Slow down.

Slowing down has always been a problem for me. At an early age, pushing as hard as I could was a lesson ingrained in me by none other than my Father. He got me into running, and, training with me over the summer, he would encourage me to push, push, push. Every run, no matter the distance, was an all-out effort. Of course, I learned from coaches that different workouts called for different speeds, but at the back of my head I always had the idea that if I didn't completely exert myself, it didn't count. 

Apparently I am still battling that same demon 13 years later. When I first started to get back into running seriously, I felt like I had to push hard on every run to get in shape. I'd monitor my pace and adjust it accordingly. If I couldn't hit a certain pace, I'd be disappointed. Well, that resulted in a big, fat stress fracture after 5 or 6 months. I told myself I'd learned my lesson, well and truly. 

During marathon training I was able to reign things in a bit, because I was following a specific plan, which told me it was OK to run one minute, or more, slower than race pace during my long run. Getting the miles in was all that counted.

But now, I find myself drifting, with no plan to tell me what to do. You'd think common sense would kick in, but sadly, it doesn't seem to be. My lesson has, apparently, been un-learned. Once again I find myself feeling like I have to push myself to my limit, not just in running, but now with biking and swimming, too. I feel like it's not a good run if I don't finish it gasping for breath and riddled with cramps. I feel like it's not a good bike ride if I'm not dripping in sweat with quads that feel like they're on fire. I feel like it's not a good swim if my arms don't feel like lead at the end. 

Naturally, feeling so beat after every single workout doesn't exactly provide positive reinforcement. Instead, it makes me dread daily exercise. I'm already tired, and I don't want to end up utterly exhausted and disappointed. So my motivation deserts me and I avoid working out, coming up with a myriad of excuses. But then, instead of feeling worn out and disappointed, I just feel disappointed and guilty.

Bear with me, this does have a positive twist, I promise! For the past two or three days, I've been beating myself up - not literally, with exercise, but mentally. I just didn't want to workout, but I'd look at my log and berate myself for the low monthly numbers.

I wasn't even planning on exercising today. I decided to give in to my low motivation and relax. But then I talked to my Dad, and he told me he wanted to go out for a slow run, because he was trying to get in shape. I found myself offering to go with him. I had two reasons - I thought running with someone else would force me to get moving, and I thought that since he wasn't in great shape, it'd be an easy run. 

I was right on both counts. But there were other aspects of the run that I totally did not anticipate. Though we ran at a pace that I would consider a jog, it was clear that my Dad was really pushing himself. And, in a complete turn of the tables, I found myself telling him it was OK not to worry about the pace. I helped him decide that it would be better to cut his run at 20 minutes, rather than continue on for 30, so he wouldn't get injured.

And, while lumbering along at a leisurely pace, I discovered I was really enjoying the run, rather than indulging in negative self-talk, which I admit I'm guilty of on a more-than-regular basis. (You know, stuff like "This run totally sucks, I feel like shit, when can I stop?") We ran in the snow, and the wind, and I noticed things like the delicious smell of a wood fire, and deer tracks in the woods. 

Then, when my Dad was done, I realized I felt relaxed and loose, and wanted to keep going. I thought maybe I'd add on another half mile. And then maybe just another mile...until I'd added 4 miles, and done a total of 6. My longest run since the marathon a month and a half ago. I must have been really well warmed up from the first 2 miles, because my average pace in the end was similar to the average pace of every other 6 mile run I've done, meaning the last 4 miles I was bookin' it. But it didn't feel like I was pushing, buoyed as I was by the rejuvenating 20 minutes I had run with my Dad.

So the moral of my story is this (and I'm telling it to myself, though if it helps anyone else, that's wonderful): Pushing the limits every day doesn't mean success. It means burn-out. If there is no training plan to follow, I have to listen to my body. I can't berate myself for not having a really long, super-hard workout. I can only do what feels good. That doesn't mean being a sloth. It means finding the balance. It means remembering why I'm doing this - because I love it, not because I have to. It's not a punishment, it's a reward. This applies to all types of workouts, including running, swimming, and biking, but also to strength training, and even yoga.

It might seems as though I've had an epiphany, but I can promise you this - I'll have to come back and read this post frequently for a reminder. I'll probably have to re-read it in three days or less...