The Truth Behind Jeff Galloway

 

            Don’t let the title be misleading—I have full confidence in runner-extraordinaire Jeff Galloway.  However, there comes a time in a naïve-runner’s life when the only possible way to keep running is to put one foot in front of the other.  When I originally glanced at Galloway’s book on training for half marathons entitled, You Can Do It, I scoffed at the book cover.  The runners looked so happy.  Why would anyone look so happy in that environment?  I’m fully convinced now that the smiles on their shining faces were more than just plain enjoyment.  It was all in the act.  When do we as humans, who have been given bodies fully capable for things like running, begin to find pleasure in that kind of physical pain?  This question and more seemed to pervade my thoughts as I watched the Olympics or saw a young mother, with at least five kids, running along the sidewalk with the family dog.  There was more to the huff and puff up the abnormally large hill.  Thus began the journey into my fascination with training for half marathons and the runners who ran them. 

            For those who decide to train for a half-marathon one must train and train well, but also acquire a form of heavenly joy.  For a college student who still had trouble remembering her social security number, and who was still half in love with her high school sweetheart, the time had come to push past prior misgivings of the running world.  Are runners crazy?  Of course.  Does one instantly realize the pain that  arises from training for a half marathon?  Of course.  In the following weeks I immersed myself into the Jeff Galloway fan club.  The ladies I ran with in the mornings jabbered on about his wisdom until I decided it would be worthwhile, not only for

my ears but for my pain level, to invest in a pair of headphones to go along with my prized Apple device.  For goodness sake the training was going to be hard enough.  One of the more interesting parts of the running world is the mom category of runners.  They range in age, and have various amounts of children.  Their favorite past time is Weight Watchers, and conversing about the different body parts that have improved in appearance.  My training group was composed of two mom’s who loved their husbands, and getting up as soon as the clock revealed that it was five-thirty.  Their running world was always a little more pleasant than mine.

            The world of an unskilled half marathon trainee isn’t a bed of roses.  It’s more like a slap in the face by one’s arch-nemesis.  By the first morning, the lungs alert you to the impending hardships that await.  The Super-Man Runners have this incredible ability to not pay attention to their lungs, however.  As they rise each morning for their run, the last thing on their mind is their lungs.  This reality is hard to come by.  The lungs, legs, arms, stomach, even head go through various levels of pain as the weeks truck on which placed me in a complete rational state.  Thank God for the body’s ability to improve.   I couldn’t help but feel a rise of emotions when I completed the run up the hill without falling over, or the sprint to the end of my first three miles with my mom runners.  Gradually I felt closer to the runners on Galloway’s book as I my understanding grew and grew.  The sweat dripping of my temples felt more like tiny gold medals, and the discomfort the next morning was more like a dull pain.  Thank God for Advil.  Advil is surely a naïve runner’s best friend. 

            One of the more enjoyable aspects of training is the “accountability partners” who latch on till the end.  Mine was a small Cuban woman who had always loved me like a daughter.  She was one of the two mom’s.   People like my Cuban running mother are imperative for success. 

Among other things, they make sure you’re up in time for a forty-five minutes run, they create the most detailed schedules, and don’t flatter where flattery is certainly not needed.  They know pride is the downfall of a trainee.  So in order to deflect pride, I felt an urgency to keep going for I knew that to stop would bring regrets that would take me farther away from my Galloway running pleasure that was close on the horizon.    

            Sadly, those perfect times of pleasure amidst pain don’t always last, but they promise to return.  In moments of intense weakness, a naïve runner experiences a myriad of emotions.  “Why do you like to run,” I asked my Cuban running mother one day after a torturous run through town.  She commented on how Jeff Galloway changed her life along with remarks on her weight gain, but followed that with an expression of love for this physical activity.  There it was again.  The pain I felt was pleasure for her.  She trained for half marathons for the challenge, but most importantly for the accomplishment.  Pain was only an after-thought to her. 

            For centuries the human race has found enjoyment in sweating, competition, and of course the motion of running.  Half-marathons, marathons, iron-mans—they all measure the amount of accomplishments the human body can endure with pleasure.  I remember finding the girls who blasted past me during our time of sprints in basketball practice quite annoying.  My legs seemed to fight against the urge to run as if to say, “Watch out, this may hurt.”  I never had a strong enough voice to tell them to keep quiet.  My Cuban mom had attained a strong voice against the flesh and yelled at me to stay focused more than I desired.  Her short tan legs seemed to move at the same pace as me yet she always kept a few feet ahead as if to say, “I still run this joint.” 

            The endurance of other is sure to light a fire under one’s newly purchased running

shoes.  Understanding the pain is only a fraction of being a successful runner.  One must

keep going amidst the throbbing or fail.  To keep going means a naïve runner like myself had to keep the mind out of it, and accept each step with an assurance that the next million would come.  Running alongside the mothers lit a forest fire under my slow feet thankfully.  I was getting closer to finding pleasure.  It was only a few miles away.  

            The week of the half marathon is appropriately intense.  Running mothers try to downplay their apprehension by planning the trip to the race.  The naïve runners keep running to the end because they know one must actually run twelve miles before going.  I must have backed out ten times in my head.  I learned that fear is a prime threat against success.  The mother’s assured me of Galloway’s knowledge more than once, but I knew that when the gun shot went off at the race it would only be me, myself, and I. 

            There’s a weird moment in a runner’s life where one does have to question why they take pleasure in this?  Why is there joy amidst this pain that only worsens with longer runs?  Is it the accomplishment or the actual act of running that makes a runner’s heart glad?  I’m still asking myself these questions today.  Whether training for a half marathon, or just plain running the moment arrives when runners like Jeff Galloway fold into the distances, and you find yourself smiling as each step pounds upon the sidewalk.  My Cuban running mother was right, the truth behind Jeff Galloway was his love for running which fueled his desire to tell others to join in.  But as I looked past the starting line that fateful day, the next thirteen plus more miles would only consist of myself.  Jeff Galloway was nowhere to be found.  With each mile I felt the exhaustion, but a smile was spread across my face like the runners on that cover.

           

Monday mornings.  They're not all bad thank goodness.  I generally like Mondays and the newness of a week.  I know it might sound cliche--but it's like a new beginning.  Days are filled with unknowns and fears, but truth trumps all and I'm thankful for another week of growth, and adventure.  It feels like this time of year is especially busy.  Everyone is figuring out next year already, and the times are changing.  Time.  What a serious contemplation for one such as me.  I have no control over my days.  Life is a beautiful, and I think we spend too much time rushing through this life.  

Spring break is around the corner, and with the break comes the overload of projects and finish ups.  As I sit in a SIP carol in the library I look out into the sunlit windows to a world that I wish I could capture.  I know one day I'll look back over my college years and wish for them to return.  Why do we have to grow up?  I sometimes retreat into the child section of the library to look at books that touched my young girls heart.  Its funny how you'll desire so badly to grow big and strong one day, and the other all you want is to find yourself in your father's strong grasp.  Why do they have to be so far away?  

I think it would be so interesting to write a book about myself as a little girl.  I was truly mischievous, but so cute.  My curly blonde locks and big cheeked head always had fanciful ideas circling around.  My very active imagination took me to far away places and journeys.  I was a drama queen, but I had a fire for life.  I think as an English major, its so easy to write like a mature adult, but does that really matter?  I would love to write like a child again: pure, less-meaningful, and obviously funny.  There are times when my writing is too much like a dictionary--a lot of information but not a lot of depth.  I want to be a writer that puts her personality into the mix.  I love to write.

Its been quite an eventful weekend.  I've laughed, I haven't cried, I've relaxed, I've danced, I've cleaned, I've pondered, I've thought, I've argued, I've longed, I've wished, I've prayed, I've lost all since of time...

Spring break is coming up, but there's no time to think.  Tomorrow brings many joys and business. I leave for an adventure on Saturday, and still feel like Saturday is years away.  Am I ready?  No.  I'm confident that Saturday will come though.  Days are just like that.  They occur.  They end.  They begin.  It's the "Circle of Days."  Here's to a new week to enjoy life.

I've been thinking a lot on the art of song writing.  How do they do it?  As I listen to Mumford and Sons I'm struck by my inability to create those beautiful lines of gold.  Again, how do they do it.  The meaning is so intrinsic and simplistic.  I want to write a song that makes people cry, tap their foot, laugh, and so many other things.  I wish just being an English major would give me the tools for this, but alas all it is is a title....

I want my passion for writing to grow as I grow older, and hopefully wiser.  I want my words to bring life and to seek truth.  I don't want to write only manufactured goods, and I want it to ring true.  What are the steps for these thoughts to prove successful?  More to come on theses thoughts.

 My problem with keep a consistent journal is that I'm not consistent.  Its a struggle to write at certain times like when I feel tired, or totally uninspired.  I mean, to an extent, writing has to have passion and zeal behind the words of the writer. When I lack those two traits I feel nothing but a harsh desire not to write.  I wish I was the kind of English major that desired every minute to write a thought down, or get an ungodly amount of excitement when I write an essay.  There are too many things at risk when you lose the zeal behind your words.  People won't believe your words if you don't.  

These thoughts and more pervade my thoughts a lot of the time especially being a senior, and tired of the constant motion that writing has become in my mind.  I love to write, but I go through these dry spots that leave me feeling a little less giving...that's why I'm so thankful for my creative non-fiction class.  It's reminded me of why I love to write.  Thank God for memoirs.  They are hugely loved in my life.   

I love hearing stories, and telling stories.  I love to know why people think the way they do, and their emotions.  Its a gift I love to receive and to give.

Three Hours in a German Airport

 

Three Hours in a German Airport

            Smoke.  I remember the smell of smoke more than the other smells.  My red-streaked eyes looked around aimlessly as I reoriented myself to the lights German airport.  My eyelids drooped from lack of sleep. The dust floating up from the patterned airport carpet made them sting.  My hair, that had once been arranged in a neat braid, looked more like one of Marie Antoinette’s wigs.  People from all walks of life walked circles around me as I searched for some kind of familiarity.  I tried so hard to not look scared, but that can be quite difficult for a fifteen-year-old girl far from home.  The confidence that I had mustered while sitting on the plane dissipated into thin air like the smoke rising from the cigarettes stations around the airport.  My dad looked at me encouragingly while grasping his own, over-packed, carry-on bag.  Growing up I had listened to countless stories of my pop’s own traveling days.  Hearing certain stories more than once, I had developed my own personal fantasy of traveling for myself to see the faces, the places, and the vastness this world offers.  My twenty-two-year-old self realizes now how naïve I was in my knowledge of world-traveling.   I was such a little girl. The three hours I had in this German airport would teach me important truths I needed to learn before entering into my destination: Romania.

            Three hours.  People surrounded our small group of eight as we looked at details for our connection flight.  We had three hours to kill.  As I glanced at the huge electronic information portal, I couldn’t believe all of the flights that were set to leave in the coming hours.  There was a flight leaving shortly for Japan, and another for Italy.  Two more were leaving four hours later for London.  My adventurous self was nowhere to be found sadly.  We had traveled from the small town of Morganton only a day ago to the dynamic metropolis of the Frankfurt airport.  All I could think about was the safeness of my home in North Carolina.  I was sure mom was placing the kettle on the stove for her famous sweet tea, and Sammy must have just returned home from soccer practice.  I longed for their freckled faces.  The concept of home pervaded my mind more than the continuous sounds coming from the overhead speaker.  “Mr. Smith, please approach the desk.  We have details pertaining to your luggage,” came a polite sounding woman in her thick accent through the speaker.  One of our leaders, a tall red-headed doctor, motioned for us to gather around.  I shrugged knowing this would make us stand out even more.  My natural inclination for distraction overcame his words as I observed the people.  Leather jackets seemed to be the rage.  I looked at my over-sized jeans and tennis shoes, and shrugged a deeper shrug.  A group of stewardesses from a South Korean airline walked by impeccably dressed in elaborate uniforms I knew must have been made of pure silk.  They looked gorgeous.  Shady-looking men, who of course must have worked for the mafia years ago, also walked by in over-sized trench coats, and unshaven chins.  I walked a little closer to my dad’s side leaving just enough room for

my pride.

            The first hour dawned.  After making sure each person was situated nicely, we walked through the long corridor of gates that led to other adventures.  I kept close to dad’s side making sure my wallet was still in my pocket every five minutes.  I had read a warning in one of the traveling books I had purchased at the library that a traveler must be aware of the valuables on their person.  My small coin purse held a hundred US dollars.  An older man in my church gave it to me the Sunday we left for Romania.  “Use it for the trinkets,” he remarked.  I glanced down at his arms that were painted with the tattoos he had received during his time in the military years ago.  I took the money gladly for I knew “the trinkets” were going to cost more than the twenty I had set aside.  The southern charm was now replaced with diverse representations of aloofness.  The south had shaped my understanding of life more than I could have ever imagined.  The produce stand down the road, the old Wal-Mart, and other “hometown” locations strangely found their way into my thoughts as I observed the glitz and glamour coming from the airport merchandise shops.  One was glowing gold as I looked to find a jewelry store that advertized pictures of shiny diamonds and rubies.  I didn’t know what “posh” meant at that time, but it would have been the perfect word to describe my surroundings.  Women in fur walked out of the store with an air that smelled worse than the smoke.  My friend Anne must have noticed as well because she quickly evaluated her own outfit in the store window.  We both felt insecure in our fifteen-year-old bodies.  As the group began to walk again I prayed for the three hours to end quickly.  Sadly, the only power I had over the time was the ability to misinterpret it. 

            The first hour flew into the second as we walked into the food court.  I noticed my stomach growling for the first time since we arrived.   Of course there was the German cuisine, but the pretzels and piles of sausages made me think twice.  I looked endearingly at the king of all American fast-food restaurants, McDonalds, that was situated right next to the German equivalent to a Papa John’s.  God had, in His great mercy, spared any concerns or thoughts of food-poisoning during the entirety of the trip.  Set in my American ways, there was no ignoring my grumbling stomach.  One of the traveling books I had reserved at the Morganton library, that was actually intended for children, had a section dedicated to the rich cuisines found in my European countries.  My mouth had watered at the ornate pictures of meats, the variety of cheeses, and of course the delectable desserts.  I remember turning the pages slowly so as to make mental notes of the foods I most wanted to try.  Looking back, the most frightening thing about first-time, over-seas travel is discovering the expectations you set are unattainable.  My perceptions on what a German airport looked, sounded, and smelled like certainly looked more American than European.  I had a narrow way of seeing the world due to the fact I had never ventured farther than Louisiana at that time.  I wasn’t dumb.  I knew life would look different in these countries, but the shock that arose made me feel light-headed.  A  moment later, Anne and I spotted a Haagen Dazs a few feet away and sighed with happiness.  The least-polite teenager was on the other side of the counter looking at our group with a forced happy face.  Her bright blue eyes shined against the soda machine while her fake smile shown almost as brightly as the florescent lighting above her small head.  I was at the front of the line, and asked politely for water.  “Bubbles or flat miss,” she asked curtly in that German tongue I had almost grown accustom to.  Bubbles?  Flat?  What the heck?  Trying to not seem too needy, I said I didn’t care.  Worst mistake of my life thus far.  I walked to the side of the Haagen Dazs and heard a sharp fizz sound as I opened the pretty bottle.  I ignored it as I looked for a band to tie back my Marie-Antoinette-looking hair.  I took a rather large gulp of the bubbly substance and felt a burn that made my sore eyes widen with horror.  This was perhaps the most humbling truth I learned in the second hour: never say “I don’t care”  if you don’t have any idea what the other person is offering.  I coughed for what seemed like hours.  The ladies in fur smelled a little more pretentious as they walked by my hunched over body.  Dad limped over with touching emotion—his Achilles heel he had injured a few years ago had always bothered him after sitting for hours in small quarters.  I laughed—the first laugh I had laughed since landing.  Dad patted my back slowly.  The fizz settled in my empty stomach after a few pats and I smiled at dad revealing my retainer I had promised mom I would wear every day.  Having washed my retainer in the airplane bathroom I had been a tad suspicious, but I knew one of the first questions I would be asked upon arrival in Morganton would be, “ Did you wear that retainer everyday missy?”  I missed my mom in that moment, but I was realizing fast that not everything was bad.  Home was becoming a second thought. 

            I sat at our gate waiting for the third hour to end.  My mom had purchased a journal as one of my birthday presents back in August.  I had opened the small package with a small ounce of disappointment wishing instead it had been something I could wear or paint on my face.  I looked for the journal in my red backpack positioned by my feet.  This day had already brought countless new experiences, journaling would be a perfect coping mechanism.  I’m happy to say since this trip, I’ve dedicated many evenings to the practice of writing about my day, thoughts, and emotions on the “chaste white piece of paper” as the Asian poet in “Headstrong Boy” described.  The attendants at the gate had already begun calling people up to the counter for questions.  I did a quick, unnecessary, head-count of them team then tried to write something.  The distractions arose as close by I heard the sound of Arabic.  I turned to find five men huddled together wearing elaborate turbans.  A few feet away a mom was rocking her small daughter.  I wondered if she had a husband waiting for her in Romania.  My tiredness had turned from anxiety, to confusion, and now to the blessed feeling of remorse.  For three hours I hadn’t enjoyed myself like the others.  My adventurous spirit wanted to return home.  I hated myself for it.  I checked my wrist-watch for the time.  Thirty minutes left until this German airport would only be a memory.  There was no room for anymore of this fifteen-year-old nonsense.  Romania was on the horizon.  I watched the time tick by as the journal sat on my lap like my mutt back at home.  The shame I felt for missing the three hour adventure sat sourly in my stomach.  Taking my pen in hand I wrote in big letters, STOP.   My face must have looked unsettled for as I sat on the sticky airport chair, my dad squeezed my hand lovingly as if to say, “Honey, it’s going to be alright.”  I gave him a smile back.  I’ve heard that saying a million times since that moment in the Frankfurt airport.  As I’ve aged into my twenties and traveled to more distant lands “it’s going to be alright” still echoes in the dark crevices of my mind as I deal with the changes lie ceaselessly brings.  As I boarded the plane I held loosely to my carry-on, I smiled at the little girl with her tired looking mother, and let one of the turban-wearing men get in front of me as if to say, “I’m not afraid anymore.”  Anne looked at me questioningly as she held her bag tightly to her chest.  There was no going back to Morganton for a while, and I was glad of it.  The bubbled water worked its magic, and I’m forever grateful.