
  • The fastest mile I have ever timed was 8:40
  • My fastest 5K was just over 30 minutes
  • My only half marathon finish was 2:36
  • I like to always be training for a running event
  • I am currently training for a half marathon and a 50K, both in May
  • I am not sure I will finish the 50K, but it won’t stop me from trying
  • I can honestly say I run for the sake of running
  • I can honestly say I run for the beer social benefits
  • I can honestly say I run because it makes me feel like a badass

The above list of running qualifications could be considered pretty amazing, embarrassingly lame, or anywhere in between. It all depends on who’s looking, and how their deck stacks up to mine. If I hold up my cards to almost anyone in my family, many of my friends and coworkers, and roughly half of the American population, I’m an incredible athlete. To most of my runner friends? I am somewhere between average and mediocre. But I can’t even hold a candle next to the amazing ultra marathon runners that I have met and look up to, or have heard about along the way. I can’t even stand at the starting line of the same race. Because I didn’t qualify.

My point is that I can choose to compare myself to all the most elite runners and feel really bad about myself. Or I can choose to recognize how close I really am to those guys, as compared to the rest of the world who doesn’t run at all. If I choose the latter, I can still proudly call myself a runner and smile for miles. Running is always better than not running. And this is what I try to remember when I start to feel bad about my running abilities (or lack thereof).

But, sometimes it is beneficial to compare yourself to those better runners. Feeling driven to always improve yourself adds strength to your character. And that is precisely why I have decided I like the Pearl Izumi ad. Maybe you found it offensive. Hell, it was offensive. But if you have any fight in you then you’ll also recognize it as a challenge. A flaming gauntlet. An older brother standing at the top of the hill, taunting you from above:

You wanna be a runner?
Well then stop jogging around the block like a girl.
Run somewhere dirty.
Let the sweat mess up your mascara for once.
Learn to love the pain and fatigue.
Be passionate or don’t bother.
Go hard.
Push your limits.
Let yourself fail.
Sign up for a race you can’t even finish yet.
Take some goddamn risks sometimes.
…Cupcake.

Does your mind taunt you like this when you’re in the middle of a difficult run? Do you love it? Do you run to escape, meditate, relax, reflect, recharge? Do you run to get better at running? Do you feel strong, alive and invincible when you’re out there on the trail?

Yeah?

Well then what the hell are you worried about that stupid ad for?! They were talking about you!

And if you are just out there pounding pavement toward a 4 pound weight loss for your best friend’s wedding or making up for last night’s cheese pizza, then you probably don’t give a shit if someone calls you “just a jogger.” The ad wouldn’t even catch your eye anyway. And neither would this article, in fact.

So you can all relax, everybody. No one is taking away your Runner’s License. It’s still valid, and accepted everywhere your feet land. So STFU and RUN.

Now, can we talk about how Pearl Izumi just sells cushy traditional running shoes and nothing minimalist? What a bunch of wussy hobby-joggers. 🙂


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Breaking up with the Jones’

Last night while I was driving home from work, I noticed a small change in my thinking that may signal the start of something much bigger. I was on my way to drop off some design work to a friend, something I did for a little extra cash. I was excited about this little boost, and so I figured I could go buy something for myself with it. But then I thought…well, what do I want? Do I need anything? New boots? Clothes? Home decor? I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to buy.

This sort of thing has been happening to me a lot lately. And if you know me personally, you might be thinking that this doesn’t sound like me at all. I’ve always been known to blow all my extra cash in minutes and always have an excuse to get more stuff. When I first started my new running life, I spent $250 on new running clothes and another $300 on several pairs of minimalist shoes. Every new interest or adventure in my life has routinely warranted a spending spree. New stuff equals happiness, right?

Well, it did. It always did, for me. And why was that? Well, there are a lot of reasons, most of which probably stem from the utter dysfunction of my childhood family life. For example, my Grandfather. He is an exceptionally intelligent man, who became an engineer at GE without ever having gone to college. He made good money and he always had the best of everything. For him, objects and money equaled success. His mantra was always “you get what you pay for.” And since I spent a sizable chunk of my childhood living with him, that sense of material worth rubbed off on me, just like it had rubbed off on his children (one of them being my father). But one striking thing about my grandfather is that, even at 80 years old, he is a miserable and unsatisfied man.

As an adult, I have always secretly compared myself to those around me, and I felt better when I came out on top, or at least somewhere in the upper 50%. I had to have the expensive jeans and the Coach bag, a cute new car, the coolest and highest paying job that would let me afford expensive nights out on the town, the apartment in Boston or the cutest house. I turned green with envy when my engineer cousin bought a sports car, went on exorbitant vacations during the holidays, had a wedding in a faraway place that I could not afford to attend, and talked about how much money he made at his new job. I was jealous. I was jealous of all my family who could buy more things than me, and of my friends whose parents could give them money to buy their first house or foot the bill for their ultra-chic wedding. I was jealous of my bosses at work and their high-end cars and 4,000 square foot homes in cities I’d never be able to touch with my salary (though it is a fairly good salary – which it had to be, of course). I used to call this feeling ambition, that I am an ambitious person, just like my Grandfather. But now I realize it was just good ole’ fashioned keeping up with the Jones’. It was a desire for status, for approval. It was a need to be envied by some the way I envied others. And it was keeping me from being actually happy.

Over the last year or two my mind has been changing, however. And as physical proof, my stiletto and boot closet has not grown at all, in fact it’s been pushed over to make room for all my race t-shirts and running shoes. I no longer pay full price for new clothes unless I absolutely love something. And I don’t invite that many people to my house anymore, so really my cute furniture and home decor only has to please me.

And I’m learning that owning my own home is just another one of those American Dream ideals/expectations/scams, like having big weddings, working in an office building, driving luxury cars and having 2.5 kids. It’s part of the set of things everyone is supposed to want, the things that – once acquired – are intended to bring happiness to all. I figured out awhile back that having children is not something everyone needs to do to be happy, and in fact, it would actually make me less happy. With that problem solved, I slowly began to question everything else I was taught in my young American life. Religion, the media, political leaders, running sneakers, the beef in my burger. I would read other people’s Facebook status updates where they list all the things that make them happy in their lives, and I realized they were all material things. And hey, maybe those things do make their lives feel full – far be it for me to tell someone else how to find happiness. But then I looked around my own life. My 52″ television, two new-ish cars, chic home furnishings and overpriced handbags…and well, they have never actually been part of what makes me “happy.” Not by my new definition of happy, that is. My husband, on the other hand? My dog? Going out for a long run on a crisp fall day? A beer and conversation shared with a good friend? Those things have made me happy. And when I say happy, I mean that warm feeling that says “I am content with this moment and need nothing more.” You know, the feeling that makes you smile from the middle of your belly. I believe it, what they say (even though they say it so often that it’s become cliché) – The best things in life…they aren’t things.

I believe it, what they say (even though they say it so often that it’s become cliché) – The best things in life…they aren’t things.

Have you ever been stuck smack in the middle of making a big scary life decision, and all of a sudden there seem to be signs everywhere, arrows practically pointing out which path you should choose? Almost like the universe heard your dilemma and started paving the path to the left with diamonds, lighting it with sunshine and planting your favorite flowers, so that it would look more attractive than the one on the right? Well, I think that my slow surrender of the need for material possessions as the mark of success…well, it is my diamond-paved path. Then some people came into my life to plant peonies along my path, too. And the sunshine? Well…it’s shed some harsh light on the more comfortably-numb parts of my life and it has helped me to recognize that yes, I can let go of those things without letting go of my happiness. And with this realization has come a sense of freedom and joy, second only to realizing that I don’t have to have kids. And like my freedom to have no kids, this decision is not considered “normal” or “The American Way.” So fuck normal. Screw The American Way. I’m gonna go figure out my own dream. And I don’t care if you approve.

So fuck normal. Screw The American Way. I’m gonna go figure out my own dream. And I don’t care if you approve.


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People Who Hate Distance Runners are Jealous

Today I read a rather thought-provoking article by someone I don’t think I’d like very much in person. It was called “Running a Marathon Does Not Make You Mother Theresa“. Written by another WordPress user, this post was delivered to my attention by none other than the “Freshly Pressed” section (as in, picked out, shined up and presented as “The Best Of”) on WordPress’s front page. Previously deciding, after having read that the usual requirements for an author to get “Freshly Pressed” include content that is free of things such as typos, poached images, bad words and hate-speech, that my occasional F-bomb must have to be the only reason I’ve never been selected, I would never imagine an inflammatory piece of work could earn such recognition. And yet, here I find this post, full of bad words (ass-hat) and, well…technically, hate speech (marathoners are asshats).

My newfound distrust in the integrity of WordPress editors aside, this article did two things to me today:

  1. It offended me deeply – and even though I possess a lively contentiousness, rarely am I ever genuinely offended.
  2. It made me wonder if all my non-runner friends feel about me the way the author of this post feels about, according to her, 83% of her Facebook friends.

I don’t feel the need to talk more about why the article offended me. If you read it for yourself, that part will be obvious.

What I do want to talk about is the latter point. How do my non-runner friends feel about my blog, which is about running of course, and not usually much of anything else? There is the occasional rant or chatter about some other subject matter, but most of those posts happened before I realized this was a running blog. It decided that for itself, of course. But my blog aside, what about my DailyMiles that get reposted on Facebook? The articles that active.com publishes for me every week or two? The reviews I write about stuff that I got for free? What does everyone think of seeing my status updates about running shoes, of seeing me walk around in Vibrams or turning down Friday night plans because of an early morning long run? What do my friends think about the 13.1 sticker plastered proudly on the rear bumper of my gray Honda Civic? Do they want to rip it off and burn it?

Do my friends think I’m an asshat?

Do they roll their eyes every time I bring up the subject of running? Do they secretly smile and talk amongst themselves when they hear I’ve been injured? Do they think that I’m a braggart or an attention-whore? Or worse, that I’m too fat/short/old to run and should just give up the ghost already?

After I finished reading the article that this self-professed “almost-a-doctor” wrote (an article that could theoretically result in more sick people by disparaging the activity of running, as well as those who indulge in it), I realized that I really don’t actually give a shit what non-runners think of me running. I don’t do it for them.

I love to run. I don’t run for vanity and mask my hatred for it with claims of Mother-Theresa-like spiritual fortitude. I actually really, really like it. Call it my hobby. It’s my favorite activity besides sleeping, drinking beer and eating (and in some cases I have given more love to running than I have to those other things). I love running, but I don’t love….say, professional football. Nope, I don’t watch football games, and don’t give a shit who wins. New England Patriots, who are they? Actually, I do know who they are, of course, but stay with me here. I have about 25 Facebook friends who light up my homepage every week of the year with play-by-play updates from every game, in every sport they watch. They love sports, I don’t give a shit. But, despite the bouts of razzing I occasionally dole out to them for fun, I don’t think they’re asshats because of it. Same thing for people who are into cars, veganism, their toddlers, obscure films and the Rocky Horror Picture Show…for the most part I don’t care one iota about those things, but I don’t have a problem with them because they want to talk about it.

And I don’t post running stuff for the eyes of my non-running friends, anyway, just like nobody is posting the halftime score for my benefit. I just checked, and I currently have 232 friends on Facebook. More than a third of those friends are barefoot and minimalist runners. And if you take away all the friends I have who never communicate with me on the site, the ratio of runners to non-runners probably doubles. Then add back all the people who seem to genuinely care about my comings and goings no matter what the subject (a function of friendship that the above-mentioned writer-cum-doctor most likely knows nothing about). So, if perhaps three quarters of the people I connect with on a daily basis are runners or people who in some way do give a shit about my running life, then what do I have to be self-conscious about? Certainly not the person who writes articles chastising people who work hard at something they love and who think they deserve to be proud of themselves for it.

So this is a note to anyone who thinks my running life is boring, ludicrous, unhealthy, misguided, attention-seeking or otherwise negatively self-serving (including the Spinster herself): Get out now. Stop waiting for a blog post from me that’s not about running, stop rolling your eyes (enviously?) at my DailyMile posts. Unfollow me. Hell, why not just delete me? Because I’m not going to stop running or stop talking about running just because you’re not interested.

And for those of you have been somehow inspired by my passion for running, well you are part of the reason I share. Running, especially distance running, is an exceptionally challenging and rewarding activity that way beats watching 30 men run into each other to stop 11.25 inches of pigskin. I hope that more of you will try it. And as always, thanks for reading.


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Heel Striking: The Bad Idea that Won’t Die.

I just came across a recent article that my friend and favorite barefoot/minimalist guru, Jason Robillard, wrote in his blog, called “The Heel Striking Experiment: Why Bad Form is Stupid.” In it, he addresses the very same topic that I struggle with all the time: how consistently reluctant heel-striking runners are about improving their form. The refusal to even attempt the change is astounding, even if they’ve heard over and over again how important it is, how good form can whittle away many nagging injuries, how it can keep them running longer and happier. In his well-written article, Jason asks us:

“WHY WOULD YOU RUN IN A WAY THAT ENGAGES THE BRAKES WITH EACH STEP?!?”

Well, I think I know the answer to that.

You see, people in general like to do what they are told. We live the course of our lives based on what we are expected to do. Grow up, go to college, get a day job, get married, have kids, buy a house, buy a practical car, get credit cards, drink milk, and the list goes on. And if you decide you’re going to be a runner? You’re supposed to walk into a running shoe store at the mall and have a 19 year old part-time employee (who probably doesn’t run) “fit” you for the “right” stability shoe for your level of “pronation.” Then, and only then, can you attempt to run. Right?

Wrong. So, so very wrong.

But hey, we can’t help it. We humans are essentially pack animals. The strongest perceived leader gets all the loyalty. In this case, it’s Nike. Asics. Brooks. Whatever brand the sales guy thinks we should be wearing this year. And that’s why sales people do so well in our society. So if you’re a new runner, the running shoe sales guy is the precious link to your perceived leader, he knows what you should be wearing on your feet. So you listen to him. You do what you’re told, like a good consumer. And you are never told by your leader that you need to learn good form. Instead, you are told that if you buy this magical $180 gel-stuffed, super-stability heel lift, it will miraculously bypass any and all flaws in your poor running form and make you run injury-free. Of course the biggest hole in this theory begins with the notion alone that you are flawed. You are flawed because you have flat feet. Weak ankles. Bad knees. Bunions. You overpronate, underpronate.

Almost everyone who walks into a running shoe store is convinced (by their “leader”) that there is something wrong with them that would prohibit running, unless of course they purchase their very own miracle shoe before they leave the store. So many runners fail to ever pick up on the idea that maybe it’s been the shoes that have given them all these problems to begin with. Or at least that perhaps, just maybe, the feet they were born with are just fine on their own.

Barefoot and minimalist running has grown a lot over the past few years. I have faith that it will grow exponentially in the next few. But the crucial ideation about form and footwear will never truly take off for the lot of us pack animals unless it becomes the “leader” that the masses will follow. And what leader? Christopher McDougall? Nah. The medical field? Yeah right. No, it’s going to have to be someone like Nike, Asics or Brooks. Someone who feeds the consumer pack its shovelfuls of good authority and celebrity endorsements. Sorry to be such a cynic, but it’s true. The big boys are going to have to start selling minimalist shoes, in order for the masses to decide the theories about good running form are true.

But in the meantime, I will be spreading as many kernels of knowledge as I can to those around me who like to run. Help them realize that there is something to wearing less shoe, to learning about good form. Perhaps even convince them that they’re not broken, and they can run after all…and love it. And most importantly, that they don’t have to conform to some arbitrary authority over their footwear. Maybe one or two of them might actually listen.


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The Runner I Am

It’s Thanksgiving night. As I sit in a quiet house, belly still full from pounds of comfort food lovingly prepared by family, head still spinning from those hours of catch-up conversation and several glasses of wine…I’m remembering how just before this day last year, I decided to train for my first half marathon.

I think last winter, the project of training for such a long distance (for me) was the most memorable and fulfilling thing I accomplished all year. And I have decided that I am going to do it again, and I am going to start training tomorrow. Now, when I say I’m training for “the half marathon”, I don’t mean that I have signed up for any races yet (I have one or two in mind, sure, but that’s beside the point). Nor do I mean that I have printed out any sort of training program with the ridiculous intention of starting it four months before spring race season (though I do find training programs mildly helpful as a guide for safely ramping up mileage). What I mean is I want to get myself mentally and physically back there again — to the place of running in the cold winter days and loving it, piling on the mileage and being thrilled about my ability to complete it. But this year, naturally, I want to improve my outcome. I want to have a better race. I want to pay closer attention to my eating habits and be lighter come race season. I want to improve my form. And most importantly, I want to enjoy it even more than last year. This year my resolution will be to quit all my whining and run smiley, even if it kills me. Okay…that was a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea.

Because, someday, I want to be an ultra-marathoner, and hopefully by then I will have become the runner I want to be.

And what is that?…the runner I want to be. What kind of runner am I now? Do I even qualify as a runner? These questions have been spinning through my mind for a very long time now. Then just the other day I read an article* by Kate Kift (the creator of the Run Smiley Collective) called “What is a Runner?” And it had a bit of an effect on me. Not too much of what she said surprised me, she and I are on the same page about most running-related topics – many barefoot and minimalist runners are. But she concentrated quite a lot on how others label us, and to me she seemed to paint the “runner” label as sort of trite and one-dimensional. But that’s probably because she has so many other hats, occupations that fill out her life, that she’d much rather be associated with them instead. And that’s totally cool.

But lots of people think of Kate Kift as a runner, myself included. Doesn’t she think of me as one? What about all these other runner people that we consort with?

Perhaps some of these amazing barefoot runner personalities don’t think of me as much of a runner. I can’t run fast – my fastest mile ever is barely under 9 minutes (and that was just a one mile run, no hills, on a really good day). I’m neither a Vegan nor a Paleo dieter. I’ve never run farther than 13 miles, nor have I run more than 21 miles in a week. I don’t have a slim runner’s body. Up-and-coming minimalist shoe companies aren’t tossing any free trial pairs into my mailbox. I don’t write books about running, and my blog doesn’t usually generate more than 50-60 hits a day. Being the fence-gazing, super-ambitious chick that I am, I think I’ve been stuck on all of this a little too much lately. I’ve got all this useless anxiety about my place in the world of barefoot and minimalist running. I can’t stop wondering: should I even be calling myself a runner, counting myself amongst these crazy badass barefooters, writing articles on the subject as if I’m some kind of authority? What do I even have to contribute, that one of these guys can’t bring a hundred times better?

But many of my friends, coworkers and my loving husband (i.e. people who don’t run) call me a runner. Some are even generous enough to say I’m a good one. I relish in the label. Know why? It gives me an identity. A place to exist in the world of my peers. And their role for me doesn’t include parameters like speed, distance or miles per week. They just see that I do something I enjoy, and they applaud and appreciate me. When they hear I ran 8 miles on Saturday their eyes get big and it makes me feel like a rockstar. It brings me back to the first days of my long training runs last winter, and how big my eyes got when I saw the mileage on my Garmin. “Yes, I really did it, and I am awesome!” I would gush at myself. I was proud. It was enough then. Why shouldn’t it be enough today?

So when it comes to whether I’m a runner or not, whether you are a runner or not, it really is just about perspective. A runner isn’t a person who gets endorsed by shoe companies, or who is an authority on the subject of good form. It isn’t the woman who ran the longest ultra marathon, or the dude with the fastest 10k time. A runner is simply a person who runs. But I’d like to add: a runner is a person who loves to run. This is the runner I am. I shouldn’t forget that this year.

*Also read Kate’s follow up article on Jason Robillard’s site: “Definition of a Perfect Runner“


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The Mother Choice

When I am older, will I regret not having children?

It seems I might, if you consider the average American woman in her thirties. She longs for her very own baby to hold in her arms, she cannot wait to feel that unbreakable bond between mother and child. She loves the way that babies smell, the way they coo and giggle. Her biological clock screams for a missed period, a swelling belly, that first little kick in the ribs. Every time she spots a stroller, her heart swells to see that helpless little ball of cuteness staring up at the world beyond him. She is transfixed, transformed by the role of motherhood, and she plans her life out to assume that role one day.

Since I was very young I have known that I am different when it comes to babies. While I do love the children I know to pieces, and have been known to stop and admire the new baby in the office, I don’t feel sad for the crying infant at the table next to me in the restaurant. When I pass the newborn in a stroller, I generally don’t notice (unless the stroller is plowing into me, that is). And no, I don’t always want to hold the baby that’s being passed around the room.

My disinterest in kids has been hidden most of my life because I figured it was weird, or that I would eventually grow out of it. In grade school I babysat just like all the other girls, but I secretly didn’t like it. I pawned off the diaper changing to my co-sitter whenever I could and made sure all my gigs were close to bed time so I could spend most of it watching television and talking on the phone.

Growing up I liked my Barbie dolls far more than my baby dolls; Barbie was an adult and she had a boyfriend (Ken, of course). She and her friends wore adult clothes, they had glamorous jet-setting lives, and they didn’t have to be cared for, fed, changed, coddled or kissed. I would cut their hair (sometimes too short) and fashion new dresses for them out of my old t-shirts and some thread fished from my grandmother’s sewing machine. When I imagined my adult life I pictured it full of other adults, with dinner parties and brilliant conversation, a life filled with whatever I wished (like reading at night without a curfew). Instead of nightly homework I dreamt of nights filled with social events, laughter and cribbage (hey…what do you want from a 6 year old whose grandparents and their friends played cribbage for fun (and cash) every saturday night? You go with what you know).

Even before my teen years, I cringed at the idea of having to plan dinner each night for a household filled with expectant husband and children – the pressure to work and clean without rest, it seemed dreadful to me even then. I grew up in a home with my grandparents and my father (my mother couldn’t handle the pressure so she simply fled home when I was 4), and I remember nothing so vividly as the complaints of exhaustion, sheer exhaustion after a whole day of work, grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking, laundry, making beds, sitting in traffic, dealing with bosses…and now this, now you two kids are fighting again. Can’t you be quiet for two minutes? I’m exhausted. I’m tired. Go to bed, please just go to bed and leave me in peace. Peace and quiet, that’s all I want. Please. Just go to bed.

While I wouldn’t call this begging scene an example of stellar parenting, I do understand where my poor dad was coming from. Like many single parents, he never planned to raise kids by himself (good thing he had my grandmother to help out for a few years). The stress must have been unbearable at times. But even before we were born, I don’t think my father ever realized how difficult it would be to raise kids until he had us. And my mother, what of her? Most will say she was unfit, selfish, and she should have thought about her choice to have kids before just popping them out. After all, you’re not allowed to regret having kids.

Well, what if she had thought about her choice? Would she have decided against motherhood like me? Did she even realize she had a choice? I think most people don’t realize it at all. When I was fifteen I told my Aunt Pauline that I didn’t like the idea of having kids (to which she assured me I’d change my mind of course). It wasn’t until I was in my early 20’s that I realized that instead of just dreading the role of motherhood, I can actually decide against it altogether. What a relief that was!

Although there are times I feel alone in my child-free choice, I am not. According to some recent studies, over 40% of women ages 18-44 are childless (sorry, I can’t find the link right now), and almost half of all married couples in the U.S. have yet to produce any children. No doubt, a chunk of those numbers account for people who are infertile or simply waiting for the right time. But the choice to remain child-free is catching on, as more people realize that “parent” isn’t the only kind of adult to be.

So, I have made up my mind about becoming a mother, but this question still lingers in the back of my mind: will I regret not having kids later? Will I be lonely in my old age?

We are all in this culture of planning our futures, now – we save for retirement, invest in large homes, eat healthy, screen for cancer, avoid getting tattoos with boyfriend’s names, etc. We are all very concerned about making the best of our old age. I guess I like the idea of investing in my youth, instead. I am fulfilled by my life as it is and I don’t have any inclination to change it. Of course I am 32 years old at the moment and so I only have about 3-4 more years before my fertility declines, and thus any lingering questions will be closed. But becoming a mother just to insure against regret would be selfish and obtuse. Not to mention that if I regret not having children I can still fill the void with nieces, nephews, foster children, even adoption. But to regret having kids? That’s just not possible. You cannot take back that decision – unless of course you want to be like my mother, or (shudder) like Casey Anthony.

In the end maybe the answer is that being child-free is not wrong, it’s not selfish or stupid. No, the choice is right because it’s a decision I have put time and thought into, a decision that is mine and mine alone (well, and my husband’s too). Like choosing to be a vegetarian or buying a loft in the city rather than a single-family home in the suburbs, being gay or running with no shoes on (he-he), just because it’s a less popular choice doesn’t make it any less valid.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear,

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I marked the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

-Robert Frost. 1920


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Soapbox for the Child-Free Lunatic

If you have gotten to know me at all, then you know that my hubby and I are not planning to have any children. It’s a decision we both made about ourselves well before we met, and after seven years of being together, we still believe we chose wisely. As pretty much all our friends have started procreating around us, we have noticed a division of opinions, interests and general understanding that has more or less separated us from them. It’s like a tall picket fence of questions and apprehension, and we are alone on the opposite side. Not to mention of course that I have stood up on my overused little soapbox more than once on the topic of children, garnering many a hairy eyeball from my bewildered bystanders.

I’m sure you can imagine that we have had to contend with a slew of misconceptions: are we infertile, asexual, lunatics, aliens, or do we just downright hate children? The last assumption there is probably the only one hubby and I haven’t used as an excuse/shield when fielding questions from nosy elderly people. No, we don’t hate children. Have you ever seen us with your toddlers? They love us more than Dora the Explorer and are still asking about us a week later. No, we like kids (especially YOUR kids), but we just don’t really need any of our own.

But if you’re still struggling to comprehend why we would go to such lengths to resist the powerful adulthood peer-pressure to procreate, then I have pulled together a small sampling for you from my ongoing list of 10,000 reasons why I don’t want children:

Reason I am Child-Free #12
Hubby and I have compiled a detailed lifestyle analysis and concluded that our home decor and table wear just doesn’t jive well with a Pack ‘n Play set.

Reason I am Child-Free #29
I’d much rather have my friends yammer on about what a good mommy I would be, than have them gossip amongst themselves about what a bad mommy I am.

Reason I am Child-Free #56
Given current popular trends, it seems I’d be required to scour the dictionary or my own peculiar hobbies in search of a newly inappropriate and unheard-of name for my child. Some recent examples: Ransom, Millenium, Gambit, Apple, Kal-El and Audio. But given my interests and peculiar vernacular, I’m not sure the name Pikermi would garner much appreciation from my unfortunate progeny.

Reason I am Child-Free #190
On any given day I will forget either my cell phone, deodorant, purse, car keys, gym clothes, lunch bag, makeup, gloves, wedding rings, shoes or all of the above, at home. Sometimes I don’t realize it until I’m already at work. Forgetting a kid at home might not be quite as forgivable as having sweaty armpits.

Reason I am Child-Free #335
Everyone around me already has this whole baby thing covered like television has reality shows. I’m okay with filling in the variety.

Reason I am Child-Free #424
I am an animal person. No, I mean really. Like, I would be sorely disappointed if my child was born without furry ears, paws and a tail.

Reason I am Child-Free #986
A state-of-the-art car seat, 20lb diaper bag, 3 quarts of spilled milk, 14 stuffed animals, a box of wet-wipes, two blankets, Bandaids, hand sanitizer, a DVD-player, 47 SpongeBob SquarePants DVDs, kid-friendly snacks and a toddler would not fit in my 2-door Honda Civic. I barely have room for all my running clothes.

Reason I am Child-Free #1,523
I already kinda feel old. I don’t think I could stand it if a person three decades younger than me was walking around my house, telling me about the newest tech gadgets that I can’t manage to wrap my primitive, pre-millenial brain around. I never want to utter the words “I don’t get all those new fan dangled computer toys you kids have now.”

Reason I am Child-Free #3,500
I am a master complainer. I already bitch and moan obsessively about virtually everything from traffic to weather to my hair to the number of days in a week. I doubt my friends would much appreciate 1,478 NEW daily complaints about sleep deprivation, diaper rashes, sore breasts, ear infections, weight gain, bottle feeding, nap schedules, daycare costs, colic, the loss of all my dreams and ambitions and all the various other stresses that come with child rearing. On Facebook.

Reason I am Child-Free #6,527
If I forget to feed my dog, I can expect to be serenaded by the sound of the pantry door as it rocks lightly on its hinges, prodded by a hungry, sniffly wet nose. If I forget to feed my child, I can expect my front door to be bashed in by Social Services. I prefer my hints to be subtle.

Reason I am Child-Free #8,001
As a child-free person, I’m an excellent friend to have. I will never (accidentally or purposely) make you question your parental skills by rambling on tirelessly about why I would have done something differently than you because I somehow know more about child-rearing. I’ll just listen and say, “well…sounds like you handled that perfectly.”

Of course, I do realize that everything in life is a balancing act between what you’ve chosen to do and what you’ve chosen against. In recognition of that fact I have started a second list, of reasons why being a parent might not be such a bad idea. After all, it’s only fair.

Good Reason to Have Kids #1
The next time someone asks me if I’m pregnant I could ramble on happily about my adorable baby bump, rather than break down in tears and run to the ladies room in a fit of bad body image and internal self-loathing.

Good Reason to Have Kids #2
Moreover, I’d have a permanent allowable excuse for my muffin-top.

Good Reason to Have Kids #3
Tax return time is AWESOME!

Good Reason to Have Kids #4
I would be able to use the several weeks of paid maternity leave that the working women of America have fought so hard to instill into my employee benefits.

Good Reason to Have Kids #5
People would stop asking me when I’m going to have a baby, and start asking me when I’m going to have a second one.

Good Reason to Have Kids #6
Party conversation with my female peers would finally be interesting again. I would actually be able to contribute to topics like morning sickness and breast pumps. Rather than cowering self-consciously in a corner sipping the only alcoholic beverage in the house, or talking to the men while fending off suspicious stares from all the hormonal pregnant wives in the next room.

Thanks to anyone who is still reading, especially those of you who are parents. Naturally this post is designed to be tongue-in-cheek. If you’ve got some good additions to either of my lists, I’d love to hear them.

And I especially thank my phenomenal friends, you know who you are. The ones who support me wholeheartedly in my anti-parenthood psychosis, even though you don’t understand it one bit.