Day 980: Concentric Circles

The rapidly-heating water bubbled tauntingly around the slices of onion in the pan; splashes playfully flicking off grains of pepper and salt before subsiding into oblivion. Mindlessly, I picked at the onion slices with a fork, each one perfectly round and consisting of so many perfect concentric circles. Ring by ring, I transformed the precise structures into a tumbled, chaotic beauty.

This must be the hundredth time I'd made squash and onions. Always the process was the same. Cut the onions and saute them for a couple minutes, softening the stiffness before adding the zucchini and squash slices. A fork tine caught one of the loops still wrapped around an ever-decreasing collection of onion rings.

Funny. I don't ever remember the onions looking like this. All round and ring-y.

An idea struck with revelatory force. Over those hundreds of times preparing this dish, not once had I ever cut the onions in circles... always wedges or longitudinal slices. But why? Why had I never cut them in circular slices? Not an over-important question, but one which grabbed my attention (a task at which the squash had failed).

It simply had never occurred to me.

So simple an answer, but stunning. How many things do I do out of pure, mindless habit? What changes and interesting worlds am I missing because I never stopped to evaluate the "why" behind what I do.

For me, this was the third day on the VeryStupidDiet, known to many as the Cabbage Soup Diet. The previous two days had been spent in the most unrelenting of tortures and drowning in the screams of dying sugars inside me. My head pounded non-stop for 60 hours, every sound was torture, daylight had a dark tinge, and overpowering all faculties of reason was the compelling desire to eat. something. sweet. Anything sweet. More specifically these nasty Kirkland Peanut Butter Cups.

I came to understand the meaning of the phrase, "I would kill for a [insert craved food here]" - even one Ghirardelli 60% bittersweet chocolate chip would have sufficed. Dude, I was even on the verge of jumping the diet because I so desperately wanted to eat HMR pre-packaged meal replacements! I cried. I barely restrained myself from throwing things. I pouted. I screamed so loudly inside, I feared it would actually come out.

...and then I started praying.

And in that moment, I realized my focus was horribly, horribly wrong. I was a thirty-year-old with emotions which would rival the most terrifying of two-year-olds. Nothing could help in that darkest of moments. No word, no kind gesture, no loving deed (and Jason did try).

For so many years, I have mindlessly plugged various holes in my life with food. Feeling overwhelmed? Starbucks always did the trick. Unexpectedly pregnant? A soothing bunch of Snickers bars. Bored at the computer? A fix of Ghirardelli chips. Didn't want to make dinner? Activate eight cell phone buttons to summon Pizza Hut. Sad because I gained back so much of the weight I'd lost? Fountain Pepsi was the appropriate balm. Filled with self-hate and self-loathing at seeing recent pictures? The only fix was a full-out Outback or Olive Garden feast.

Habits die hard and food habits die hardest.

Then and there, head about to explode with pain, I admitted to God I had a problem... a problem with gluttony, and even that was just a symptom. I was filling emotional holes with food instead of Him. Within minutes, the massive headache faded to a not-as-bad-but-still-bad railroad spike behind my eyeball and my attitude started to change.

Day Three dawned with no headache, increased energy... and food was not the focus any more. It was a chaotic day. Such an one in the past would have required lots of chocolate and soothing drinkies, plus a pizza and movie at the end of the day. Yet, as the day drew to a close with no emotional, food-related outbursts, I realized (again) I wouldn't actually breakdown or become incapacitated without junk food; it didn't have to be a habitual response to every thing happening around me.

And so I continued picking at the circular onion slices, marveling at their pure simplicity and the lesson they held... habits can be changed and realizing there is a habit to be changed is the first step.

How will you slice your onions?



photo courtesy of kateiredale. typepad. com 

Day 953: Cutting Lessons

My house has a tendency to look overgrown. There is a row of overfull, unwieldy azaleas which have been steadily taking over; rising above the windows, overshadowing the walkway, spilling their wildness into every available space. Across the street and to one side of us, beautifully cared-for yards display restrained and controlled beauty - a degree of elegance which, I will admit, I envy. 


For almost two years now, I have mentally planned how to make our landscaping more crisp, more purposeful. Thousands of times (in my head), I've trimmed the azaleas and transplanted them to a better part of the yard, installed beautiful plants, erected privacy fences, painted the house, ground up submerged stumps to flatten the yard, added trees, planted more grass, and generally increased the aesthetics of our outdoor presence. 


I'm not sure why it takes me SO long to do almost anything, but yesterday, after taking a plethora of "before" pictures, I attacked my collection of straggly azaleas with loving energy. As I tried to shape and cut back each bush to a modest size, I realized many of these azaleas were masquerading as full and healthy bushes. 


Oh, to be sure, the tops and sides were full and magnificent, but trim one branch and peer inside the bush and the true situation became clear. Every bush had one to four feet of plain, unadorned branch before fluffing out in a blanket of green. There was simply no way to prune or trim these azaleas without resulting in an array of odd-looking, leggy, top-heavy bushes.


With reluctance, I began to cut each branch, not where I preferred to cut it, but where it needed to be cut. It was painful and seemed massively unfair to reduce such large bushes to such small stubs. Poor azaleas, what did they do to deserve such treatment?


And then I saw an important lesson.


My reason for cutting the azaleas wasn't rooted in hatred or spite or the desire to curtail their rambunctious beauty. I was cutting the dead and unlovely parts, working from the inside, out. True, what appeared to be healthy loveliness on top was sacrificed in the process, but the end result will be a healthier, happier, fuller bush - from inside to outside. This was merely a preparation to move them to a new spot where they will thrive and be able to display their new growth and beauty in a much friendlier environment... no more sun crisping them from sunrise to sunset.


And so, with each snip and cut, a life lesson became obvious. 


Perhaps my weight-loss journey should not be viewed by me as a mostly failure interrupted by a brief success. Time to face the facts. Yes. I did lose 119 pounds in ten months. I looked awesome. I was a source of inspiration. People loved my story. I was a weight-loss poster child. Me, me, me. I was just. so. cool. And I did it all myself. Yay, me.


And where was God?


While the weight loss was absolutely real and absolutely fought for, it was a sparkly, amazing exterior that covered an inner self which had never learned to lose weight from the inside, out. My outside was thin, but my inside was still obese... in less than a year, 67.2% of the weight came back. 


I have to wonder if this setback is not really a setback, but God letting me know I cannot succeed long-term without His help. Perhaps my awesome, successful facade was clipped away to bring me to a stub just so I can do it all over again, but with God. Because now I know I cannot permanently change this horrible, embarrassing aspect of my life into a truly sparkly, amazingness without Him. 


I want an exterior which accurately reflects what is within.

We do not (and perhaps cannot) know the complete purpose of our lives. Our outside lives may appear complete and indicative of great growth and structure within, yet is hiding behind all that is dry, dead, and bereft-of-life. When the cuts come and it seems all is lost or being lost, remember the lesson the azaleas taught me. There is a greater purpose.

To be great, we must first be made small; all facades stripped away. Not to cause pain and misery, but to allow new growth.


photo from tdjordan.tumblr . com

Day 884: One Year from Now

Hello. My name is Ruth Cooper and I am overweight... again. It has been 261 days since my last post because I could not bring myself to admit the level of backslide and defeat which has taken place. It was easier to not update my weight-loss LillyTicker, showing 27 pounds away from my goal weight. It was simpler to leave older, thinner photos on my Facebook wall instead of updating with current images. It was preferable to stay at home, rather than have you see the work I've undone.

In Hebrews, we are reminded we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses and Mark reminds us nothing is done in secret which shall not be seen in the light. I started this blog 883 days ago as a form of accountability and a way to embody a small percentage of the cloud of witnesses I know are watching.

This blog has been re-activated.

I am not perfect, nor do I pretend to be here... but something needs to change. I don't have the answers; I don't even have a plan at this point. Over the past 14 months, I have slid almost to the foot of the weight-loss mountain I worked so hard to climb. The peak was in sight, I had 27 "steps" to go and I quit... completely and without struggle.

As of today, I have re-gained 75 pounds of the 119 I lost. True, I'm still in far better shape than I was last time I weighed this much - more active and still involved in running - and I didn't gain it ALL back. There were plenty of warning signs and turn-around points on my slide to today, so there really can be no excuses.

This blog has (apparently) inspired others during it's heyday, so I'm hoping to be inspired by my readers yet again. Having done this before, I know what kind of work needs to be done and how hard it was. I simply don't want to.

Feel free to be as bluntly honest with me as I am here on this blog.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day and it stabbed to the heart...

One year from now, you'll wish you'd started today

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!