the spin room at the jcc has a few new posters on its walls, and they all mention the word pain.
I find this interesting.
there's the lance armstrong quote:
"Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever."
well, I think this statement has come back to bite him in the butt: obviously his version of quitting does not last forever.
and then there's a quote from frank schleck:
"Pain is worth it. You have to go as hard as you can, for as long as you can."
obviously, these two elite professional athletes have endured a great deal of pain in their lives. both having to do with training and not, and also, both physical pain, and not.
we all get significant doses of pain administered to us throughout our lifetimes: that's just the way life seems to work.
but the self-chosen pain of physical activity is a fascinating thing to think about. what is it about us humans that drives us to push ourselves so far, so hard? there are endurance races out there where people run 100 miles on trails, and mountain bike rides that last 24 hours. we choose to push ourselves to exhaustion, and then beyond . . . why do we do this?
I can feel pain during an hour-long spin class. I can feel pain during a simple yoga class. I can even feel pain during a set of reps in the weight room.
I feel it, I bear it, I mentally steel myself to survive it, and then I come out the other side.
I endure.
and for some reason, I like this process.
I know it is making me stronger, and I am almost more interested in the mental strength than the physical strength. I view physical strength as a nice thing, pleasing to my self-image, part of my "growing old gracefully" plan. but the mental strength is the fulcrum upon which the rest of my life balances. if I can accept the difficulties, the challenges, the sorrow and pain, knowing that I can bear them, outlive them, survive them, then I have won. I have tested myself, pushed my boundaries past the level of resistance I thought I had, and I have proven my own potency.
today's pain came during a couple standing sprints, and then on a long hill climb, and again on some circuits. I push myself because I know I can do it. I accept the pain because I know each time I do, I become a more patient, tolerant, accepting person.
I'm not a sprinter, a racer, a fastest-to-the-top person.
I am deep and determined, and in it for the long haul.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
mastery, humility, truth
I could have not said anything.
I could have left it alone, let you continue to think that I had mastered plumbing 101.
but that would create a lie, a lie of omission, something my girls have been learning about this year.
yes, my sink drain pipe is (and I am debating how to phrase this): either leaking again, or still leaking. the former seems more accurate, but then again, so does the latter. regardless, I have an issue.
and I'm hoping it's just that I need some of that plumber's tape stuff. I haven't yet done my research on the internet, so I'm not really sure, but I'm thinking that has to be the problem. pull the slip joint back off, wrap a little tape around the end of the pipe, then tighten the joint back together: presto! I'll be back in business!
I hope.
this is how I deal with cycling issues as well. I learn so much better by doing: I am just not as adept at applying what I've only read about, or (worse) what I've only heard. I need to do. and I don't need to always do it right the first time, although that would be lovely. to do it, then do it over, then perhaps even do it a third time, is all okay with me, as long as I make progress each time. the "P" word is creeping up on me: practice, practice, practice.
for instance, I am much more efficient at degreasing and lubing my bike now than I was a year ago. at this point, I know what I'm doing, I have an understanding of why I'm doing it, and I have not only the tools but a systematic way of approaching it. these all converge to simplify the task and make it bearable.
and the flat tire thing: each time I get a flat and have to deal with it, I get a little bit better. better at the physical job of fixing it, better at understanding why it happened, and better at handling the trauma and drama associated with it.
the mature part of me is grateful for all of these experiences, knowing that they are strengthening me, making me more capable and compassionate at the same time. these events give me opportunity to stand on my own, be the effective, efficient person I am at my core.
the rest of me, however, still wishes someone else would just fix the darn thing for me, so I don't have to spend more time making stupid mistakes and being frustrated.
with a towel on the floor catching the drips.
I could have left it alone, let you continue to think that I had mastered plumbing 101.
but that would create a lie, a lie of omission, something my girls have been learning about this year.
yes, my sink drain pipe is (and I am debating how to phrase this): either leaking again, or still leaking. the former seems more accurate, but then again, so does the latter. regardless, I have an issue.
and I'm hoping it's just that I need some of that plumber's tape stuff. I haven't yet done my research on the internet, so I'm not really sure, but I'm thinking that has to be the problem. pull the slip joint back off, wrap a little tape around the end of the pipe, then tighten the joint back together: presto! I'll be back in business!
I hope.
this is how I deal with cycling issues as well. I learn so much better by doing: I am just not as adept at applying what I've only read about, or (worse) what I've only heard. I need to do. and I don't need to always do it right the first time, although that would be lovely. to do it, then do it over, then perhaps even do it a third time, is all okay with me, as long as I make progress each time. the "P" word is creeping up on me: practice, practice, practice.
for instance, I am much more efficient at degreasing and lubing my bike now than I was a year ago. at this point, I know what I'm doing, I have an understanding of why I'm doing it, and I have not only the tools but a systematic way of approaching it. these all converge to simplify the task and make it bearable.
and the flat tire thing: each time I get a flat and have to deal with it, I get a little bit better. better at the physical job of fixing it, better at understanding why it happened, and better at handling the trauma and drama associated with it.
the mature part of me is grateful for all of these experiences, knowing that they are strengthening me, making me more capable and compassionate at the same time. these events give me opportunity to stand on my own, be the effective, efficient person I am at my core.
the rest of me, however, still wishes someone else would just fix the darn thing for me, so I don't have to spend more time making stupid mistakes and being frustrated.
with a towel on the floor catching the drips.
Friday, December 19, 2008
mastery
today I fixed a leaking pipe underneath my bathroom sink.
it was a long process---I think my daughters first noticed the leak about 8 days ago---but it is now complete.
and I feel darn good about it.
because it was a process, and I worked my way through it. I didn't give up, though I certainly wanted to, and I made it out the other side.
this is how it went:
mom, the bathroom sink is leaking.
where?
underneath, you know, onto the wood container that sits under the sink.
oh, crud. sigh.
I go in, and I see the neat pile of toilet paper the girls have put on the floor after moving the container aside. it's wet alright.
I inspect the pipe, and the drip is coming off the bottom of the u-shaped pipe (the trap, I learned). there is no hole in the pipe, and the whole darn thing is wet, so I have no idea where the leak is coming from. I sigh again, leave the toilet paper on the floor and put everything I can find from the bathroom counter into the sink: hand towels, (unplugged) hairdryer, brushes, anything nearby so that my kids will get the idea not to use the sink.
I think about calling the plumber.
I wish the sink weren't leaking.
I go to bed.
the next day I replace the toilet paper with a bowl, after testing the sink to make sure it's still leaking. no magical solutions during the night, no plumbing fairy visits.
I google "bathroom sink leak repair," and find diagrams that match what my plumbing looks like, and still have no clue what's wrong, but feel that it's possible I may be able to fix it.
after the sink has been dry a while, I check the pipe again, and this time, determine where the water is leaking from: the joint at the top of the trap in the back, where it looks like the rubber washer has hardened and split.
I may be able to fix this.
I ignore the issue for a couple days while I deal with work, kids, Christmas, stuff, life.
I wish I were the kind of person who never had to deal with leaking bathroom pipes. who either had a husband to do that, or who had oodles of money so they didn't think twice about calling the plumber to come fix it.
I realize I am neither of those people.
I try to find a tool to loosen the joints so I can see exactly what's wrong with that washer, and plan my trip to the hardware store.
I don't have a tool that will do it.
I call my kids' dad, and ask if I can borrow such a tool.
when he brings the kids home that evening, he brings me an entire tool box.
I take the tool he has suggested I use into the bathroom, where it sits on the floor by the bowl that holds the water drips. for 5 days.
I finally try taking the thing apart, getting myself disgustingly dirty and scraping the palm of my hand, splattering gross sink-drain pipe water on the floor.
I get it apart, and realize that it's the joint itself that has split.
I take the trap AND the pipe attached to it off---minor struggle involved---and put them in a bag to take to the hardware store with me so I get the right replacement part the first time.
the guy at Ace finds me the exact $1.99 slip joint I need, and I make my purchase.
I come home, and
I FIX MY SINK.
in text lingo: OMG. I did it.
and now I tell myself, it wasn't so bad.
I have mastered another skill.
and what, pray tell, does this have to do with cycling, you ask? ah, it's all about mastery. about getting better at something. about competence and confidence. about moving along the continuum from "don't know what I'm doing" toward "have sense of mastery."
we humans crave this movement, whether we acknowledge that craving or not; I will go so far as to say it's in our DNA. we are meant to grow and learn, to challenge ourselves, fail, and succeed.
today, my bathroom sink.
tomorrow . . .
it was a long process---I think my daughters first noticed the leak about 8 days ago---but it is now complete.
and I feel darn good about it.
because it was a process, and I worked my way through it. I didn't give up, though I certainly wanted to, and I made it out the other side.
this is how it went:
mom, the bathroom sink is leaking.
where?
underneath, you know, onto the wood container that sits under the sink.
oh, crud. sigh.
I go in, and I see the neat pile of toilet paper the girls have put on the floor after moving the container aside. it's wet alright.
I inspect the pipe, and the drip is coming off the bottom of the u-shaped pipe (the trap, I learned). there is no hole in the pipe, and the whole darn thing is wet, so I have no idea where the leak is coming from. I sigh again, leave the toilet paper on the floor and put everything I can find from the bathroom counter into the sink: hand towels, (unplugged) hairdryer, brushes, anything nearby so that my kids will get the idea not to use the sink.
I think about calling the plumber.
I wish the sink weren't leaking.
I go to bed.
the next day I replace the toilet paper with a bowl, after testing the sink to make sure it's still leaking. no magical solutions during the night, no plumbing fairy visits.
I google "bathroom sink leak repair," and find diagrams that match what my plumbing looks like, and still have no clue what's wrong, but feel that it's possible I may be able to fix it.
after the sink has been dry a while, I check the pipe again, and this time, determine where the water is leaking from: the joint at the top of the trap in the back, where it looks like the rubber washer has hardened and split.
I may be able to fix this.
I ignore the issue for a couple days while I deal with work, kids, Christmas, stuff, life.
I wish I were the kind of person who never had to deal with leaking bathroom pipes. who either had a husband to do that, or who had oodles of money so they didn't think twice about calling the plumber to come fix it.
I realize I am neither of those people.
I try to find a tool to loosen the joints so I can see exactly what's wrong with that washer, and plan my trip to the hardware store.
I don't have a tool that will do it.
I call my kids' dad, and ask if I can borrow such a tool.
when he brings the kids home that evening, he brings me an entire tool box.
I take the tool he has suggested I use into the bathroom, where it sits on the floor by the bowl that holds the water drips. for 5 days.
I finally try taking the thing apart, getting myself disgustingly dirty and scraping the palm of my hand, splattering gross sink-drain pipe water on the floor.
I get it apart, and realize that it's the joint itself that has split.
I take the trap AND the pipe attached to it off---minor struggle involved---and put them in a bag to take to the hardware store with me so I get the right replacement part the first time.
the guy at Ace finds me the exact $1.99 slip joint I need, and I make my purchase.
I come home, and
I FIX MY SINK.
in text lingo: OMG. I did it.
and now I tell myself, it wasn't so bad.
I have mastered another skill.
and what, pray tell, does this have to do with cycling, you ask? ah, it's all about mastery. about getting better at something. about competence and confidence. about moving along the continuum from "don't know what I'm doing" toward "have sense of mastery."
we humans crave this movement, whether we acknowledge that craving or not; I will go so far as to say it's in our DNA. we are meant to grow and learn, to challenge ourselves, fail, and succeed.
today, my bathroom sink.
tomorrow . . .
Thursday, December 18, 2008
life uncommon
heard on my ipod this morning:
And lend your voices only
To sounds of freedom
No longer lend your strength
To that which you wish
To be free from
Fill your lives
With love and bravery
And you shall lead
A life uncommon
life uncommon, by Jewel, a very uncommon person herself.
what a great anthem, what a powerful way to face the world.
that's all I have to say today, for anything else I might add would only serve to diffuse her message.
And lend your voices only
To sounds of freedom
No longer lend your strength
To that which you wish
To be free from
Fill your lives
With love and bravery
And you shall lead
A life uncommon
life uncommon, by Jewel, a very uncommon person herself.
what a great anthem, what a powerful way to face the world.
that's all I have to say today, for anything else I might add would only serve to diffuse her message.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
what it's all about
a friend said to me today, I think I'm pretty selfish, I think mostly of me. I should be thinking more outward. maybe on a friday I should go help at the homeless shelter, instead of heading to alta to ski. maybe it should be more about other people and less about me.
the other night I received the best gift of the season, and it will warm my heart for I don't know how long:
one of the people my kids do this "secret elf" 12-days of Christmas thing for is a man who lives a few doors up the street, an older man who lives by himself. two nights ago he left a card and a wrapped present sitting by his door, waiting for my kids, the envelope addressed to "my secret elves."
the present was a box of our favorite yummy cookies (those pirouline, long skinny wafer tubes filled with heavenly stuff inside), which we will lovingly devour. but the card was my gift of the season, for on it he wrote,
I can't tell you how much it has meant to me, to be included in your holiday season.
life needs balance, and skiing is a vital part of my friend's life. it provides exercise and--more importantly--stress relief for him. but if he knew what it felt like to receive the kind of a gift I received from that card, he might choose to ski a lot less this season.
the other night I received the best gift of the season, and it will warm my heart for I don't know how long:
one of the people my kids do this "secret elf" 12-days of Christmas thing for is a man who lives a few doors up the street, an older man who lives by himself. two nights ago he left a card and a wrapped present sitting by his door, waiting for my kids, the envelope addressed to "my secret elves."
the present was a box of our favorite yummy cookies (those pirouline, long skinny wafer tubes filled with heavenly stuff inside), which we will lovingly devour. but the card was my gift of the season, for on it he wrote,
I can't tell you how much it has meant to me, to be included in your holiday season.
life needs balance, and skiing is a vital part of my friend's life. it provides exercise and--more importantly--stress relief for him. but if he knew what it felt like to receive the kind of a gift I received from that card, he might choose to ski a lot less this season.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
relax your gaze
tuesday, yoga day.
I walked into the building with just a spattering of huge white flakes making their way down from the dark sky.
I walked out to 2 inches of snow on the ground, on my car, sticking to my felt boots.
and it just kept coming, and coming, and sticking, billions of crystals packing themselves into each others space and forming an even, thick carpet across my world.
I am still resisting my new yoga teacher, but only by centimeters now, no longer by the inches and feet of the past. I miss miguel, I miss that workout, but I am teaching myself to accept what is and embrace it, for one never knows the hidden benefit of doing so until one does so.
right?
we breathe in yoga, we stretch and gently push, we align and square hips and drop shoulders and lean into poses. at times my muscles quiver, then shake, and I occasionally lose my balance. then I inhale, reposition myself, exhale, and begin again.
we are often guided to relax our gaze. now, I don't really know what this means. I don't think this is a skill we learn growing up, like tossing a ball or shaking hands or even standing on one foot. I interpret it to mean this: relax your eyelids, expand the possibility of your peripheral vision, and look past whatever may be in front of you. it is the opposite of staring, it is letting your vision just be without challenging it to feed you information.
today is a day of relaxing my gaze.
I am sad that snow covers my world and my bike is relegated to the back corner of the cold, wet garage. I am sad that I am leaving the experiences of my summer and fall behind, that they are now in the "history" pile of my memory bank. I am sad that I keep shoveling the snow away, and then more comes and covers the path I have worked so hard to uncover. I am sad that things are shifting and changing and the world seems terribly unsettled.
but focusing on any of those things does me no good. therefore, if I just look past these things, let them float in my peripheral vision, I can perhaps keep moving forward. one shovelful at a time. with a relaxed gaze, a gaze that welcomes whatever might be in my world.
I guess I'll give it a try.
I walked into the building with just a spattering of huge white flakes making their way down from the dark sky.
I walked out to 2 inches of snow on the ground, on my car, sticking to my felt boots.
and it just kept coming, and coming, and sticking, billions of crystals packing themselves into each others space and forming an even, thick carpet across my world.
I am still resisting my new yoga teacher, but only by centimeters now, no longer by the inches and feet of the past. I miss miguel, I miss that workout, but I am teaching myself to accept what is and embrace it, for one never knows the hidden benefit of doing so until one does so.
right?
we breathe in yoga, we stretch and gently push, we align and square hips and drop shoulders and lean into poses. at times my muscles quiver, then shake, and I occasionally lose my balance. then I inhale, reposition myself, exhale, and begin again.
we are often guided to relax our gaze. now, I don't really know what this means. I don't think this is a skill we learn growing up, like tossing a ball or shaking hands or even standing on one foot. I interpret it to mean this: relax your eyelids, expand the possibility of your peripheral vision, and look past whatever may be in front of you. it is the opposite of staring, it is letting your vision just be without challenging it to feed you information.
today is a day of relaxing my gaze.
I am sad that snow covers my world and my bike is relegated to the back corner of the cold, wet garage. I am sad that I am leaving the experiences of my summer and fall behind, that they are now in the "history" pile of my memory bank. I am sad that I keep shoveling the snow away, and then more comes and covers the path I have worked so hard to uncover. I am sad that things are shifting and changing and the world seems terribly unsettled.
but focusing on any of those things does me no good. therefore, if I just look past these things, let them float in my peripheral vision, I can perhaps keep moving forward. one shovelful at a time. with a relaxed gaze, a gaze that welcomes whatever might be in my world.
I guess I'll give it a try.
Monday, December 15, 2008
the beautiful flock of birds
this morning it was by far too cold, snowy, icy and bitter outside for riding, which meant I headed to the jcc for a dreary, indoor, windowless workout.
I did my requisite minutes on the elliptical, then my session on the mat, followed with the standard free weight and machine stuff. I waved goodbye to my friends who started before me and thus were released into their day ahead of me. I even chatted with nick about skiing at alta (he is constantly after me to join him there), disengaging from my ipod earphones to participate in the conversation.
I was on my final sets of arm something-or-others when my power-camp buddies started trickling into the room for their weight-room after spin-room workouts. I nodded, smiled, said hello without removing my earphones, and have never felt so distant from them as I did this morning.
I am one of many loners in the weight room---very few come in twos or threes---but this morning I felt even further removed.
my friend kathryn described my way of being as this: one who is different, who walks their own path. who looks at everyone else and sometimes wishes to be part of that beautiful flock of birds, but who knows it's not right for them. one who stands out in the crowd just by being who she is, her natural self.
please understand me, I am not saying this is better. this is just different.
I am an outlier.
I have walked this solitary path for so long that I know nothing else. in addition, I don't know how it feels to be anyone else, and as such, it's impossible to know anyone else's experience. but what I do know is that I am most comfortable gazing at that flock, not being in the midst of it. you may say, everyone feels this way, but it's deeper than a self-consciousness, a shyness. it's a knowingness. knowing that I think a little differently, I operate a little differently.
my daughter showed me a picture today that she took on the way home from school (amazing things, those cell phones with cameras). it is of a bird, a magpie, that was injured, hobbling along the sidewalk, allowing her to stroke its wings before hopping away.
and perhaps this, coupled with my morning experience, is what made me think of kathryn's flock of birds comment. I have no beautiful tie-in here, no metaphor that will connect my musing and make a neat package.
it's just a day to be an outlier, for me, and for the grounded magpie.
I did my requisite minutes on the elliptical, then my session on the mat, followed with the standard free weight and machine stuff. I waved goodbye to my friends who started before me and thus were released into their day ahead of me. I even chatted with nick about skiing at alta (he is constantly after me to join him there), disengaging from my ipod earphones to participate in the conversation.
I was on my final sets of arm something-or-others when my power-camp buddies started trickling into the room for their weight-room after spin-room workouts. I nodded, smiled, said hello without removing my earphones, and have never felt so distant from them as I did this morning.
I am one of many loners in the weight room---very few come in twos or threes---but this morning I felt even further removed.
my friend kathryn described my way of being as this: one who is different, who walks their own path. who looks at everyone else and sometimes wishes to be part of that beautiful flock of birds, but who knows it's not right for them. one who stands out in the crowd just by being who she is, her natural self.
please understand me, I am not saying this is better. this is just different.
I am an outlier.
I have walked this solitary path for so long that I know nothing else. in addition, I don't know how it feels to be anyone else, and as such, it's impossible to know anyone else's experience. but what I do know is that I am most comfortable gazing at that flock, not being in the midst of it. you may say, everyone feels this way, but it's deeper than a self-consciousness, a shyness. it's a knowingness. knowing that I think a little differently, I operate a little differently.
my daughter showed me a picture today that she took on the way home from school (amazing things, those cell phones with cameras). it is of a bird, a magpie, that was injured, hobbling along the sidewalk, allowing her to stroke its wings before hopping away.
and perhaps this, coupled with my morning experience, is what made me think of kathryn's flock of birds comment. I have no beautiful tie-in here, no metaphor that will connect my musing and make a neat package.
it's just a day to be an outlier, for me, and for the grounded magpie.
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