in the long run, torture is actually good for us

In his memoir “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” novelist Haruki Murakami casually reveals that his body is the type which responds positively to lots of food and little exercise.In his case positive means higher numbers on the bathroom scale.

I know what you are thinking: gee, that sounds familiar.

Murakami continues by saying his wife is just the opposite. She eats -- no matter what or how much -- and she stays slim. Yeah, we all know one of those. I saw her in the gym, just the other day. (And for the record, she wasn’t exercising. Just picking up the boyfriend.)

But back to my point: Murakami lives his life, writes his books, eats as mindfully of his belly as he can…and he runs six miles a day.

Poor guy, we sniff, mentally photoshopping our own scowling faces onto his body. Here he is, sweating and toiling on the road each day while his wife eats bon bons and frets because her size twos are too big to belt.

Life is so unfair.

How is it that some body types actually boost metabolism by consuming MORE calories? We know where this is going, and quick: Murakami will no doubt finish out the pages reeling off a zillion examples of the injustices which taunt the endomorph. Huh. I could have written this chapter myself.

Murakami says those “lucky ones” who don’t gain weight easily don’t need to exercise in order to stay slim. “There can’t be many of them who would go out of their way to take these troublesome measures when they don’t need to,” he says. True enough.

Yet the next paragraph is as refreshing as a low-calorie mint-and-melon smoothie. (Fellow endomorphs, listen up.) Those skinny people who don’t exercise? Their physical strength deteriorates as they age. And, because they have no reason to exercise to shave off pounds, they aren’t doing squat to counteract it!

We softies and roundies, on the other hand, have been exercising all along, fighting the bulge … and keeping ourselves young in the process. Fifty years from now, we endomorphs will be as spry as spring chickens, our joints well lubricated from decades of effort and sweat. And, hopefully, our minds will be sharp and nimble, too.

What seems so very unjust right now will be oh, so sweet in those octogenarian years. Just you wait.

We’ll just have to remember to be kind to those “skinny folks” we fantasized about taking down all those years ago. Yeah, sure we will.

a teachable moment?

Yesterday, I had a bad day. I spent way too much time spinning my wheels at work, fretting over some challenging homework for a class I am taking, even panicking over dinner preparations. By 6:00 I was spent.

So, I laced up my shoes, pocketed a snack and...

Went to a Detroit Tigers game. (You thought I was going to say I went running. Well, that would have been predictable.)

As much as running is the universal soother, sometimes it's just not a good fit. That's when getting away from home and getting lost in a crowd is the perfect antidote. Why wouldn't I relish spending an evening with my husband and 10-year old son, Kit -- who, by the way, is crazy into baseball -- at a late-season game on a beautiful Monday evening?

The row of men sitting in front of us had a running joke about a blue sign they were wrongly accused of harboring -- allegedly emblazoned with a derogatory comment regarding the Detroit Lions head coach --but they did take time to chuckle over my son's incredible baseball prowess. Although Kit's incessant ramblings about RBIs, ERAs and pick-offs can get tedious at home, in the ball park it's really all very interesting. And relevant.

And of course, we came to see the aftershocks of last week's incredible dust up between aging designated hitter Gary Sheffield and pretty much the entire team of Cleveland Indians. We caught that little jaw dropper on television, and it was one of those moments during an otherwise ho-hum game that made us sit up straight and pay attention.

Afterward, our family conversations swayed between "Ooooh! Can you believe the Sheff? He was MAD! That was cool," and "Of course, punching the pitcher in the face is really no way to resolve a conflict."

I'll let you guess who was saying what.

Grown men, the idols of kids across the nation, can find no other way to show disapproval of another player's actions than to flip him like a pancake? What does that prove? And who laughs last?

Certainly not Sheffield, who was absent from last night's game against the Kansas City Royals serving a four-game suspension. And it doesn't help that today's Detroit News reports Sheffield as saying "It will never end until I get you. That's just the way it is. I don't mess with nobody. I don't bother anybody, but when you bother me, it's on. It could be off the field, on the field, it doesn't matter."

Yikes. Is Sheff planning to jump from the sports page to the front page after hunting down Indians pitcher Fausto Carmona and catcher Victor Martinez in Cleveland, which, by the way, is geographically very close to Detroit? I mean, what else does a guy do while he's suspended? Is revenge that sweet?

And on a larger issue, is Sheffield's mother proud of all this? Can she say she's happy that her son is openly vengeful and, apparently, will spout his intentions to any sports reporter who's asking?

I'd love it if my sons can recognize that rising above punching fists or turning the other cheek can be a very manly thing to do. Even if it isn't such a popular option these days.

You can be sure I will continue to talk with my kids about all of the choices we have for resolving conflict. And I expect our conversations to continue for some time, or at least until Kit stops muttering "But it was pretty cool" under his breath at the first mention of Gary Sheffield and his pancake-flipping shenanigans.

it takes a village

In the wake of local news stories spewing grim truths like "First Grader Brings Gun to School," conversations with other mom-friends have taken on a different tone lately.

How can stuff like this happen? we wonder aloud. What are his parents thinking? we ask. What could be next? we whisper.

The worst part might even be our ever-decreasing shock as we read story after story, gun after gun, school after school. In some frightening way, we begin to normalize what we hear and read, each incident becoming less shocking -- until it finally happens in our own school or in a school down the street, sparking our fear and disbelief all over again.

"Not in my backyard" becomes "Oh no. Not again."

At a party to celebrate a friend's divorce this week, a woman who has no children of her own, but who is getting to know her partner's young teens, asked aloud "How do you protect your kids as they grow? How do you know they'll make the right decisions? How do you guide them when they become teenagers and can basically do what they like?"

Excellent question. Is there an answer?

For her, navigating the waters of influencing children as they grow into adulthood is like running a marathon with no preparation or training to keep her strong for the long haul. Sure, she gets her "walk breaks" because the three kids visit often, but don't live with her. But when she's in the thick of it, she wonders how much they listen to her or watch her movements for clues on how to push forth into the world on their own.

She offers books and walks in the park. They don't always accept. They don't always see the value. Does she make an impact? she wonders. Is all this sweat even worth anything?

Yet I assure my friend that she has more influence than she believes. She is in an enviable position for moms everywhere trying to make that all-important connection with a child who is on the cusp of shutting out all adults. She's like the cool aunt who makes money doing a creative job, who has a home strewn with things never touched by children, a funky place filled with furniture chosen for its own value, rather than just being "sturdy enough for a family." She lives her days doing as she pleases, answering only to herself. A teen's dream come true.

Maybe my friend doesn't have the luxury of breaking out of the starting line with a babe in arms to mold and shape as she tiptoes through its infancy, picking up the pace when it darts around in toddlerhood, breaking into an all out sprint when the elementary school years hit.

No, she's in full sweat when the three kids are around. She's running at breakneck pace to keep up, without the years and years of training the act of giving birth offers for those who are paying attention.

In the end, I remind my friend that every child benefits from another loving adult who takes more than a passing interest. Kids who are supported by caring adults who aren't their parents have just one more role model to learn from and follow. They are the lucky ones.

I wouldn't be surprised if she continues running alongside these three, taking in their hurts and sorrows as well as their joys and triumphs. And just when she gets used to the pace, the marathon will end and the kids will be adults, elbowing through their own lives, forging ahead to bigger and better races, perhaps even influencing children of their own.

And then my friend can slow to a walk, breathe deeply and take in the scenery. Her finish line will be within reach.

running by the numbers

I've always had a difficult relationship with numbers.

Back in school, math and I never got along very well. Math was aloof ... I was afraid. Just not a good mix. I just couldn't pick math's brain to find my own way of feeling the numbers and learning just how they work.

I was too scared to stray away from the "rules" of school math, so I gave up. Math and I simply coexisted until we didn't need to anymore.

We rarely talked for years, meeting only for the occasional checkbook encounter or comparison shopping thing.

When my oldest son reached elementary school, his math curriculum was called Everyday Math and was based on the concept that math is everywhere, all the time. We shouldn't fear math! No! We should seek it out in all its glory, every single day.

Wow! That was different ... and kind of exciting, even. Learning math alongside my son the "everyday way," I discovered a freedom from the rules of my educational yesteryear. I could break numbers down in new and exciting ways and (gasp!) figure them in my head! A miracle.

Say what you like about Everyday Math -- or say what you don't like, as many mathmaticians and scientists and even parents do -- it completely freed me. And here's why: at a stage in my life when I didn't think I could learn anything new about how numbers work, Everyday Math proved me wrong.

It was a major revelation.

I won't lie. Numbers and I still walk on eggshells, and that has crossed over into my running life. I've seen great strides in my distance and abilities in the year I've been running but I'm still a very slow runner. A gentle pace for me is a good 12 minute mile. Sometimes I can break 11 minutes, but only when the planets are aligned.

My running friend Amy, by contrast, is a speed demon. Somehow, without effort, she shaves entire minutes off her time -- averaging about 8 minutes per mile.

AND she's a numbers person, a former engineer. Of course.

I always pictured fast runners to be like Olympic sprinters: arms pumping, knees high, feet lifted. Big movements, lightning speed. My own speed attempts resembled my everyday style of running, just a whole lot bigger. For me, big movements meant big exhaustion, but not much more speed. Those numbers were getting to me again.

Recently, Amy I and enjoyed a run together during a summer getaway to a nearby island. After our warm up mile, she took off at her pace, I stayed behind at mine. I watched her run and was surprised that her movements weren't big afterall. In fact, Amy's running style was a vision of efficiency. Small movements, feet barely skimming the ground ... lightning speed!

I didn't think much about it until last weekend's long run. At mile five I got bored and decided to try running Amy-style. I shortened my movements, picked up the pace and ran like I had somehere to go.

I ran fast! I was zooming! I could literally hear the wind rushing past my ears. Another miracle.

How can this be? We aren't taught how to run, we just do it naturally. So how could I pick up the pace so noticeably by changing my style, rather than just doing it bigger?

I've yet to check the "official" numbers on my pace, but I know my last three-miler was my fastest ever. All because I changed the way I look at running.

Like my math revelation, my running revalation feels HUGE. Numbers are finally smiling at me. Could they want to be friends afterall?

I'm bridging the numbers gap, mini-miracle by mini-miracle. And it feels good.

when motivation wanes

Most of the time, running is just part of my life. Like eating, sleeping and working, running is part of the fabric of my days -- a habit that I neither question nor consider optional.

On those days, I'll never grow tired of running because the excitement I feel is like a fuel -- a supercharger. Other people use caffeine; I use running. (And then there are those who use both, but that's a different post.)

Most of the time, this is fine. More than fine; just how it's supposed to be.

But then there are those days when running begins to feel like a blip, a wrinkle smack in the middle of the smoothness of the day. I do it, of course, but I don't relish it or get excited about an upcoming run.

Then, running becomes (dare I say it?) a chore.

The supercharger needs some maintenance. Sometimes I know it's so minor, I just ride it out, like a minor scratch on the shiny fender. No one else will notice it, so why should I?

But when it hits me bad, I turn to America's favorite pass time: retail therapy. (There! I've admitted it and I'm happy to say that it feels good to get that out in the open.)

A sassy new running skirt, a pair of socks, even a headband can motivate me in the most predictable way. Strap on something new, and I've got to take it for a test run. Literally.

When I feel less like spending a chunk of money, and when a morning run is looming from an 8 p.m.-the-night-before perspective, I flip on my laptop and navigate to my iTunes library. With a 15 year old in the house, I can always count on some new music to be available and willing to join one of my running playlists.

If not, I spend three or four bucks on a few 99-cent songs, synch my iPod, and tuck it away until the morning.

If I think very hard about my need to buy something to motivate me to do what I'm supposed to be doing in the first place (taking care of my body), I realize I need a deeper attitude adjustment. I need to remember why I started running in the first place: to be healthy enough to be alive to see my children--and their children--grow up.

Too bad my life (and I suspect yours, too) is so full of conveniences (like cars) and unhealthy body-influences (like potato chips) that I even have to worry about counteracting all the harm I do each day just by living in the modern world.

And so I run. And I do plan to be alive to see my grandchildren grown, if it takes all the running skirts and iTunes in the world to get me there.

That's just how it's supposed to be.

a little friday plug for Detroit Writers ...

View my page on Detroit Writers

say it loud, say it proud

My dear friend Cindy LaFerle, a local freelance writer and the current Writer In Residence at the Royal Oak Public Library, hosted a "Writer's Life" session last evening. Understandably, the participants were geared toward getting published. They believe that this credential will put them in an elite club of "real" writers -- those who are paid for their work.

A wise panelist encouraged the group to take it slow. If you are writing now, she said, even if the only person who reads your work is your mother, you are a writer. You are doing the same work a paid writer is doing, and if you want to be published, your time will come.

An inaudible "ah ha" moment for the crowd.

And so it's the same with running. Sue, my friend and fellow Detroit Marathon relay team member told me she believes the very act of telling others that she is a runner makes her a runner.

Even if others would say that she just jogs ...or walks a few minutes of each mile...or isn't really "serious" about running -- because after all, she doens't fit the mold.

Runners, the logic goes, are lean, hungry marathoners who run daily, year round, never succumbing to injury or apathy or a busy schedule. Runners can torch a mile in less time than it takes most of us to eat a bagel.

And that's so not true, says my friend Sue. And I agree.

If you lace up your shoes and hit the pavement -- once a week or once a day -- you are a runner. If you sweat on purpose while moving your body from point A to point B, you are a runner. If you stretch and limber your muscles with the wisdom that they will work for you the next time you run, you are a runner.

And for Sue, simply stating the truth makes it true.

Anyone who runs and tells others about the experience -- or is simply caught in the act of running -- often gets promoted to a supreme fitness pedestal by those who, with a longing look, say they wish they could run, but [insert excuse here].

But I believe running isn't out of the realm of possibility for any of us, barring those with true unresolved physical challenges.

In a world of people looking for the best health, the most rewarding experiences, the challenges which keep us sharp, there simply isn't room for the elitist "RUNNER" label society is so keen to slap on.

Because every one of us is a runner, just waiting to take that first step.

hybrids are very quiet when they creep up on you

There are a lot of strong feelings in the running community about iPods. Many certified courses don't allow runners to wear headphones, saying "runners should be alert and aware of their surroundings at all times."

Personally, I can run without music. But I really prefer to run with music. I even play a little game with myself and use my iPod as a reward for getting through the most difficult first couple miles of a run. I huff and pant and grimace, all the while reminding myself that when I get to two miles, or three, I can have my precious iPod.

I'm like a junkie waiting for her fix.

But music does make the second half of my run so much more enjoyable. Or maybe just getting through that tough first part --- where my body is fighting me for all its worth to stop, turn around and walk straight home, shut the door to my house and never come out again until I promise to cease such foolish abuse --- is reward enough.

By comparison, the rest is a piece of cake.

At any rate, I really do get giddy when the time comes to unfurl my green headphones from around my equally green nano, squint at the ever so tiny R or L to figure out which bud goes in which ear (does it really matter, anyway?) and get that click wheel moving.

Ahhhh. It's like a cool drink of water.

And that's what this blog is for me. A refreshing look at running, a recounting of the pains and the joys of every step. There's always something new. Hopefully, my words will be as reviving for you as they are for me. Join in. Tell me what you love (and hate) about running.

Writing with your feet is optional.