Adventures in Cross-Training

So my husband, who likes to pretend he’s my coach and jokes about getting a gut, mustache and track-suit to really play the part, has been on me about my stupid-stubborn insistence on running through pain. Still: after nearly 4 years of running in drizzle, I see the sun and I want to run. Badly.

The sun was out yesterday morning, and with joyful anticipation, I left the house and headed down the street. And a mile in, I turned around (his voice in my head) and headed home. So much for that.

With the goal of fitting into my bridesmaid dress this Saturday (and -this is important- doing so without giving up beer), I have moved into the land of cross-training. I tried the pool at the Y again yesterday afternoon. Since a perk of fieldwork is a very flexible schedule, I always show up around 2, the quietest hour in the day. I invariably get the water to myself, at least for a while, and I swim slowly and dreamily, imagining that the Y is my home and this is my private pool (with requisite awkward lifeguard). Yesterday the weird fantasy lasted about 45 minutes, and then a young man with shaggy hipster hair jumped in. Despite it being an empty four-lane pool (my four-lane pool), the lane he plunged into was right next to mine. Seriously?

And for the next 15 minutes I was the sacrificial lamb to this wild lion of a kid. He would wait until I started a new lap, then take off and try to pass me. Sometimes he was successful, and sometimes he actually wasn’t. Maybe he wasn’t trying? It remains a mystery, and I will only gloat for a minute. In any case, it was a great hour, and it made me very tired.

To keep things interesting, I thought I would try a spinning class today (which I did once, long ago, and hated). I wasn’t awake in time, so I had my own Jay-Z-fueled bike workout back at the Y. And as much as I dislike anything stationary- especially elliptical trainers- sometimes it’s just nice to close one’s  eyes and move and think about things without the fear of careening off a road or running into a building. I did that for quite a while, and I imagine I probably looked kind of creepy to everyone nearby. Not that they noticed: it turns out that 10 am is when all the retired cops and firefighters show up, looking a lot like the coach stereotype I mentioned- mustaches, guts, swishy pants… The neighborhood is growing on me, if you can’t tell, and somehow it starts at the Y.