12.5 Miles

Wow. This weekend was a bummer. Grief, disappointment, anger, resentment... everything was bowling over. I'm not lying when I say that I spent much of Saturday curled up on a futon with a 12 inch cheese pizza by my side (er, in my stomach).

I'm lonely. It's easy as that. Even with my working out, taking classes, trying to better myself bullshit... I have a big gaping hole where friendships should be. I cant remember the last meaningful conversation I've had with anyone that wasn't family or SOB. Even worse, I have no rememberance of just getting a drink with a friend in the last four or five months.

I've been trying hard to change this. Working out, changing my outward appearance, and forcing happiness has given me some social courage to try new things and break some restrictive limbs. Even with my trying, I still find myself without a solid friend of my own in the city (or burbs). 

Yeah, I know. Enough of that.

Either way, my weekend was a lot of self-pity, woe-is-me style mourning.

On Sunday, the morning after my pizza escapades that put me at a staggering 2200 calories, I laced up my Mizuno Waves and wandered quite mindlessly out the door. Just like the night before, nothing felt good. My legs ached, my hips were tight, shoulders tense.

I had 12.5 miles to run before I could go back inside, in my cocoon of blankets and food.

First three or four miles, all I could do was whine. I've decided to practice running without music during my long runs, so all I had to listen to was the sound of me mentally analyzing each and every relationship in between the sounds of traffic and seagulls. Zen running? Yeah right.

At mile 4.75, I see my first glimmer of hope that I'm almost at my turning point:

Even though I use that as a reference that I'm almost there... it also means I have the hardest part of my run left. The next 2 1/2 miles are on horrible concrete, no shade or trees, uneven paths, and crowded with tourists and other runners/bikers. My focus turned from "my life is horrible" to "this run sucks ass. i just want a cheeseburger or those pizza leftovers."

It's funny how occupying your mind with how much a run sucks will take you away from thinking about how everything else in your life seemingly blows. Ah depression, you are a silly little bitch.

Anyways, I hit 6.25 miles around the Ohio Street Beach and I begin my turn around, back down the path of concrete and Chinese tourist Hell. At this point, I'm in a zone. It's an angry zone full of profanities addressed at dog owners, small children on big wheels, and unafraid city birds... but hey, a zone is a zone. Miles 8 and 9 pass unnoticed by anybody but my legs and the poor people running or biking next to an increasingly sweaty me.

And my ship in the fog appears. Ah yes, I forgot to mention that at some point, God, in his infinite wisdom, turned on his cheap ass fog machine to obstruct any beautiful scenery I may have been able to entertain myself with. Even the lake, although a mere 20 feet from me, was only visible by the floating garbage popping out of the white haze.

Anyways, the ship. It's there and it's telling me to rest my legs, call a cab, and give it up. This ain't going well. I take it up on the rest of legs portion but head back once I realize how expensive it would be to take a cab from North Beach to my apartment and how much walking I'd have to do for the nearest cab accessible location. Plus, I wouldn't wish my lingering BO on any cabbie in America.

I'm moving again. This time, much slower. "Fuck" goes my left shoe. "You" goes my right shoe. It's a chorus of anger. Even my usually submissive back and shoulders are starting to scream at me. I put on my music. But on shuffle, all I get is Mozart and some Amy Grant. Mental note: remove anything that used to belong to my aunt off of my itunes asap.

At one point, somewhere between mile 10 and the end, I sat down on the damp grass and collapsed. What the hell am I doing at 7 in the morning? Oh, I know. I'm trying to push myself too hard, too fast... just so I can run some race. Just so I can pretend that I am accomplishing something. I'm punishing myself. I'm not loving this. I'm hating every step.

But it's only a mile and a half back. And I've got a bed, a boyfriend, and 6 inches of left over pizza waiting for me.

I get up, finish it. Under 3 hours, even with my breaks. Runner's high hits me about twenty minutes into my ice bath. Even with doubt, impatience, aches and pains, and an emotional void sucking me... I still did it. I ran 12.5 miles. I did it with tourists and small children blocking my uneven, foggy path home. It's enough to numb the rest of it. 

Remeber When I LOVED It?

I awoke to the sun shining, birds twirpping (twittering?), and the breeze blowing through my window. Perfect weather... if it wasn't 5am and time to run.

4-5 times a week, I do this to myself. I sleep in parts of my workout outfit and lay out the rest of my gear the night before. Everything is in the living room so I dont wake up slumbering SOB. My Garmin 305 is charged, my Ipod is synched up to my ever rotating playlist, and I have the bad weather gear nearby in case. It's all routine.

My alarm goes off right at 5:02am and I typically roll out like a rodeo clown from a barrel. I'm out the door at 5:20 and stretching outside on the benches by 5:30. After a couple minutes of searching for a satellite, my Garmin locates me, and I'm off.

My pace is always much faster on my first run interval... typically at 9:40-9:50 min/mile. In my head, I kid you not, I'm counting down seconds until my walk break. When I get bored, I make a deal with myself that if I make it to the next lamp post in 5 seconds, I'll check my watch. Oh, and I do some heavy duty people watching. Nothing like hot ass runner watching in the wee morning hours.

This goes on...and on...and on until 2.5 miles or around 30 minutes. I'd go longer, but I just dont have the time. 

I'm just here to get it done. Train. Move my butt. Make it easy... whatever. This certainly isn't a Nike ad quality workout. It's just work.

Nike: King of Inspiration Marketing.

And if you read through all of that, I'm surprised. I'm even boring myself. And that's the point. These training runs are not important or interesting to me anymore. When people ask how my morning runs go or how I could wake up that early to run on some gravel path, I lack the enthusiasm I once had. I dont share details of how my pace was or if I got any hellos from hobos. I just did it. It's become a no motivation, low energy, get-it-done-and-shower kind of deal.

I once read that people who do sports or work on their fitness should be proud. I mean, how many people are honestly up at 5am and running? How many do it in rain, snow, fog, wind? How many do it, period? In this city, there are 2.6 million people- 239,000 are my age, half are female. I've already bested the majority of those people by just stepping foot outside the door and walking at more than a 19 minute mile.

But I certainly dont feel like it's an accomplishment anymore. It's become so routine and mundane. Even moments of pure beauty, when the sun is rising off the lake or birds seemingly chase me down the path, I cant find energy in it. It's all tired and old news.

I'm blaming it on my current relapse of depression. Currently, everything is nothing to me. Just a big blank empty slate that I am not willing to fill up. Maybe running, my once favorite thing in the world, has fallen to it. I'm hoping my 12.5 mile long run on Sunday will help me get it back. I never feel better than when I hit a new accomplishment or when my leg muscles feel like they are peeling off the bone.

In other news... I'm selling two or four PAUL MCCARTNEY tickets for his July 31st, Wrigley Field show. You want them? Bid on Ebay!

Conversations With the King

Dear Burger King:

Let me just straight out say that I do not like you. There. I said it. I remember trying one of your burgers as a child and thinking, "WTF?!? What are these little seeds on my bun and why is this thing cooked differently?!?" My opinions of you have ebbed and flowed with my taste buds, but it's been towards the negative side since infancy.

Why you are the only fast food joint with a free parking lot is beyond me. I'd love to have given my (ok, SOB's) money to the Panera or even Einstein Bagels, but spending an equal amount of money in quarters to park as it would to buy a sandwich is even more idiotic then your hamburger buns with seeds on them.

So, we drove around till we found how to get in to your deceptive parking lot. In my head, I repeated over and over again: "just getting the mini-cinnamon buns. just getting the mini-cinnamon buns. just getting the mini-cinnamon buns..."

Damn you and your stupidly colored ads. I knew better than to believe your pictures. No way could a $3 sausage-egg-cheese-devil'spoo biscuit look like a sandwich of the gods.


This story does not end happily. In fact, it ends with me devouring that majority of the said sandwich and an equally greasy small order of some tater tots nonsense. Oh, and then spending a good 20 minutes balking at the sodium and saturated fat levels:
My breakfast of the King= 628 cals, 46 carbs (Atkins-forgive me!!!), 43 fat, 131 cholesterol, 1586 sodium

You got me King. I'm officially terrified of you and what you do to my little sense of self-reserve. If I wasn't already freaked out by your nonsensical ads and mascots.



Now that it's all over, I am going back to my daily smoothie breakfast, and I will punish myself with a hill run tomorrow morning and a 40 minute ab/lower body breaker segment tonight.

Yours, regrettably:
Chelles

Get At It

Wow. Gone since March.

Well, dont I feel like a fool.

The last time I wrote, I had just finished running my first 5K of the year. Since then, I ran a 10K and another 5K, moved to a different (and more awesome) neighborhood, officially started living with my SOB (significant other Brendan), and learned a whole bunch of awesome sauce things about myself that are too plentiful to list.

The one thing I haven't done, though? Lost weight. Me, High Empress of Consistency, hasn't managed to make the scales budge. AT ALL.

Oh sure, my 5K time is 5-6 minutes faster, run 11 miles straight, swim three different strokes for 300 meters without a rest, and constantly beat everyone in the mileage challenge at my regular spin class.

But that scale, yeah, it's a fickle bitch.

It hasn't been without trying. I mean, my schedule is pretty awesome:
Monday: 120 minutes of high intensity cardio (run, hill climbs, spin class or by myself, row machines, kickboxing, elliptical of doom, etc.)
Tuesday: 5am recovery run, 40 minutes of full body strength training
Wednesday: 60 minute swim training and possibly a spin class if I get there on time and can be persuaded by the teacher.
Thursday: 5am speed run, 40 minutes of more strength training
Friday: 60 minutes of yoga, pilates, and walk or hill runs
Saturday: SPIN CLASS FROM HELLLLLL
Sunday: Long run of 5+ miles or races and another 40 minutes of strength

I devote over 500 minutes of working this body till it's covered in sweat and screaming for a break. I've pushed it to some insane (and often smelly) limits.

But nada results.

I need a cookie. Fine. I want it. Damnit.

How's my eating... well, you can check out my sparkpage for that info. Just look at my food logs. I get in some decent food. I'm working on more veggies and less carbs thing. It's a process, I hear.

So, what am I doing back in blogger world? Well. On spark, I sadly have to censor myself. Sometimes I want to use the "f" or similar singular letter'd words, but get the big error button when I try to submit it. Other times, I want to talk more about my personal life, but I feel a bit off doing it there. Sure, I'll keep doing my weekly updates, but I'm hoping to keep this ol' blog alive. This is my space to vent about the joys of weight loss and fitness training. I've got some big goals to accomplish, like running the Chicago Rock n' Roll Half in August, and this is my space to be like "fuck it, I wanna run freeeee."

Another confession before I hit the "publish post" button? See, I have this thing called depression. Me and 9.5% of America suffer or make ourselves suffer through it. It's dark hole suckage and it sadly encompasses more than my personal head space. It grips and pulls at everyone and thing close to me until we are all nothing but couch dwellers, sheet hiders, and stagnant robots. It's been over 10 years since my diagnosis, and yet I still haven't found the perfect mixture of coping methods. Running myself in to a frenzy and punishing myself in spin classes have oddly helped me over the last year. But, lately, I've felt more detached, more tired, and more nothing. There will be times when this blog will be nothing but a space for me to be a whiny bitch, and I apologize in advance. I know that my depression lasts for months at a time and then will go away, so just know, it's temporary. Seasons change, and so does my mind. We are all evolving creatures.

To sum this awkward rambling of a blog post up, if you read these furthermore posts, feel free to comment. I dont expect it, but welcome it. Give me feedback. Yell at me and my confessions. If I take more than one rest day in a row, send me hate mail. And if I eat more than 2000 calories a day, please, feel free to come on over to the Up and Up apartment complex and steal my bucket of fried chicken from under me.

She Dreams Of Running a 5K

Thanks Matt and Kim for that little bit of inspiration.

I know that I rarely write about my fitness activities here. If you want to keep up with my 400 minimum minutes of fitness per week, check out my blog at: http://www.sparkpeople.com/mypage_public_journal.asp?id=CHELLES_BELLS I update it at least once a week with my training schedule, recaps on runs, and general musings about my activities.

Since I've become more active, I've been more and more willing to try new things. I've become a spin class devotee, a weekly swimmer, and have gotten back to weekly yoga sessions. But most importantly, I've re-learned how to love running.

I began running over two years ago. I completed the famous Couch to 5K program in record time and began running 20-30 minutes every day... which I quickly learned was the fastest way to injure yourself.

*Also not helping: My inability to read the warning signs and buy properly fitted running shoes. Going out to a shoe carnival is not the same as going to a running or athletic store, asking for them to fit you and check your gait, and getting shoes that are made for how your stride forms.

So, there I was, about 3 months in to running and I was stuck on the injury report. Over the next couple of years, my friends became more active. More and more ran local 5K races, some even progressing on to 10Ks or marathons. I browsed through their facebook pictures and blog recaps like they were pictures of the hot girl my ex was now dating. Seriously, it was all jealous rage.

Lack of properly fitted pants got me back on track. I wanted to run again, and I wanted to do it right. I started off slowly, very slowly. And I tried new programs that promoted rest days and walk breaks (i.e. Jeff Galloway's marathon and race training books). I got a subscription to Runner's World and a new pair of shoes when my old ones ran out of mileage.

And with each step, I became that girl who ran outside in the winter. The one with her headphones blasting Passion Pit and U2. The one who woke up before the sun so she could have quality alone time with the sidewalk. I ran up and down beaches, to little lighthouses on piers, on the tracks around parks, and down alleyways. I ran slow on most days and then fast when I could get time on a treadmill.

All the while, I had one race on my mind: The St. Paddy's Day 5K on March 20th.

It was a typical March day- windy, chilly, and potential for rain. Seeing all the other runners around made me only more nervous. But I kept repeating my mantra in my head:


I even took a typical Chelles-esque picture (smiling with mouth open, two thumbs up):


Without much warning, the race started. Well, actually, there was a ton of warning. I'm wearing #24, but that's 24 out of 6000+ runners, walkers, stroller pushers, and dogs. Just getting to the start line was a push. I couldn't start my run for 2 or 3 minutes because of the amount of people. And when I did, I was weaving around obstacles like leprechaun costumes, cancer survivors holding hands, and several large dogs. Near a half of a mile, we went through a medium length tunnel. It was so congested, I barley walked... my time was dwindling.

The next two miles were a blur. This wasn't my first 5K, so the distance was familiar. I just took my strides and did my intervals like a good Galloway student. And when my shins started acting up, I repeated my motto and pushed through.

Near a quarter of a mile left to go, B was there... taking pictures. He basically ran with me to the end. None of these pictures are flattering (my jacket is huge on me now... but my legs look skinny!), so here's the one that doesn't repulse me the most:

Reminder to self: work on posture near the end of runs.

And at a certain time that was about 3 minutes over my average, normal 5K time... I finished. I beat around 400 other people, so that's comforting to my overly competitive self. I rewarded my efforts with a rain soaked banana. And then I won a sweet Lord Voldermort tshirt.

But more importantly, I finished what I had started 3 years ago. And now I can continue working on training for that half. I'll try to remember to post more about fitness here as it is a big part of my life.

Simplify: 50 Things

I've been moving from here and there for awhile now. In fact, I've been in 4 different apartments in three years. It's meant that I've practically lived out of half empty boxes and stored my things carelessly.

Today, I signed my fifth lease. That's right... I'm on the move again- to a literal, deluxe apartment in the sky. Right next to the lake, includes access to a roof top deck and fitness room, and will be shared with my wonderful boyfriend, B. The only downside is that it is quite small.

I need to come to terms with the word: simplify.

When I came across a blog challenge to rid myself of 50 things, I jumped on it. Since I have another month and a quarter to pack and move, I have plenty of time to sort it out, but this is the place that I want to document those 50 things. If you see something you like, holla atcha girl and I will arrange for you to pick it up or have it sent to you. If not, it's being donated (when possible) and tossed (when necessary) before May 1st.

Now, for the list:

50. Books- My Twilight book series, 4 monologue books for women and duets (seriously, these are great books, but I dont want to get back in to acting), Making It on Broadway, a campy erotica book, and John Updike's "Marry Me."

49. Music Books and Collections- Suzuki Violin School Piano Accompaniments Vl 1, Guitar for the Small Fry, Richard Pick's Interludes for Guitar, The Best Wedding Songs Ever (70 popular vocal and piano songs), Amy Grant's Greatest Hits (I have no idea why I have this), Bastein's Piano for Adults Book 1, Bastien's Scales Chords, & Apreggios, Schaum's Fingerpower Level 2. If you are a music teacher, I would be willing to donate my West Side Story or Les Miserables song collection books.

48. A broken beyond repair computer. Would give to someone interested in computer parts.

47. Authentic Spanish maraca and potentially a working, but 40+ year old clarinet for a music classroom ONLY

46. Two computer carry-on bags. One is a red sleeve and the other is a black and multi-colored star carrying case.

45. Wallets- a red hard case, a yellowish gold soft case, and a purple (thin) hardcase. All are from target and everything works. Will throw in old J-pass, some business cards, and two empty cta passes!

44. Bags- a black athletic bag, a large red duffle bag, and a broken black luggage bag with wheels

43. Blankets- A silky deep purple twin sized blanket that's great for the summer and Fall

42. (I'll continue updating this and re-posting links as I go through)

I Found...

I've been really in a writing slump lately. My life has been work -> dinner -> gym -> tv -> bed for the last couple of months. I have been writing diligently in my fitness blog at sparkpeople, but really, I doubt you want to read about my love affair with my strength training program or how I magically transcend in to an outside layer of Hell when I'm on the elliptical for more than a half hour.

And originally, this post was supposed to be about Valentine's Day. I had a great one, thanks for asking. It was just what I wanted- informal but special at a new restaurant (and I didn't pay!). We did tapas- yummy, seafood-filled, mousse covered tapas.

As I was getting ready for a special night out with boyfriend, I decided it was time to put away my tired old rings and grab a rarely worn sparkler.

My two older rings consist of a claddagh ring I've had since my freshman year of high school. I'm not Irish- not even close. But it was trendy to wear one as a sign of your relationship status. My other ring is my parent's engagement ring. I'm not sure I wear it, or why I wear it every day. That's something you could psychoanalyze for me in the comment section.

As I was rummaging through my old jewelry box, I came across something I didn't recognize immediately. It was a pretty silver band with four or five aquamarine stones. Nothing significant or stunning, and to be quite honest, it didn't even match my dress.

But after a few moments of wearing it, the significance of what I was trying on hit me. This piece of jewelry was given to me as a promise ring almost 3 years ago. It was a ring I never, ever took off... until the very end.

The last day I wore it was the night of my sister's wedding. I still remember the long drive home in which, being in tears, I flung it into a dusty cup holder where it sat forgotten for about a month. Fragments of food, dirt, and drops of soda covered it as I spent my summer in a complete state of disarray- moving from one place to the next, one "relationship" to another.

When I sold my car to my cousin months later, I found it underneath a stale mountain dew. It certainly had seen its share of hot days in the sun and many bottoms of various canisters. (editor's note: metaphor much?). I remember bringing it in to my new apartment, washing it off, and then calling the giver for one of the last times.

For over a year, it sat in the back of a jewelry box, never getting a second glance. And when it finally had its moment of consideration, it did nothing but bring up cold, dead moments from a relationship not meant to be. Without a second thought, it went back to where it came from- back to the bottom of a filled up ring drawer of a wooden jewelry box.

What does one do with a ring like that? It's value is pretty low, nothing worth the hassle of selling. I know my mom would suggest taking the blue stones out and making it in to another piece of jewelry, but I dont have the money or effort for that.

And to be quite honest, I dont have the heart to just throw it out. This ring is symbolic of my first love and real relationship. It represents 4 years of college. 4 years of fights, plans, trips, kisses, apartments/dorms, bedrooms, and couches. And while it was given to me with the intention that those 4 years would be everlasting, it just wasn't. It was a stereotypical college romance that came to end as poetically as a rhyme scheme.

Anyone want a ring?