Day 623: Outrun, Outwit, Outlast

Grey and gently breezy, with just a hint of Fall to come, would be a great way to describe six am on Saturday morning. There was a hurricane on the way, but for almost eleven hundred runners, the Patrick Henry Half Marathon had to be run.

Sporadic drizzles gave way to definite rain as the locomotive whistle started the 13.1-mile trot into the Ashland countryside. I hadn't even made it a third of a mile before I was wet and my sneakers began squeaking on the asphalt (a sound which never went away). This race would be different from my last half marathon and from last week's race - I was going to push even harder.

Unlike any of my previous non-triathlon races, this one had two checkpoints which HAD to be made or I would be carted back to the finish line with a stigmatic "DNC" (Did Not Complete) attached to my checkpoint time. When I registered, I was unaware of the cutoff times and, only a week before, realized the challenge which lay ahead.

My Shamrock half marathon time had been three hours and six minutes. My half Ironman run time had been three hours and twenty-one minutes (after 56 miles of biking). This race I determined I would beat my previous times and come in under three hours. I knew what it would take and I also knew how many excuses to stop I would end up making on the course; that needed to stop.

I don't know how many of you have ever traveled 13.1 miles by foot, but that is a long way for your feet to keep hitting the ground. I had prayed for something new for this race - for the patience I needed to run a good race and for the strength to finish strong. I never before understood patience with respect to the metaphor of running (in the Bible). I do now.

For a couple months now, I have been a living example of quitting that which I started. From June 2010 until April 2011, I worked hard, and I do mean HARD to lose weight. I went from 315 pounds to 197 and then, with my goal weight 27 pounds away, I quit.

Let me make it clear: I did not "fall" off the wagon, I "leaped". For three amazing weeks, I was able to eat whatever I wanted and the scale did. not. move. It remained under 200 pounds and I was euphoric. I had clearly arrived.

All too soon, it became apparent what I had done. A couple of months basically maintaining and then the weight started creeping back on and one day, I found I had gained 30+ pounds back(!). That realization, instead of strengthening my resolve to fix the issue, only served as a point of depression and negative thoughts. I think "fat cow" was my favorite.

Running became uncomfortable again, but still I continued to compete and watched my times and post-race "feelings" drop. I was ashamed of those races because I knew, if I had just pushed myself a little harder, I could have finished better. I always finished hard; always. I always started strong. It was what happened where the crowd couldn't see me... those telling moments alone on the running course.

This race HAD to be different and, I hoped, would launch me into a new era of focus, discipline, and determination. I wanted so desperately to be proud of this race and to finish ahead of all the time checks which were in place.

So I ran. And walked. And ran again.

After a mile, I was the second-to-last runner on the course (de-ee-e-pressing), but I knew I could do better. A runner wearing bright red stockings saw me walking so soon and asked if I was following a certain run/walk strategy. I had to say I wasn't and she cheerfully informed me she would see me at the finish line and trotted away - not fast, but faster than my walking. After three miles, my legs felt so knotted, neither running nor walking seemed to feel right - but I was half-way to the first checkpoint and there was one runner behind me. Having forgotten my stopwatch helped fuel my desperation to get to that first point. Fairly certain my middle name was "AtLeastImNotLast" at that point.

Five miles brought even heavier rain, driving gusts of wind, and rolling country roads. Have I ever mentioned how I "love" hills. I was soaked and beginning to wonder if I would make it. The sweeper police car, with his flashing lights, traveled sloooowwwly behind the last runner; a mere eighth of a mile behind me. Behind him, a truck was picking up cones and volunteers were collapsing aid stations as the last runner passed. I was so embarrassed. Maybe I wasn't last, but I could see the police car and knew it was time to speed up, because my middle name had become "IHopeTheVolunteersDon'tSeeThoseObnoxiousFlashingLightsBehindMe."

A mental game seemed in order. I tried counting steps (75 run, 25 walk); that didn't last long. Then I saw the orange cones dividing runner from traffic. Perfect. Run past two cones, walk to the next one. Oh. Gonna walk for two cones? You're gonna run for at least three. That's a mile cone; you need to make it there before you can walk again. That helped pass time well, despite the "rolling" hills and the change of my middle name to "IsThatAnotherHillUpThere?!"

Shortly after six miles, a "greeter" was screaming at me that I had just a few minutes to make it or they would take me back. I looked over my shoulder at the sweeper police car, now further back, and the two runners behind me and made sure I got to that checkpoint in time, with four minutes to spare. "Victorious" seemed a good middle name to adopt.

That was as refreshing as the Powerade waiting there. I could make it to the next point, four miles away. I think my mind started going numb between seven and nine miles. My feet were getting tired and so were my arms, which I kept reminding myself MUST be kept above my waist so they didn't puff up so badly. The mind is a powerful thing in a long race. It whispers encouragement and discouragement alike. Wanna talk about the whole "taking every thought captive" bit? It becomes essential to finishing. In my head, I was Ruth "WhereAreTheGels" Cooper (there never were any gels provided along the course, I found out).

This is always the hardest part of any race I do. The middle part. The part where you are not really half-way, but you're not almost done, but you haven't just started, but you're just in a kind of limbo land - waiting to get to the next milestone.

Limbo land is where I have been, personally, since June. Kinda close to the completion of my weight-loss goal, but still in the middle. Too far from the start and too far from the finish. Personally, something fizzled and, though I am not entirely sure what happened, the fact remains, something happened. The fire seems gone. The desire to finish seems gone. I care, but I don't. I "know" what I need to do, but don't want to do it. I know what it takes to finish and I simply do not want to do the work.

I know returning to my exercise and dieting will get me the results I so desire. I even know once I get started, I will continue. As I relive this race, it is painfully clear how I am (and have been) sitting on the side of the metaphorical race course, munching on a donut, dreaming of how glorious it will be to cross the finish line. You know, amidst cheering and applause and spectators... not to mention the medal!

Thankfully, I remembered my desire to do something different for me. I was out here, in a hurricane, running a half marathon which had a time limit. The whole world of storm-trapped people on Facebook was waiting to hear how I did. There was a picture to be taken and posted. Another entry to make in my race book. Another bib number and medal to pin to the wall.

This race was not over. It was time to put into practice the "running patiently" part I had determined. And I did. One foot in front of the other. I thought of other runners in other states who were or would be running races that day. And I thought of what I was proving to myself - this was doable. "Patiently" became my middle name for those endless miles, but I kept moving and the choice to move became easier with each footfall.

I found I was passing people after the eighth mile; people I was positive I would never catch up to. And yet, they fell behind me and the evil sweeper car disappeared in the distance. Ten miles and the final checkpoint before the finish line - I made it with two minutes to spare. Only a 5k left - just 3.1 miles. My middle name was "AlmostThere" even though I knew I still had another 40-ish minutes of shuffling.

Rain started coming down even harder. The wind grew stronger and the trees swayed ominously. Many of these races, I am alone for the greater portion of the race (due to my lack of speed) and so many times, it feels as if it would be so much easier to just stop, sit down, and wait for the sweeper car. My shirt was soaked, my shoes gushed water with every stop and, what was worse, sand from previous mud runs was exiting the shoe and entering my socks. Water poured off my elbows and dripped into my eyes, stinging and making the contact lenses feel like unwelcome guests. A bathroom would have been nice, but that was something I had already determined would not be on the race course for me; I had to beat that time.

Feet hurt, knees ached, legs started feeling a little numb. Yet, halfway to mile eleven, a miracle happened. I wanted to pass one lady (whom I am almost positive I saw at the Shamrock), but couldn't get myself to run. I focused on passing her and suddenly found I was running again! It had become easier to run than to power walk! Up ahead, I spotted those red stockings which had passed me in the first mile - they were just ahead! I never thought I'd see her again! That goal gave me "wings" and I passed her, giving a cheerful word of encouragement and trotting on in front. My middle name was now "tortoise."

To finish mile twelve, a huge hill had to be climbed and that seemed to never end. Some bounding, extremely-fit guy came springing down the hill, informing us we were almost there - just another 400 meters and we'd be done with this hill. Thoughts of springy muscles tormented me the remainder of the climb; must be great to bound about like that. "Jealous"

Thoughts of running patiently, of enduring to the end, of a timely finish, of persevering, of anything but running were scrolling in my head as I crushed the thoughts of slowing down, of stopping, of ambling to the finish line, of the growing discomfort I felt. Mile thirteen was finished and with it, one last handful of volunteers and finished runners calling out encouraging words. And "ThatLastTenthWillGetYouEveryTime" Cooper headed for the last turn.

As the rain beat down as I turned the corner, I could see the finish line just one block ahead. My problem was my legs had decided to all but stop working and I could feel my middle name changing to "WhyIsItSOFarAway?!" I was doing the glorified shuffle and then couldn't even do that. As I walked, the finish line in sight, and wondering where that last little bit of energy could possibly come from, the thinned-out crowd began screaming, "Beat it! Beat it! Beat it!"

The finish line clock showed two minutes until the three-hour cutoff. "You can beat it!" "You can make it!" "Do it!" And I started running, a little harder, a little faster. That clock was ticking faster than I wanted it to and the spectators were yelling for more speed. I pushed harder and "Grrrrrr" Cooper's body pushed back.

There wasn't anything left. Twenty feet away and I began to realize falling was a serious threat. The outer edges of what I could see started getting dark and I worked to not make hideous faces which would be captured for posterity by the photographers. Fists clenched (another thing I work not to do) and wordless prayers issued, I focused on that point, one foot behind the finish line. Didn't think my legs would make it, but somehow, they did and I broke three hours for my half marathon, taking nearly ten minutes off my previous time!

I walked slooowwwly forward, stooping to receive the finisher medal, and slooowwwly moved out of the finish chute. Well, Ruth "OoooShinyMedal" Cooper, THAT was a race well-run! A finish I could be proud of! Everything had been used to get there and the victory was, indeed, sweet.

Outrun a swirling vortex of terror. Outwit the damaging mind games. Outlast a tiring body. More than a Survivor.

Day 539: Training and Commensurate Ennui

After many profound brain things in my head, it shocked me to realize I have been thinking a lot about "being ready". Two tiny little words with such weighty import and elusive meaning... to me, at least.

I have this disturbing notion that I would like to complete a full Ironman triathlon at the end of October. It is a serious undertaking and this 140.6-mile race should not even be attempted without due preparation and training. I know this; the half Ironman was killer by itself!

Over the past few weeks, I've pinged my husband on and off about whether I can register for a particular Ironman and every week didn't get back a straight answer. Finally, this weekend, he lovingly told me, though he wanted to say yes, after much prayer and deliberation, he didn't think I was supposed to register.

A little crushed (okay... a LOT crushed), I started toying with the idea that maybe I wasn't supposed to do THAT Ironman, but perhaps another would be acceptable. Some research turned up another event at the end of October, so off I went to display my findings and ask if I could go to THIS Ironman.

Sadly, his answer came back once again in the negative. Painfully, the verdict returned with the assessment I knew to be true, even though it was in the deepest, darkest anklebone of my heart.

"She is not ready."

That is a very hard thing to hear and yet, for its being such a hard thing to hear, I hear it quite often and knew it to be true, yet again, in this situation. ::chuckles:: My response, I am sad to say, was to completely give up; stop training, stop shooting for any goal, stop everything.

Then I started thinking.

What if I'm not ready now, but might be closer to the Ironman event? What if I proceeded along my training plan as if I would run that huge race? What if this was some kind of test to see where I am in my dedication level (to this and many other somewhat stagnant areas in my life).

There's a verse in the Bible (and I paraphrase) that talks about studying to show oneself approved unto GOD (not man) and being like a workman who needs not to be ashamed of his work; rightly dividing the truth.

An interesting thought, that.

In applying that powerful thought to my current, disappointed situation, the truth began rearing its not-so-lovely head. My discipline in training has faltered and workouts have become sporadic and mostly half-hearted. I know I am not doing my best, but am not doing anything to "up" my game.

I still run, I still race, I still finish those races hard... but somewhere along the way, the focus switched to focus on the glory and the photos, the medals and the "I did that" which comes from completing these little (and some not-so-little) milestones. Not that feeling victorious at accomplishments is wrong, but how much more full and complete would that feeling be if the work leading up to that triumphant moment was diligent and consistent?

When I finish those races, there is almost always a nagging feeling I could have prepared better; I could have gotten more sleep the night before, could have improved my nutrition strategies or trained harder, or could have been consistent with my training program. I always finish my races hard and with nothing left in the tank, but seldom do I persevere in the mundane and overcome the ennui commensurate with day-to-day visits to the gym.

In that II Timothy verse, we are not told to study God's Word so others will be impressed when we win theological debates nor is it so we can sweep first-place Bible medals in find-the-verse contests. No. We are told to study to show ourselves approved to GOD. If the focus is on obedience to God and seeking His will in our endeavors, the rewards and trophies to be gained are far more permanent (though not tangible at the moment) and far more glorious than mind can fathom.

It is His approval we for which we strive.

At this point in my life, running and triathlons (with their requisite training) have prominence. The lessons learned thus far have been life changing and horizon broadening... and it would seem, there are more to come within this arena.

I do not believe I am done yet. As such, that verse needs to be applied to my life and, specifically, to how I prepare and compete in these sporting events. There are still thirty pounds of flab which need to be shed, so the training must go on. I will undertake the Ironman training, whether or not I end up competing in the triathlon of my choice is not relevant.

There is a path before me and it is my duty to walk it faithfully; to be the athlete who needs not be ashamed of the sweat, tears, and patience invested in this effort. God gave me this time in my life and it is my duty to be diligent in that calling. I want to finish my next race with NO nagging feelings of disappointment in myself and in how I handled the mundane and day-by-day training that got me there. My finish is strong, my race is not.

Don't know how it will end up, but I do know growth and maturity will increase as dedication and discipline increase.

Day 504: Finish Line... or Mile Marker

About three weeks ago, something happened. Finally, after nine months (almost to the day) and hundreds of hours of hard work and determination, that scale registered a number; a one-derful number.

My weight started with a "one" and I had lost 119 pounds!

This was an amazing event. I couldn't believe it. I was now within 28 pounds of my goal weight... closer than I'd ever dared dream! This was unbelievable!

And three weeks passed...

Now you would think, with such a success, I would be spurred on toward accomplishing the loss of those last twenty-eight pounds. You would think, with my first 70.3-mile half-Ironman race a mere five days away, I would use that momentum to tackle that challenge with confidence. You would think.

But something else happened entirely.

Those three weeks, I just - stopped. I don't know what exactly happened; I just stopped. Stopped dieting, stopped exercising, stopped caring about many things... just stopped.

My first half Ironman is only five days away, and I feel even more depressed. I haven't been doing the workouts according to my plan and I've even gained some weight back. The idea of a 56-mile bike ride frightens me, yet I still can't make myself ride for more than an hour in preparation. I have done a half marathon before, so I know I can at least finish that section, but I can barely bring myself to do even a one-mile run.

Other areas are suffering, too. Dishes and laundry aren't getting done as frequently as they should. Disorder is creeping back into the house and the yard. Grocery shopping seems to have fallen by the wayside, yielding to "picking up something" for dinner each night. And all the other aspects of life just seem so overwhelming.

While "trapped" in this morass of knowing what I should do and not doing it, I realized this happened to me during the past almost-ten months of serious dieting and exercise.

The first two months in the program, I trained incredibly hard and was extreme in following the prescribed diet. I completed my first-ever triathlon, the 18.27-mile Sandman, in Virginia Beach and came apart in the weeks following that victory. I struggled, but still managed to focus and adhere to the program to lose eighty-four pounds in the first thirteen weeks... then I switched classes and classmates.

Again, everything seemed to fall apart. I felt as if I was in limbo, not having lost enough weight to move ahead, but having gone too far to start over. Eventually, I took a month off to regroup and rejoined the program re-energized and re-focused. I worked hard and completed the next big goal: my first half marathon. With that major accomplishment, I still backslid for several weeks.

Then I hit one hundred pounds lost with Tidewater Bariatrics. A couple more pounds, and that scale registered a weight beginning with a "one." It was as if I had attained "normalcy" again; I was a real human being. With the exception of those couple months around my wedding, this was the lowest I'd weighed for most of my 20's - but looked even better! All my clothes fit again; every single piece... even the ones I'd never been able to wear before! I was euphoric.

That euphoria carried me through a couple weeks of eating "normally" and not so normally. Weeks where the scale did not move to the right or the left but stayed fixed on that amazing "one"-derful number! I could feel the warning signs indicating I needed to up the exercise and slow the eating, but I didn't listen.

Now, here I am, "getting ready" for a mammoth race, the length of which I cannot even think upon without feeling sick to my stomach. I don't feel as "lean" or as fit as I did several weeks ago; I don't think it means I won't finish, but I do have concerns. What happened? What happened all those other times? How can I fix this?

Then it hit me.

I keep seeing mile markers as finish lines. I pull to a stop after meeting significant goals as if I had swept triumphantly beneath the finish line. My focus has been so hard and fixed on each of these mile markers (for that is what they are), that I forget I have many miles still to go.

That first triathlon wasn't the end, it was the first mile of a 26.2-mile marathon! Losing one hundred pounds wasn't the end, it was mile nine or ten. Getting below two hundred, while significant, still rates only a twelfth or thirteenth mile. That successful half marathon? Still just past halfway at maybe mile fifteen. This half Ironman, I'm putting a about mile eighteen... I still have so far to go.

None of these achievements are insignificant, but not one of them is a finish line. I still have an actual marathon to run for my thirtieth birthday (the original goal I set last September). I think I would like to do a full Ironman. I still have twenty-eight pounds to get rid of... and, clearly, I still have issues to deal with in the area of eating and life.

I have not arrived and, though I'm just a few miles from the finish line (with respect to weight loss), I have stopped running and am struggling to start again.

I need help.

Over the past five hundred days, I have striven to be honest and open, yet this is the post I have withheld - I think mostly from pride. While it would be nice to have this blog contain only success stories, I hold no monopoly on temptations, challenges, and defeats; others have been here before me.

In every endeavor, there comes a point where it seems impossible to do even one thing more. Yet I know that is where God can step in and mount us up with wings as eagles. I need your prayers at this point... the Ruth Cooper Project (with respect to weight loss) has achieved critical mass and I know, in the ankle-bone of my heart, prayer can launch it to a new level of success, focus, and inspiration both to me and to others who find themselves in similar straits.

Please help me finish strong... be the prayer beneath my wings.

Day 465: Photo Phinish

And if you're interested in seeing what Jason and I look like as we cross the finish line (and some other pictures), check these links out.

Ruth crossing the finish line of the Shamrock 8k
(I'm in the lower right corner during the first 1-4 seconds of the video)

Jason crossing the finish line of the Shamrock 8k
(Jason can be seen middle-of-the-boardwalk during seconds 8-15... before he puts on his blur finish)


And here is the big one... well, half. These links will take you to see us crossing the half-marathon finish line.


Ruth crossing the finish line of the Shamrock Half-Marathon
(Smack down the center of the lane I come between seconds 8-16)

Jason crossing the finish line of the Shamrock Half-Marathon
(Middle of the road during seconds 15-24)

To get a more in-depth description of the two races we ran last weekend, check out the previous post on this blog... Day 460: Life is a Race... So Run! Quite the experience... and we qualified for completion of the Dolphin Challenge for the Shamrock event (i.e., run 8k AND half-marathon to get an extra piece of schwag - a dolphin pin!!). It's great!

Day 460: Life is a Race... So Run!

It could not have been a more perfect day... weather-wise. Just-right breezes tickled the hotels along Atlantic Boulevard as they made their way through from the ocean. The sun, having risen only a few hours before, was masked by a protective layer of thin, gray clouds; no sunglasses needed for today.

And around me... 8500 people, all doing the same thing... running a race.

Hundreds and hundreds of people. People as far as the eye could see. From 31st Street to 2nd Street, running people. On the Boardwalk, traveling the opposite direction, hundreds and hundreds of running people. Everyone runs differently; some walk, some sprint and rest, some plod on methodically. Some run with determination while others ooze the desire to quit; some run with intense focus and shut out the world around them, others gregariously engage everyone they pass (or who passes them).

I ran with focus and tried to block the idea I still had four more miles to go. Today was the easy race; today was only an 8k. Tomorrow would be the hard one - a half marathon. Jason had long since run ahead and I couldn't see him any more. I was still feeling just a little rushed from our dash to catch our run.

Sometimes, I have to wonder if I'm in the process of creating Cooper's Law. This law would state that no matter how much extra time (n) you have scheduled to be somewhere, something will always happen which takes (n+1) time causing late arrival to be unavoidable.

This morning was no different. Almost insufficient gas to make the drive, remembering forgotten race numbers 20 minutes into a 60-minute trip, the subsequent turn-around to get the numbers, and hard-to-find parking at our destination created one of the more memorable race days heretofore experienced. None of the stress and anxiety was alleviated by hearing the air horn starting the first corral of runners... as we were still trying to park!!

Five floors up to the first-available parking spot, five floors down the stairs to the street level, and one massive surge of adrenaline as we heard the announcer set off the final corral of runners. For the first time, we had to actually run to catch our race! Nothing like good adrenal stimulation to get your blood flowing.

Now, safely "in" the race, I passed the second mile marker and made the turn onto the Boardwalk at 2nd Street. It was then I suddenly realized "something wonderful." Today, exactly six months (and 45 pounds) ago, I was running the final portion of my very first athletic event, the Sandman Triathlon (ironically, the last post on this blog as well).

My mind began to spin as I realized the massive distance (ha ha) I'd covered since that debut to the racing world. In those six months, I'd lost an additional 45 pounds, met my lose-100-pounds-in-one-year goal, run my first complete mile and 5k (no walking!), and run a total of ten races: one one-miler, three 5k, two 10k, one 14k, one 15k, one 10-miler, and one 20k.

Today, I was running my eleventh race and tomorrow, I would bump my "running roof" and undertake my longest run yet... a half marathon. Even as I experience these events, it is difficult to realize the actuality of what is happening and what I have done. It's surreal; like none of this really happened.

The aching in my muscles and hips and the gentle cramping sensations in my legs told me this really was happening, I was running my best race ever and wouldn't be too much longer before the finish line loomed before me.

As I rounded the last corner, I could see the huge, inflated finish line about a half-mile away. Time to dig deep. I've always wondered where that last burst of energy comes from and, for me, my constant temptation is to stop running when I can see the finish line, especially that last quarter to tenth of a mile.

And then I remember so many Bible verses and see the faces off the spectators lining the finish chute and the faces of those around me, surging for that final goal. People are watching, cameras are clicking, announcers are waiting... the competitive inside me will not let me stop. Flashes of memories about not fainting the day of adversity, finishing the race set before me, mounting up with wings as eagles, running and not wearying, running patiently.

And then it comes... I can feel it deep (sometimes very deep) inside. My head pulls back from the base and my shoulders drop, square and forward; eyes locked immovably on a point five feet behind the finish line. I feel the energy shift inside as strides become faster and longer, breathing becomes deep and explosive and all aching and pain gets pushed to the background. This is it. This is the finish.

I am aware of those I pass in those last 50-100 feet. Some put in a last burst. Some slow down 20 feet before the finish line. Some start running and stop short of crossing the line, walking instead. Some just walk with no change. I hear the crowds; I hear that swell which comes from excitement and encouragement for one who pushes and finishes strong. I feel the inner urge to let up; to relax, to take a minute. It's almost like being in a glass tunnel; everything muted, misty, and vague - so strong is the focus on that hard finish.

One more stride. One timing clock beep. One last click of the camera. One more smile of victory.

And then I realize... this is how life should be lived.