I went for a mellow trail run yesterday in the middle of the afternoon. The sun was out for a bit, warming everything up before the storm rolled in, and the air was that perfect temp where it’s not too hot or not too cold. I even splurged with Tals and took her to the open space trail where she is allowed to romp around off-leash, loving life and sniffing everything within 100 yards of her snout. We only did 3.6 miles but it was enough to stretch all six of our legs before heading back home to move rock for another zillion hours!
Obviously not from yesterday…but look how cute she is!
However, when I was out there, I started to circle some ideas through my head as I tend to do while running. In short, I was lecturing myself for not running further or faster or harder.
I hit the turn around point and felt great; so great, in fact, that my final mile was an 8:24 pace which is practically unheard of for me. Instead of being happy about it, I instead started questioning why I hadn’t pushed myself more. If I had this much gas left in the tank, I clearly should’ve gone for a 5 or a 6 miler, right? Tried a little harder?
That’s when I caught myself; what in the world was I doing?! I have no races on the horizon, am not registered for anything, and was just out for an enjoyable mid-week run on the trails with my adorable pup. The distance was plenty for my daily exercise, especially combined with my hours of manual labor in the front yard. Why the need to be so damn competitive with myself? Why so extreme?
The more I mulled it over, the more I realized that extremism appears to be my thing. No, I’m not some pro athlete and I don’t mean that in the, “I’m so badass; look at all this insane stuff I do!” kind of way. I’m very aware that there are legit athletes out there that I couldn’t even pretend to keep up with. Hell, I have friends that I can’t even keep up with! Instead, I think I have a tendency to find something I like and jump straight into the deep end of the pool.
Evidence:
My first 3000 foot climb in the Appalachians
Cycling. I bought a bike, went on a few 20-milers, and decided I was ready to pedal to Miami. Four months later, my quads were larger than my shoulders and I realized this was likely the wrong approach to a trip like that!
Hiking Capitol this past summer
Hiking. When I first discovered 14ers back in college, I was so intrigued by the high altitude burn that I wanted to CLIMB ALL THE MOUNTAINS. I hiked my first 14,000+ foot peak (Mt. Elbert, the tallest in the state of Colorado, naturally) in May, 2002. Between June and August of the same year, I summited 30 more, while working full-time. Yup, that averages out to 2.5 mountains per weekend, which is absolutely ridiculous considering many of them had 10 mile hike-ins just to get to base camp and were very technical summits.
Coming down Rainier
Mountaineering. After I discovered somewhat technical mountaineering on the Cross Couloir of Mt. Holy Cross, I was all in. Over the next year, we tackled the Bell Cord Couloir on the Maroon Bells, Mt. Rainier, and a handful of various peaks and volcanoes in South America.
Again, it’s not that any of these activities are extreme in themselves; it’s more that I seem to tackle them in an extreme manner. And even that, I’m okay with. I’ve never been hurt and I always have fun. However, it makes me wonder: am I starting to cut out that middle ground where “easy” or “mellow” activities find their happy place? Does loving extremism mean that you lose that sweet spot of just enjoying the ride?
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Thoughts? Do you ever do this to yourself?