Nathan's blog

10 Life Lessons from a Reluctant Runner

Editor’s note: This is a guest post from Brigitte Lyons of Unfettered Ink.

True confession: When I was a kid, I couldn’t run a mile. I was relatively athletic. Good swimmer. Deadly at 3rd base. Hiked up and down and all around.

But running? No thanks.

Until, at age 20, I started dating a runner. I decided to let him teach me. This did not go well. We fought about it, because I was constantly miserable. I tried and gave up countless times.

Now I’m 30. I’m married to that runner. And, somehow, miraculously, I caught the running bug. And learned a few things along the way …

1. Sometimes things that suck are also awesome. This is not a post that extols the many physical benefits of running — or even teaches you how to get started. I’ll leave that up to Leo. I’m not even here to tell you that I love running.

I still find it a bit miserable most days. You get all sweaty. Your legs burn. Your heart races.

And, then, when you’re finished, your endorphins come flooding in. If you track your runs, you get to feel smug about your progress.

Totally worth it.

2. It’s all mental. Typing those words, I already want to take them back! My husband used to tell me this, back when we were still running and simultaneously squabbling about it. Nothing made me angrier.

But it hurts … !

Yeah, it hurt. It often still does. But once I made that mental switch that I will get out and run, I was able to do it. The only thing holding us back is our state of mind.

3. There’s a discernable difference between pain and discomfort. When I started running, every step felt like the worst step of my life. I was whiny. I hated, hated, hated every moment.

But, as people do when they want to impress someone they love, I kept picking it up again. And, finally, I began to notice the difference between pain and discomfort.

In the last 10 years, I’ve only suffered an injury once. I was at the gym, running along, when suddenly it felt like something snapped inside me. Like a rubber band that had been stretched too far, and it finally pops. I pulled a muscle. A term that doesn’t really do the thing justice.

The miracle of it is, though, that I’m so much more in tune with my body’s signals. I’m aware when it’s craving movement, even though I’m feeling lazy. When it’s saying enough is enough. When it can go just a little longer, even though I’m ready to turn the corner and head home.

4. Equipment matters — find what works for you. For me, there are two essential pieces of running equipment. Nike Frees and SmartWool socks. Seriously, I am obsessed with these socks.

That’s it.

On the flip side, I can’t stand one of the most frequently recommended pieces of gear: the technical shirt. I cannot abide the feeling of Dri-FIT or similar fabrics on my skin. Especially on my arms. I know all the benefits. I don’t care. It makes my skin crawl.

When I started running, I went out and bought loads of these shirts. It took me a year (because I’m slow) to realize that my hatred of them was actually de-motivating me. So, now, I run in cotton tank tops. They’re cheaper anyway!

5. Take joy in small accomplishments. I wish I were sitting here writing that I ran miles and miles and miles. Wait, no. That’s a lie. For a girl who couldn’t run a mile as a kid, getting off my bum and running 3 is a huge accomplishment. Epic.

Instead of feeling shame that I’m not running marathons, I take joy in taking in the sights and smells of my neighborhood (especially in the spring … flowers!). Of turning down streets that aren’t a part of my daily routine. And, occasionally, at shouting down the barking dogs that lunge at their gates as I run by.

6. Inconsistency is OK. I face a huge barrier in becoming a better runner – Chicago’s temperature swings. I know I can suit up in the winter and strip down in the summer, but extreme temperatures make me sick. So I don’t.

Ultimately, I work out to feel good. Running, yoga, spinning, whatever. I don’t stop working out when the weather is unbearable, but I certainly don’t run outside.

This used to really bother me. How could I ever become a “real” runner this way?

Maybe I can’t, but it doesn’t matter. This spring, after a 6 month break, I ran 20 minutes my first day out. And, I’m currently running faster and longer than ever.

7. It feels good to pick up your pace at the finish. This week, I ran 30 minutes. This is pretty much my outer limit (for the present!). My average pace was 10:19. At the end, I picked it up to 9 flat. Even though my calves were burning.

It felt damn good. And, although I have no expert studies to cite, I swear it helps create an endorphin rush.

8.  But, slow down at the beginning, already! While it’s a good habit to pick it up at the end, I tend to overdo it at the start. As Leo has mentioned, this is inadvisable. In my case, it’s the single factor holding back my mileage.

My body is most comfortable at an 8 minute pace. That’s when I feel like a gazelle (no, really). Except, my body isn’t yet conditioned to hold this pace. So, I start fast. And then die. The only way I’m going to improve is to intentionally hold back from the very start.

9. Play is critical. Always. The first time I ran 30 minutes, it poured. My husband and I went for a 2 mile run, and the rain started coming down in sheets just after we got home. Instead of heading inside, I looked at him and asked if he’d run a bit further with me. We added a third mile. Running down the middle of our Chicago neighborhood streets, jumping in and over puddles … it’s still my most fun run to date.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t storm every summer day. Luckily, I know how to find the parks with fountains and sprinklers set out for kids and the young at heart. Racing to catch a light works, too. Just the other day I sprinted at a 5:58 minute pace, and it was exhilarating.

10. It’s ok to trick yourself. This is something else Leo has mentioned, but it bears repeating. Sometimes you have to just get out the door. If that means telling yourself, “oh, I’ll just run a mile, no biggie,” then do it. If it means adding one or two extra blocks before you turn back home, because you’re feeling stellar, do it.

My greatest breakthrough moments were the direct result of tricks I played on myself.

In a decade of running, I could share so many more life lessons. How about you? Share your lessons learned with Leo (@zen_habits on Twitter or Leo Babauta on G+) and me (@brigittelyons).

Brigitte shares unconventional wisdom for creative people on a mission at her blog, Unfettered Ink. She also courts all sorts of good karma by serving up PR Ideas for Busy People to entrepreneurs with grand ideas but limited resources.

Previous post: Toss Your Expectations Into the Ocean

Next post: The Zen Habits of Teen-agers

I love this post because it’s exactly where I am right now as a runner.

July 05, 2011

Some Inconvenient Truths

This week will be the first full week that Waterstone’s spends under new ownership. Russian billionaire Alexander Mamut has bought the company for £53m from HMV and has installed James Daunt to run the whole shebang.

Daunt is much admired in the book world for setting up the small but successful chain of independent bookshops that bear his name. And they are splendid shops. I used to live near the one on Marylebone High Street and it was a regular haunt of mine. Lovely atmosphere, friendly and knowledgable staff and a fine selection of books, none of which are discounted. Quite an achievement to make that work in the current economic climate.

Although it is worth pointing out that the shops tend to be located in rather affluent areas of London and the recession may not be biting quite as hard in Chelsea and Hampstead as it is in Bury and Basildon.

Nonetheless, he is a very successful bookseller and his surprise appointment has been received positively by pretty much everyone in the publishing industry. A healthy Waterstone’s is vital to that industry and everyone will be wishing him every success. Not that we will necessarily know how he is doing. Now that Waterstone’s is in private ownership there is no obligation to announce results. It will be interesting to see whether they do or not.

But the goodwill is certainly there with messages of support from many of the high flyers in the book world and very positive coverage in the media. Some have gone even further, taking the opportunity to lay in to the previous management. I saw some fascinating tweets from a recent publishing conference in which leading publishers and agents were tearing the HMV-backed administration to shreds with soundbites along the lines of ‘finally Waterstone’s is in the hands of someone who understands books’ and ‘the last 10 years at Waterstone’s have been disastrous for publishing’ and other such gems.

Which brings me to the subject of this blog post, the inconvenient truths that no one seems prepared to mention. I must declare an interest here. While I have had nothing to do with Waterstone’s for the past 5 years or more – I left shortly after the much maligned Gerry Johnson joined, partly because I didn’t think his plans would work – I was there for 6 years as buying manager before that and did get a lot of stick for the changes I helped to implement. So my view is undoubtedly biased. Nonetheless, there are a few things I think are worth pointing out:

• Waterstone’s had its most successful years ever under HMV ownership, both in terms of sales and profit. And that wasn’t just one year in isolation, it happened several years in a row. 

• Some of the individuals who have been vocally critical of the HMV years will have made a hell of a lot of money in bonuses during that period and a decent chunk of their success will have been down to the sheer volume of the books they published or agented that Waterstone’s sold during that time.

• When you criticise the Waterstone’s of recent years you are, directly or indirectly, criticising a hell of a lot of people who are still working there. Only about three or four individuals have actually left the business, everyone else is the same.

• The 3 for 2 campaign, which gets such a bashing from the literati, is hugely popular with readers and customers. I have no doubt that it needs to evolve and can be improved but if you take that away you are going to lose a hell of a lot of sales. No one is suggesting that Waterstone’s will do that but many commentators use the campaign as lazy shorthand for the ills of the business.

• Neither will the company be saved by a sudden move to non-discounted books. Every few years or so Waterstone’s has experimented with a reduction in discounting. Every time this has happened it has led to a reduction in sales, profit and market share.

So there you go. Just a few inconvenient truths that I am not reading anywhere else but are worth mentioning. Much as some would have you believe that HMV’s ownership of Waterstone’s was a calamity, the truth is not quite so simple, or negative. It wasn’t a period where everything was perfect, far from it, but it was not quite the disaster it is being painted to be.

I am not offering solutions here – I am neither qualified to do so, nor do I think anyone would welcome it – I am merely pointing out stuff that I think some people have forgotten, especially if recent articles, speeches and comments are anything to go by.

Something we can all agree on is that we want to see Waterstone’s remain on the high street. Whatever your feelings about how they have been run or what they do, they play an important role and we are much better off with them than without them. Thousands of passionate and knowledgable booksellers work in their shops and sell millions of books to the many readers of this nation. If the new owners and managers can help them to do this even better than they already do then everyone will be happy.

I wish them all the very best of luck.

Posted at 06:00 AM in The Book World | Permalink

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Good on you, Mr Pack.

As a one-time category manager for the national bookselling chain in Canada I know what it means to have the organization I worked for caricatured in the media and among industry chatterboxes: in my case it was portrayed as a one-woman operation where everyone contributed nothing but fealty to top brass. Even at our most successful (ie. when we were sending the biggest cheques to publishers) you’d have been hard-pressed to find anyone outside the the organization saying that maybe these guys know a thing or two about how to manage this business and maybe the industry is better off with us than without us.

Click through for the whole piece. It’s quite good.

The Creative Writing MFA is the singularly most devastating occurrence to hit literature in the 20th century, churning out writers of utterly indistinguishable competence.

I’m referring, of course, to the news that the Orange Prize has been won by Tea Obreht, the “youngest ever recipient” at aged 25 — her age mentioned in every press-release, as if it might endear or excuse their decision. A plump, blonde, smiling MFA-product, Obreht’s debut novel, The Tiger’s Wife, has resulted in some astonishingly pretentious bullshit from the critics, to rival the content of her own book. Despite “the occasional whiff of adjectival overexuberance” The Guardian sniffs, in a contemptible piece of writing which makes me want to headbutt the author, The Tiger’s Wife is “vivid and limber; a picaresque romp through the fragments of former Yugoslavia.” Britain’s Evening Standard tells us, without a hint of irony, that “The Tiger’s Wife is more than fiction. It is about burying the dead” referring frequently to the book’s ability to “heal the international image of her birth country.”

I could go on, but I’d rather pluck my own pubic hairs than read this fawning idiocy written by fools who have only read the press release of a novel they probably couldn’t get through either.

The problem with The Tiger’s Wife is it’s unreadable: turgid, overwritten, self-indulgent and in need of a heavy editorial hand, not to mention about 10 years more life experience to give the two-dimensional characters, including an irritatingly earnest narrator, a bit of zap up their winsome asses. It’s polished. Obreht can churn out a (very long, overwritten) sentence. It’s competent. It’s a book.

But my god is it boring.

Worthy, insufferably dull, and an ordeal, it’s the kind of book that one reads only because a sibling or loved one wrote it — that, or you were foolhardy enough to digest the bullshit storm that the literary establishment is currently whipping up in its attempts to make people buy this crap instead of Us Weekly. It’s like gagging down spinach when you hate it — there’s plenty of ways to get your intellectual nutrition, other than the bland offerings of the MFA Creative Writing course. It’s not as if the consumption of this dreary rubbish will make us into better, more intelligent people: people worthy to sit next to Zadie Smith at dinner, politely and knowledgeably conversing about modern fiction.

And don’t get me started on Zadie — another writer who proved to be a great literary bore. Her essays “On Beauty” were like being forcibly strapped into a Cambridge lecture theater and waterboarded by some bratty, egotistical over-read teen’s pompous thesis on art. Shut up Zadie. You’re about as entertaining as an enema. The only redeeming feature about Zadie is her great first book, and the fact we can now blame her subsequent foray into mediocrity upon media over-hype and a spell at Harvard.

But back to Tea (who should be friends with Zadie). I’m going to admit now that I haven’t read all of The Tiger’s Wife. A degree in English Literature has taught me many useful and discerning skills, amongst which is this little gem: if you can’t get past page 50, give up. Only in very rare cases has persistence in reading boring literature paid off. I suspect this is not one of them. Why? Because I have read Tea’s competent, assured, boring-as-fuck prose before: in a million other aspiring writers churned out by the MFA system, who then go on to take up professions as teachers in the MFA system, passing on their identical mediocrity to a new generation of award-winning identical mediocre visionaries.

Yes, I know that the arguments against MFA’s are the old hat now: they promote elitism, no one can ‘teach’ writing, writers would be better off traveling the world, imbibing a few drugs, having a shag and running out of money than sitting in some stale, forty-thousand dollar a year classroom being taught how to produce such startling unoriginal over-crafted lines as: “These stories run like secret rivers through all the other stories of his life.” Yada yada yada. But when a literary prize that was once brave enough to award Lionel Shriver’s controversial novel We Need To Talk About Kevin — a book that no publisher, like Lolita, was willing to touch — has reverted to affirming the essential inanity of the 21st century MFA course, we need to start talking again, a little louder, a little more vociferous.

Far from enticing the general public away from devouring reality TV, telling them that they should regard books like The Tiger’s Wife as great works of literature only reconfirms what the suspicious, unread masses have long since suspected: ‘literature’ is boring, now fuck off and let me watch TOWIE.

Although I earn my living as a screenwriter, books are my first love. It pains me to see that even after centuries confirming that ‘the establishment’ rarely has its finger on the pulse concerning what will last and endure as great literature, it still insists on pretending otherwise. I personally think we should double the prices of MFA Creative Writing courses, and use the profit to promote literacy and language skills in deprived youth. And then we should make 10 years in the real world compulsory for all writers who have graduated from an MFA course before the age of 25. That’s 10 years without access to a trust-fund or Ivy League university or The Guardian (I say The Guardian merely because it annoys me, not for any scientific purpose).

At the end of 10 years, they can submit their work in the proper channels — i.e. cold calling publishers and agents, not through their academic Pulitzer-prize winning supervisor who knows this dude at The New Yorker. If it’s not derivative of Anna Karenina, nor does it feature more than three bad metaphors or similes in the first 50 pages, and upon publication, the media doesn’t mention your age nor the three letters M.F.A. — then you’re allowed to exist with the rest of the writing world, submitting your work like anyone else.

Imagine — Junot Diaz e.t. al might actually be starting to write something decent by now.

Oh how I long for the days of writers like Nabokov: those who hadn’t spent five years learning how to put a fucking sentence together, but instead wrote with their guts.

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