Much like the words get lost in the melody of a song, thoughts can get lost in their intangibility. Thoughts are literally electrical messages buzzing along the neurons of our brains, and oftentimes they don't make sense until they are made tangible by saying them aloud or writing them down. I can't tell you how many times I've written paragraphs in Microsoft Word in order to sort out a situation. Nine times out of ten I re-read what I've furiously typed out and come to the conclusion that what I was thinking doesn't make sense at all.
I write mostly because I just enjoy the act of putting thoughts to a page, whether eloquent or brash. There's something about the articulation of a thought into words that make the thought more understandable. Somehow, words in the brain are different than words on paper (or a computer screen). Most of my writing isn't, and doesn't intend to be, well said. The more I write, the more I realize that I have an unfortunate love affair with run-on sentences, outlandish metaphors, and strange similes. But that's why it's fun to me. I'm generally not a creative person, but writing gives me an arena in which I define the meaning of the word "creative".
I wrote countless essays in high school, most of which were four paragraphs of spoon-feeding my English teachers with symbolism, metaphors, and elegantly dressed sentences disguised as profound thought. I was pretty good at that kind of writing, and, albeit stressful, I enjoyed it in a strange way. Nothing was more exciting than getting an essay prompt that wasn't dreadfully annoying. That kind of writing was structured, rigid, and just plain unnecessary. I'm a firm believer that writing is up for interpretation by the reader, and the reader only; but I found myself writing pages upon pages about how an author foreshadowed certain events, used mundane objects as symbols, and making connections between characters. But whose to say I'm right or wrong? Who made up these extensive lists of what an author meant to convey when they wrote a given piece years ago? I could gripe about the multiple choice questions we had to answer, but I think that would become berating and boring for even me to read. Luckily, writing a blog has no structure or rules. Sure, it's called "On the Run", but here I am, writing about writing and not running. How empowering.
As long as I have thoughts, I will write. As long as I write, I will make up crazy metaphors and similes, and I will be impressed in how little sense they actually make. But they help me make sense of everything else.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Personal training trained me
I walked into the Student Recreation and fitness Center here at UF in July of 2010 with the objective of finding out about the personal training class that RecSports (the campus recreation company) was offering that fall. Little did I know that my simple inquiry would turn into something that would change my life completely. Sure, I refined my knowledge about exercise and programming, but the biggest takeaway I've acquired thus far is the ability to interact with people and decipher them; not just the way that they move, but also the way they think.
I remember the first training session that I conducted; I still consider myself lucky that our training shirts are black. I was so nervous that I was sweating profusely and my voice was shaking. The word (if it even is a word?) "Um" stuck itself between my words, even as I explained a simple squat--something I have done a million times before myself. I never thought that exercise would be so hard to demonstrate. Sure, we had practiced exercise cuing multiple times, and I was definitely prepared to do so. But with my first client standing attentively in front of me, I froze like a shy middle schooler in a talent show. I knew what to do, but I didn't have the confidence to spit it out.
Let's just say that the trainer who couldn't explain a squat doesn't work at the gym anymore.
I've been lifting since 9th grade. I took a weight training class as an elective my freshman year and learned how to bench, squat, clean 50 lbs (also known as picking the weight off of the floor and bringing it to your chest, no form required to pass the class), and fall asleep on the leg extension machine. We did most of our lifts in pyramids, starting with 60% 1RM and ending sometimes as high 95% 1RM. So in other words, I lifted like a football player. I still like this technique, and it helped me increase my bench from 55lbs (that's the bar plus 5 lbs on each side) to 95lbs by the end of the year. But there's definitely much better methods than this. Over the next two years of high school, I played around with different workout schemes at my local YMCA, drawing exercises from other gym-goers and the occasional group exercise class that I attended. I knew a lot about fitness, but programming was another story; let alone monitoring that of someone else. I've learned how to progress, adapt, and track progress. I made up a system with blocks of 4 workouts in order to remain consistent yet innovative. It's a far cry from the mini spiral notebook that I haphazardly used to keep workouts in.
Contrary to popular belief (and perhaps at one time my own), personal training is not inventing crazy exercises in order to impress others and gathering stares from other gym patrons like daisies. You can't judge a personal trainer by their exercises, but you can by how they convey the exercises that they spent so much time putting together. So much of personal training is building a fitness experience; creating a one hour "world" of sorts. Understanding what type of world each client needs is the pillar of training someone to accomplish a goal. The large amount of psychology that is involved in training someone should have been obvious to me when I decided to become a trainer, but it somehow took me by surprise.(You mean, I have to apply all of my knowledge while being entertaining AND funny?)
I've learned so much over the past 2 years as a personal trainer, and the experience that I've gained will undoubtedly springboard me into an awesome future career. When I think about how far I've come from stuttering through my exercise cues, I can't help but smile. Learning how to train well has been a long and arduous process, and one that I doubted at times that I could complete. It takes a lot of confidence to hold someone's health in your hands and not being afraid of dropping it.
I'm not worried about that anymore. I have a firm grip.
I remember the first training session that I conducted; I still consider myself lucky that our training shirts are black. I was so nervous that I was sweating profusely and my voice was shaking. The word (if it even is a word?) "Um" stuck itself between my words, even as I explained a simple squat--something I have done a million times before myself. I never thought that exercise would be so hard to demonstrate. Sure, we had practiced exercise cuing multiple times, and I was definitely prepared to do so. But with my first client standing attentively in front of me, I froze like a shy middle schooler in a talent show. I knew what to do, but I didn't have the confidence to spit it out.
Let's just say that the trainer who couldn't explain a squat doesn't work at the gym anymore.
I've been lifting since 9th grade. I took a weight training class as an elective my freshman year and learned how to bench, squat, clean 50 lbs (also known as picking the weight off of the floor and bringing it to your chest, no form required to pass the class), and fall asleep on the leg extension machine. We did most of our lifts in pyramids, starting with 60% 1RM and ending sometimes as high 95% 1RM. So in other words, I lifted like a football player. I still like this technique, and it helped me increase my bench from 55lbs (that's the bar plus 5 lbs on each side) to 95lbs by the end of the year. But there's definitely much better methods than this. Over the next two years of high school, I played around with different workout schemes at my local YMCA, drawing exercises from other gym-goers and the occasional group exercise class that I attended. I knew a lot about fitness, but programming was another story; let alone monitoring that of someone else. I've learned how to progress, adapt, and track progress. I made up a system with blocks of 4 workouts in order to remain consistent yet innovative. It's a far cry from the mini spiral notebook that I haphazardly used to keep workouts in.
Contrary to popular belief (and perhaps at one time my own), personal training is not inventing crazy exercises in order to impress others and gathering stares from other gym patrons like daisies. You can't judge a personal trainer by their exercises, but you can by how they convey the exercises that they spent so much time putting together. So much of personal training is building a fitness experience; creating a one hour "world" of sorts. Understanding what type of world each client needs is the pillar of training someone to accomplish a goal. The large amount of psychology that is involved in training someone should have been obvious to me when I decided to become a trainer, but it somehow took me by surprise.(You mean, I have to apply all of my knowledge while being entertaining AND funny?)
I've learned so much over the past 2 years as a personal trainer, and the experience that I've gained will undoubtedly springboard me into an awesome future career. When I think about how far I've come from stuttering through my exercise cues, I can't help but smile. Learning how to train well has been a long and arduous process, and one that I doubted at times that I could complete. It takes a lot of confidence to hold someone's health in your hands and not being afraid of dropping it.
I'm not worried about that anymore. I have a firm grip.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Endurance sports are like rap music....ridiculous.
I think that part of the appeal of endurance sports, much like rap music, is the fact that it's ridiculous, and doesn't reflect real life. Just as it's crazy to spend hours on the roads or in the pool, it's quite outlandish that bandz make her dance. Or that starships were meant to fly (what's a starship, anyway?).
Training and racing are a life away from life. Reality doesn't exist whilst my body is in motion. I get lost in the effort, finding transient clarity that dissipates shortly after a workout is over. I often finish workouts and wonder "Why am I doing this again?" Similarly, when a rap song is over, I wonder "Wait, what did you just say?". So here's my attempt to tie-dye the two worlds of endurance sports and rap music:
I'm not sure what's it's like to move my body like a cyclone on the dance floor, but I can imagine that's what my swimming technique looks like.
No, Kanye, I don't know what it feels like to be drunk and high at the same time by poppin' champagne on an airplane, but it probably feels like finishing a PR-attempt 5K race.
I can identify with Jay-Z; I really do have 99 problems. My hip flexors are tight, my ankles don't want to flex anymore, my lats twitch when I reach for my cereal in the morning. Races get more expensive every year, I'm never satisfied with the amount of workout clothes I have, and I eat enough for two people. I won't go into all 99, but you get the idea.
I love to wobble, except when I get off my bike in an Olympic distance triathlon.
I pound the alarm every time I have to wake up at 5 for a race.I fill my glass up just a little more (with Gatorade) and get ready to show these girls that I own 'em(....some call me Nicki and some me Roman...) And I obviously get sexy and hotter during a race.
When I'm doing a triathlon, I run into transition thinking "on to the next one, on on to the next one..."
Running is my form of booty work. I can't work one cheek at a time when I dance, but I can when I run.
No matter how difficult a workout is or how outrageous a rap song is, (Thrift Shop, anyone?) I'll always come back for more.
Training and racing are a life away from life. Reality doesn't exist whilst my body is in motion. I get lost in the effort, finding transient clarity that dissipates shortly after a workout is over. I often finish workouts and wonder "Why am I doing this again?" Similarly, when a rap song is over, I wonder "Wait, what did you just say?". So here's my attempt to tie-dye the two worlds of endurance sports and rap music:
I'm not sure what's it's like to move my body like a cyclone on the dance floor, but I can imagine that's what my swimming technique looks like.
No, Kanye, I don't know what it feels like to be drunk and high at the same time by poppin' champagne on an airplane, but it probably feels like finishing a PR-attempt 5K race.
I can identify with Jay-Z; I really do have 99 problems. My hip flexors are tight, my ankles don't want to flex anymore, my lats twitch when I reach for my cereal in the morning. Races get more expensive every year, I'm never satisfied with the amount of workout clothes I have, and I eat enough for two people. I won't go into all 99, but you get the idea.
I love to wobble, except when I get off my bike in an Olympic distance triathlon.
I pound the alarm every time I have to wake up at 5 for a race.I fill my glass up just a little more (with Gatorade) and get ready to show these girls that I own 'em(....some call me Nicki and some me Roman...) And I obviously get sexy and hotter during a race.
When I'm doing a triathlon, I run into transition thinking "on to the next one, on on to the next one..."
Running is my form of booty work. I can't work one cheek at a time when I dance, but I can when I run.
No matter how difficult a workout is or how outrageous a rap song is, (Thrift Shop, anyone?) I'll always come back for more.
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