Increasing Stride

There’s a running analogy for pretty much everything in life, you know?


I was thinking about that the other day as my brother-in-law asked me how to increase his stride. He’s new to running, otherwise he would know that my stride’s not necessarily one to emulate. But I know HOW to increase stride and improve times, even if I don’t DO it.


For a better stride or time, you increase your speed or you increase your incline, or better yet, you do both.


There’s an exercise that sounds ridiculous but is actually valid called “fartleks.” I know, I know. You won’t forget the name so easily. Put simply, you begin your run at a normal pace, then pick a spot approximately 100 yards in front of you and sprint to it. Repeat throughout the run and do this one or more times a week and you’re bound to pick up the pace a bit.


Doing hills and doing them as fast as possible will have a nasty effect on your run enjoyment level (unless you’re awesome and it gives you a high – hats off to you), but will have a solid effect on your time and that pretty little stride you’re searching for. Really, it will. And my dad says it will grow hair on your chest. So far not true, thank goodness.


Back to life, isn’t it interesting how you grow in life often through the same techniques? Difficult times, trials of stress and trials of the uphill climb variety teach us who we are. They help us shake off the love handles, you could say, leaving us with a purer faith and a stronger character. They suck. Yes. But most often we’d keep them for the fact that afterwards we realize what we’ve overcome. 

Collapsed Perfection

I left the house for work last week in a hurry – looked around as I went out the door and thought, “I should clean this place before I go, but NOBODY is going to possibly be here while I’m gone and I am sooo late and today’s important....”

I left the dishes in the sink from the previous night’s homemade jam endeavor. I left the pillows on the floor, where they landed the night before after we collapsed on the couch after said jam making. The crockpot was on for dinner, hardly noticeable with all the other dishes left to drain along the counter.  

I just left. Of course, my mother-in-law stopped by for something located on the cluttered counter that afternoon while we were out. As kind as she is, as great as she is … oh, man, of all the people to see it in that state. I could do nothing but laugh, so I laughed. What fabulous irony. 

My own mom instilled in me this dire sense of cleanliness and homemaking. She drilled this concept into my sisters and me – from the 7 a.m. Saturday wake-up calls with the vacuum to the Thanksgiving pies. She is very talented at balancing a job, a family and a home. My sisters also got that vibe down to a science. I’m not there yet and may never be.

I’m realizing more and more in this wife world I’m in, I can’t do everything I wish I could do. I make crappy breadsticks. I don’t sew. I haven’t washed the blinds since … a while.  I don’t invite the neighbors to dinner. Heck, some nights I don’t even make dinner, Tyler does (thanks, babe).  

I do not measure up to my own expectations. Fortunately, the more I think about it, the more I’d say they’re screwed up. I’m demanding perfection, but my perfection is not attainable. My expectations and failings haunt me on many occasions, mostly when I lose myself by inflicting comparison. I bring myself back to peace with the thought that my husband is happy and I am happy. And I go for a run. Perfection is not what life’s about anyway.

Trying On the Course

I have taken up golfing. And when I say I’ve taken up golfing, I don’t mean that I’ve taken to being good at golfing. I can drive when I hit it, my put is quite floppy, my sand aversion is, well, rough. But I have started to enjoy golfing. Tyler’s been golfing for pretty much his whole life, so he’s really good. For me, I love riding in a golf cart with Ty, I think golf courses are beautiful and I actually quite like the game. The whole process is relaxing.

Tyler found the sweetest deal on a starter left-handed set, surprising me one Saturday. I think I’ve just about used them enough it was worth it now. 

I’ve even experienced my first golf wound – this bump on my wrist is nicknamed a “bible cyst” because back in the day they used to tell people to hit it with a bible and it would go away. Tried that, didn’t work. Going to have to visit the doctor soon. I think, scratch that, I know (ask Tyler), I’m swinging too hard. I was a softball player first, for heaven’s sake. 

Before I met Tyler, I used to take classes just for the excitement of learning something new. I took basic Web design, CPR, swimming, tennis and I was about to start cake decorating and photography. This is just another chance to learn, even if I may never score out of the 60s (I’ll let you guess if that’s on 9 or 18 holes…). It feels good.