Mina Samuels's Blog, page 3

Why I Am a Vegetarian and Diana Nyad

I suppose I might have titled this, "Why I Am Not a Flesh Eater," if I was to most closely mimic Bertrand Russell's famous speech and essay title, Why I Am Not a Christian, off of which I was riffing, but that sounded a bit rugged for my taste, though, come to think of it, so is swimming with the sharks, which is what inspired this missive.

A friend sent me an email the other day asking, "What do you think about the sharks?" She was referring to the flurry of reader comments around a story about Diana Nyad, who, any day now, will swim from Cuba to Key West—103 miles, which is predicted to take somewhere around 60 hours. If it wasn't already impressive, Diana is 61 years old, which certainly adds a "Wow" factor to her athletic endeavour. But there was this business of the sharks.

Re-Posted from HuffPo with title change

Apparently, most long distance swimmers who have taken on this particular challenge have swum in a shark cage, which is, as it sounds, a cage surrounding the swimmer, protecting her from those animals. The drawback (at least, a swimmer like Diana considers it a negative) is that the cages are tied to a boat and dragged along behind, which means the swimming is easier and faster (in 1997 an Australian did the Cuba-Key West swim in 24 hours with the cage-advantage).

Instead of a cage, Diana will be flanked by two kayakers with shark shields (electric shock rods) and there will be four shark divers on board the support boat, ready to dive in and spear threatening sharks to death.

To death? I missed the part where the sharks volunteered to give up their lives for Diana's swim. I have no love of sharks in particular, but I'm not sure why creatures living in their own environment, way out at sea (we're not talking about holiday-makers at the beach a la Jaws), may be punished for doing what they are genetically engineered to do, so that one of us humans, can pass through their environment on a personal mission to prove her strength and endurance.

Don't get me wrong, I think personal missions of strength and endurance are to be celebrated. Such quests, as Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi wrote in Flow, enable us to expand our concepts of our selves, which, in turn, builds the self-confidence that "allows us to develop skills and make significant contributions to humankind." All good so far. And don't get me wrong on this next—in the person vs. shark, I save the person. Still, there's a difference between an accidental encounter and a courted encounter. As athletes, we take great care to respect our bodies, should we not extend that same respect to our environment, others, to other creatures as well? Should our athletic endeavours come at others' expense? Diana and her sharks disturb me.

Not as much as Food Inc., which I finally got around to watching, which lifts the veil on the food industry, exposing the insidious cycles of corporate control, government support, animal cruelty and, worst of all, how this fosters our diabetes epidemic. As Eric Schlosser points out in the movie, if our food system of factory farming disdains and disrespects animal, so will we adopt this same mentality toward other living things, humans, strangers, foreigners, people with whom we disagree.

Both Diana's sharks and Food Inc. reminded me of why I am a vegetarian. I have been so (with some early recidivism) since I was sixteen, close to 2/3rds of my life. Why?

I recently came across a Sikh story, told in Tara Brach's book, Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life With the Heart of Buddha, which conveyed, more lyrically than I ever could, why I made this choice. The story (and I quote directly from Brach's book):

An aged spiritual master calls his two most devoted disciples to the garden in front of his hut. Gravely, he gives each one a chicken and instructs them, "Go to where no one can see, and kill the chicken." One of the men immediately goes behind his shed, picks up an ax and chops off his chicken's head. The other wanders around for hours, and finally returns to his master, the chicken still alive and in hand. "Well, what happened?" the teacher asks. The disciple responds, "I can't find a place to kill the chicken where no one can see me. Everywhere I go, the chicken sees."

Indeed. I cannot eat something, or rather some formerly living creature, which I could not look in the eye, and then kill. The rule is my own, for me (I would not impose it on you), because not only the chicken sees, but also I see myself, and then I must live with myself. One of the cornerstones of health, something we are hyper-keyed into as athletes, is the ability to live comfortably with oneself. As much thought as we give to our workouts, that and much more we need to give to others in the world.

In Sickness and In Health

My latest post on HuffPo

The words of the traditional marriage vow might just as easily apply in any circumstance in which we join our lives with another's, through marriage, civil union, or any other long-term domestic partnership, through birthing or adopting. The promise is not always explicit, but it's there. I will not abandon you in your time of need. Of course, we often do. We're human and imperfect after all. Of all the people to whom we might owe this obligation, in sickness and in health, there is one we often don't notice, one who we cannot abandon, except through the most radical means; and that is our self.

I am stuck with me, no matter what. I've recently had a disconcertingly up-close-and-personal engagement with my own obligation to myself in sickness.

Five weeks ago I was colonized by bronchitis. All during the week prior I'd been clearing my throat to the point of annoyance, my partner looking at me sideways as I ahem-ahem-ahem-ahemmed, as if I was trying to get everyone's attention to make a very important point. Out for a morning ride with a friend, I felt exhausted and cough-y, and finally gave up on the workout and headed home after only 2 of our usual 3 loops of the park. I got into bed and there I stayed, for one week, then another, and another. And the bed became the couch, because in the end I couldn't get in and out of bed. My coughing so severe, that I fractured ribs on both sides.

I have been very lucky in life. I've never broken a bone. I've never been sick for anything longer than 5 days, and even then, not felled. Even when I had chicken pox a few years ago, an experience that can be gruesome for adults in a way it apparently isn't for children, I slipped through the illness with relative ease. Last year when I sliced open my knee and had stitches, I was unable to do anything but walk for a couple of weeks, but the pain was manageable, the end clearly in sight from the outset.

So these past weeks have been unlike anything I've been through before.

I should start by saying—I am still very lucky. Bronchitis and fractured ribs are nothing, in the grand scheme of the available perils, and yet it is the very mundane-ness, which caught me short. For so little, I felt that I had stepped out of the current of my own life. The world was moving on around me, but I had slowed to a near stop. Week by week, I cancelled everything on my calendar. My most important obligation was to myself, to get well.

Things I couldn't do with bronchitis (or at least not without inciting coughing almost to the point of vomiting):

--breathe deeply

--roll over in bed

--eat dairy, or vinegar, or anything spicy, and any number of other foods, which seemed to change by the day

--drink seltzer, or juice, or alcohol

--laugh

Things I couldn't do with fractured ribs (or at least not without pain on the Richter scale):

--breathe deeply

--lean over the sink to wash my face or brush my teeth, not to mention spit out the toothpaste with any force…wash my hair

--open and close the front door of my apartment and my apartment building

--put on and take off underwear

--pick up my cat for a dose of purr-therapy

--take a full jug of homemade iced tea out of the fridge

--laugh

At some point along the way, I read a Buddhist blog, which encouraged slowing down, savouring, for example, each small sip of a glass of water—something I was forced into doing by circumstances. And while I agree that stillness and noticing the moments in our lives is a practice worth cultivating, I recognized too, as I hadn't before, how much joy I take in gulping down my water, of devouring life with gusto. Noticing the small pleasures does not always require that they be slow and measured. It is the noticing that matters more than the stillness. But until I can zoom and gorge and guzzle again, I am noticing slow-style.

Almost daily I re-jig my expectations of myself. I've been walking in the morning. At first I walked at quarter speed. I wanted, still want to cry at times, when a fleet woman glides by, legs roped with working muscles. But I'm also enjoying the new pace. I have had time to notice the morning dogs—the big white dog of uncertain breed, with the turned out front right paw, the panting Bulldog, the fresh shaven Yorkie. Just yesterday as I caught up to a man walking slowly ahead of me, I smelled his baby before I saw the infant in his arms, that sour-milk-powdery-sleep scent of the first months of life. Running, I would never have caught that whiff, I would have passed by too quickly.

In low moments, when I longed to sink beneath the waters of self-pity (I hope I am beyond that stage now, but nothing is sure), I wondered if I'd ever get better. I wondered who I was. I wanted an explanation of why I was sick, but one that would jibe with who I thought myself to be. In the beginning, I tried to deny the pain. I like to think of myself as having a high tolerance; therefore I shouldn't feel so much pain from coughing. When I learned that I'd fractured several ribs, the lens re-focused. Oh yes, this is painful, but I have a high tolerance, so I'll get through this without depending on the prescribed painkillers. Not so easy. I needed to re-assess. I wanted, in sickness, to hang onto some preconceived notion of strength and resilience with which I identified myself. As if I might lose myself.

But I am right here, where I have always been, by my side, in sickness and in health. I have some weeks to go. I don't know how many. I know that one day I will wake up and go about my day. At first, I won't notice that there is no coughing to notice, no pain to notice. Then I will. Notice. I will think, "I'm myself again." But it won't be true. I'm myself now. That is a thing worth noticing.

Blueprint for a Bogey

I love go-carting. I need only get behind the wheel of a go-cart and I start laughing. On my middle brother's wedding day, we took him go-carting in the morning, and we laughed more than we drove. I recently lucked upon an exhibit at the Glasgow Gallery of Modern Art called, "Blueprint for a Bogey." In Glasgow, a bogey refers to a homemade go-cart, built of whatever is around, and then driven with reckless abandon by their child-creators. The exhibit was about "play"—the way in which we interfere with or restrict children's instinctive desire to play, how we seem to lose our innate ability to play as adults, and how we might reclaim that prerogative.

Did you furrow your brow at that last sentence and think, "Playing isn't appropriate for adults," or some version of that thought? As adults we are so good at burdening ourselves with responsibilities, obligations, and expectations, that we sometimes feel shackled to our lives. Playing is the opposite—free, light, spacious, and unbounded. After all, play is a creative engagement with the world, without end, or purpose. Sounds grand.

Yet, as adults, we too often find it challenging to play. Everything we do has to have an agenda, even things that look, at first blush, like play, are, on closer examination, really pursuits in which we are aiming toward a goal—to achieve a certain skill level, to do a race or event, to get fit or lose weight, to win.

I was recently out playing on my slackline with my partner. That is, a tightrope-like piece of webbing, easily secured around two nicely spaced trees; and, in our case, low to the soft, grassy ground. A dog-walking woman asked, "Are you training for something?" Her question gave me pause. My only objective was to have fun; to relax; to enjoy hanging out in the park, listening to the thump of the basketball on the nearby court, watching the amazing variety of dogs as they sashayed past; to lean up against the fat tree and feel the rough ridges of bark digging into my back when it wasn't my turn on the line. Was I being too aimless? Did I need to get more serious?

As adults we like to have an answer to the question "why" when we are doing something. We feel uncomfortable if there's no good reason to pursue a particular activity. Add to that that we feel uncomfortable if we aren't good at something. We reach a certain age and think we ought to be accomplished at everything we pursue. Think—how limiting is our desire or need to be expert. Add on top of that our fear of looking foolish, which increases with our age. Think more—how limiting is our desire or need to be thought well of.

Playing unfetters us. And what a relief it is to live, even if for only short interludes, in the wide-open expanse of playtime. How much more creativity and energy we will be able to bring to the rest of our lives.

Only days after I saw the Glasgow exhibit, a group of girlfriends took me out for a "mystery activity" night. I was instructed to meet them on a particular corner, wearing casual clothes, no skirt or dress. When I saw the mechanical bull in the middle of the appointed venue, I almost balked. No way. Not with people watching me. I'd make a fool of myself (I didn't know at the time that Sex & the City had apparently bestowed a certain cool on the activity). Then I stopped to think more about that last—foolish? In whose eyes? Why? And why did I care?

I rode the bull. It was fun, and almost as exhilarating as go-carting. Like a child, I could have gotten right back on for a second ride.

Re-posted from Huffington Post

First Huff Post...

Just up--my first piece on Huffington Post: The Unifying Goal or The Goal of Everything.
Check it out.

If You Like That...Then You'll Like This

I recently read Kristin Armstrong's new book, Mile Markers: The 26.2 Most Important Reasons Why Women Run. I was moved to read the book, because in looking at my own book on amazon.com, I'd noticed that hers came up as both one of the "buy these two books together" books, and as one of the "people who bought RLAG, also bought…" books. So I wanted to read what other books my readers were reading.

First, you are probably all much more "in the know" than I am, but I didn't realize she was "the" Kristin Armstrong, if I'd ever actually internalized Lance Armstrong's (he of so many Tour de France victories) ex-wife's name. In fact, to own up to my exceeding dimness on the day I read the book, I thought it was an interesting coincidence that the author, whose last name was Armstrong, had a "wasband" (her neologism, which I loved), whose name was Lance. Her ex-ness is not really relevant to the book, except to the extent that she took up professional writing and serious running post-divorce, which is an impressive and happy state of affairs, for we, her readers, and, according to her in her book, for her, too; because Kristin has a lot that's lovely to say about running and its place in our lives, or more precisely—in our hearts.

Here's just a few bits I liked…

The expression "sweat sisters," which she uses to describe the girlfriends we run with and pour our hearts out too and seek solace from and laugh with and give solace to and laugh with. She doesn't mention them, but I'd add sweat brothers, too.

She refers to studies (which I haven't yet been able to track down, but which sound intuitively and common-sensically right on) that show "that the best way to foster positive body image in girls is for their mothers to speak kindly and positively about their own bodies…" Kristin goes on to say that she is careful to make a point of complimenting her own figure in earshot of her daughters. Even better, of course, would be if she actually believed the compliments enough to say them to herself out of earshot of her daughters. But hey, I'm not that evolved yet, so I can't demand it of others.

When talking about identity and how running can be a touchstone of identity in hard times, she writes, "[W]hen we breathe deeply into one passion, we provide oxygen for others." Oh yes. I like that idea of oxygenating all our passions, by beginning with one.

On confidence and setting an example of confidence for others, she writes, "We have to be willing to be seen if we want to earn the relationship to be understood. If our lips are moving but our actions don't match, we become a badly dubbed foreign film, without benefit of subtitles." A bit of a mash-up metaphor, but very apt and effective. I remember the French-dubbed version of Sex & The City (the movie) I saw in a tiny gymnasium in Southern France. It turns out there's not much to dubbing when a large proportion of the dialogue is just squeaks and squeals over handbags and shoes.

And on hills, "You simply cannot become soft or complacent if you seek hills on purpose. You practice something enough times when it doesn't count, you can bet your shapely bottom that you will have what it takes when it does." And to give context, she means more than just the hills we run, she means all the stand-ins for hills we face in our lives. This passage vividly reminded me of the repeated passages of Owen and John practicing "The Shot" in A Prayer for Owen Meany, about which I'll say no more, for those of you who haven't read it…except this—read the book. I read it in one sitting during law school exams, when I should have been studying, but didn't, because I couldn't put the book down (p.s. I did very well on the exams). Anyway, as Kristin so aptly points out, hills are a way of practicing our own "Shots," preparing for the unexpected rigours that assail us in life.

Made me look forward to my summer runs in the mountains of CA.

Women Tell Me..

Prompted by the Today Show last week, I've been privileged to hear some inspiring women's stories. I wanted to share a small sampling.

From Gwen

"I was NEVER athletic growing up, always the last picked in gym class, etc." As an adult in the 70's, Gwen discovered that she enjoyed walking, and even aerobics. But still, "I never ever ran." Then her oldest son, Danny, died of leukemia at age 25 in 1998.

Gwen told me, "I joined Team in Training and trained for a marathon! My first marathon was Dublin in Oct. 1999. I did that before I did any 5Ks or anything." Gwen trained to walk the race, but in the midst of the race, around mile 18, she decided to run. She just wanted to get finished. Then she ran another Team in Training marathon in Anchorage in 2000, and she's still running. Gwen is also studying and teaching yoga now. As Gwen says of her running, "OK. . . I am far from the fastest one out there but I have fun and keep going. Running has been medicine, religion, love and prayer."

As running has been to so many women.

From Anne

At 64-years old, Ane is a 27-year, 9 time breast cancer survivor. She says, "I have it now - but I refuse to let in run my life. I have been extraordinarily lucky!"

In 1992, after a very debilitating second bout of cancer, Anne built up to walking in 5K races. Then, in 1998, a friend challenged her to walk a half-marathon. And Anne walked the Disney half in January 1999. "I am currently training to race walk my 7th half-marathon in Portland, Maine on October 2 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society." Anne's goal is to finish the 13.1 miles in less than 3 hours.

Anne says, "I firmly believe that this exercise and all the challenges have helped me so much with fighting this terrible disease."

Well I, for one, am not going to argue with her on that point.

From Kristina

Kristina's father always told her that she "ran like a girl," and he didn't mean it the way we do, he meant it in, as she says, "a sort of sexist/joking/condescending way, which I didn't realize was demeaning and damaging to my self-esteem until recently. I actually always participated in the joke." And why not?—we are programmed to believe our parents, at least for the early part of our lives. For the first 28 years of Kristina's life, she "HATED" running. In fact, she reports that she spent her twenties in a drunken supor and gained 50 pounds. She had created her own perfect catch-22, in which she hated herself for being fat, so she drank, which caused her to get fatter. I think that defines a vicious cycle. As Kristina says, "my depression got the best of me and I did all the things girls with poor self-images do." But luckily for Kristina, somewhere underneath the weight of depression and despite the fog of alcohol, she decided to join a weight management program at a local hospital. Finally, this year, after one false start, she started to taste some success. "I went on a strict 1200-calorie diet with no exercise other than my part-time weekend job as a ski instructor. I also stopped drinking. My ski buddies (well, drinking buddies who skied sometimes) told me I was no fun anymore and gave me a very hard time about my efforts to get healthy." Not only was Kristina's lifestyle change difficult, the "loss" of friends took its toll. If that wasn't enough, Kristina was dating a condescending marathon runner (it's sad, but true, not all runners are nice people). Her boyfriend told her that if she really wanted to lose weight, she ought to register for a 5k. He may have been condescending, but his advice wasn't wrong. The guy I was dating at the time was a marathon runner (and the condescending guy you describe in your book) and he said, "If you really want to lose weight, register for a 5k." Kristina asked her mother what she thought about her daughter running a 5k; to which her mother helpfully responded, "you'll never be able to run a 5k."

I don't get it—what's to be gained from diminishing one's own daughter in that way?

No matter. Kristina told me, "I've now run three 5k races, and a 4-mile race, and I'm registered to run the Falmouth Road Race (7 miles) in August. In less than four months I've lost 38lbs and I'm happier than I've ever been. I'm still counting calories and working on losing that remaining 12lbs. My relationship with food has changed dramatically and I'm growing veggies on the back porch of my apartment, getting organic produce delivered to my house weekly, and learning how to cook. It was empowering to get rid of the mean boyfriend, but I am still grateful for his advice. p.s. When I finished my first 5k I sent the photo to my dad with a note that said, 'I still run like a girl.'"

Indeed, she does.

From Suzanne

Suzanne is the CEO of an agency in Florida and has been trying to lose weight, mend a broken heart, generally get her life back, but it simply wasn't happening; or at least not until she started training for the SheRox Sprint Triathlon in August 2011. Training, as she says, "thinking all the time that I couldn't do it." Wrong. In fact, Suzanne proved the opposite to herself, "I can not only do it, but I am good at it. Now, my confidence level is through the clouds into space, my weight is going down, my workout buddy and I have signed up for other events here in Florida and other states, I am so much better at my job and finally...FINALLY healing."

Gwen, Anne, Kristina and Suzanne are showing us all what it means to run like girls.

Tyvek Is the New Black

I had finally crested the hill…okay, hill is an understatement, when describing a 6 kilometer climb, with an elevation gain of 395 meters. I was on the way down, a precipitous descent, during the course of which I was going to lose all the elevation I'd gained in less than half the distance. Night was falling. In the gloaming, I could still make out the Cape Breton highlands crowding in around me. The sky was pre-navy blue, with smoke-dark cloud motes. The temperature had gone from wet-chill to warm-still and cloying as we'd turned the corner and begun to lose altitude.

I was high on exertion, but I could feel my energy was leaking away, and there was no little Dutch boy to staunch the outflow. Then I saw the van-top LED display, scrolling its bright red message, just for me, "Run Like a Girl!!" And standing beside the van were my can't-miss-them-in-those-outfits teammates, cheering me on. Just in time. I felt the swell of peacock energy that comes when you know someone's watching; more still, I felt the grace of support, and was supremely grateful.

I was halfway into my second leg, Leg 9 of the Cabot Trail Relay. A gorgeous 24-hour, 17 leg relay race around the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia, which took place this past weekend. My team, Seventeen Runners, are longtime veterans of the race, but my partner and I were newbies, recruits by a friend of a friend and so on.

I didn't do much by way of team sports when I was growing up, and so I'm not accustomed to team events. I've gravitated more to solitary sports, which, I suppose, is not surprising, since I've also chosen a somewhat solitary career, as well. So this event was something new for me in more ways than one, not to mention that I'm not an all-nighter kind of girl either. There was more…

In the days and weeks leading up to the event, the "reply all" emails had been flying around with increasing velocity. Food. First Aid. Vans. Accommodation (other than the vans). Leg distribution. So much to coordinate. And, in the midst of the flurry, Tyvek suits—yes, full zip-up coveralls, with hoods…made of Tyvek…available at your local hardware store. Just kidding. Not. Apparently the Tyvek suits were the team signature, as it were. Plus, my partner David and I were assured, they were efficacious at warding off the damp, chill, which was about 100% likely to descend at some point during the race, if not persist for the duration.

"That is so not happening," was my first thought. This is a level of un-cool to which I can't sink. I read an Op-Ed piece by Jonathan Franzen today, in which he admits to being a birdwatcher, despite the pursuit's uncoolness. I'm not sure where each of birdwatching and Tyvek suits are on the cool-ometer, but probably reasonably close to each other. David bought us Tyvek suits. I vowed to return for refund after the race. Team spirit-shmirit.

I boarded the plane to Halifax with some trepidation; this wasn't really "my kind of thing."

How little I need have worried. First, there is the Cape Breton landscape—impossible to resist. Then there's the purr of the hangover Scottish accent the longtime Nova Scotians still have. Then there's the race.

I soon realized that it was all a moveable party, progressing from one start/finish line to the next. We learned the drill (and we'll be much better next time!) of drive, identify teammate, pull over an ample distance ahead, cheer, and repeat cycle. In between, were the "lockdowns," when we were not allowed to drive on the course, giving the runners a chance to get into the rhythm of their legs, before the flow of cars and vans clotted up beside them. Lockdowns were a relaxing time to chat, have a bite to eat, put your feet up in the van, or perhaps find yourself dancing to the music emanating from someone's speakers. And the Tyvek suits…it turns out that they are highly visible, night and day, a huge bonus when you're trying to find teammates at the beginning or end of a leg, or spot them on the road. Oh, and yes, the suits were protection against the bone chilling cold and misting weather. More practical and equally as visible as the one team whose "uniform" was tighty-greenies, as I thought of them—shamrock green men's briefs, with little else.

To spot my Tyvek-garbed team, in the waning light, as my running zeal was fizzling, was exactly what I needed at that moment. No gel or gu or fortified sports drink would have done as much for my spirit. I was suddenly all-too-keenly aware of what a privilege it was to be part of the team. To be a teammate. To be an energy-source for another person. Now that's cool. Maybe it's what a bird feels like when it's being "watched," by Jonathan Franzen, or anyone, for that matter.

I won't be wearing a Tyvek suit around Manhattan anytime soon. But you'll be able to spot me easily next year at the Cabot Trail Relay…just look for the strange, white coveralls.

Run Like a Girl Makes Me Think of…

On Monday night at a great event at the JCC in Manhattan, I asked what people thought of when they heard the expression "run like a girl." These are some of the answers I got (unedited and unexpurgated):

Walk like a man. Flailing around. Inept.

Who wants to run like a man? All I imagine is a Vin Diesel or the Rock, huffing and puffing. What a gorilla! I'd rather be a girl.

Reminds me of my dad saying, "It's a good thing you don't run like a girl," perplexing to me when I was a teenager.

When I was in middle and high school, the most popular girl, Denise, was a total jock—and a great runner (and v-ball player). I envied her, and that's one thing I think of.

I think fragile—in part because of the skinny, colt-legged 8th grade girl runners, who look so fragile, but really, they're pretty fierce.

When I was a young girl, running like a girl meant to pretend to run but to make sure to look good at the same time and not mess my hair and dress sexy at the same time.

Sissy.

In school, I hated gym, pretended to have cramps as often as possible and now I am a committed runner and biker. What happened?

Run like a girl implies youthful exuberance, letting go, achieving an early goal---being an achiever right from the start. I see a movie with a young woman out on a broad swath of land, running down a lane, the wind in her hair…she is happy and so are we joyous watching her.

Makes me think of running wispily, uncoordinated and sort of mincingly. Reminds me of my daughter playing basketball in middle school and they were crying and playing at the same time.

Makes me think of a non-purposefully kind of gangly running. Not goal oriented.

Reminds me of running so fast that my feet barely touched the ground. I was thirteen, skinny and never so free. Reminds me of when I was in 8th grade, and I beat all of the boys on the high school track team in the 100 yard dash. But there was no girls track team for me, the girl who could outrun all the boys.

Being weaker, or made to feel weaker—even though you know you can do it better, just lack confidence.

Trying to keep up with a man. Walking quickly while wearing heels. Elementary school relay races. Anti-gay slurs.

Reminds me of relay races in grade school. Girls weren't as fast as boys, and never would be! So why ever try to win?

Running freely, like a seven-year old.

I once had a t-shirt that said, "whoever said last man standing wins never asked the girl to play." I wore it till it shredded.

Makes me think of an uncoordinated, legs and arms, flailing, clumsy girl—trying to run, but barely doing it.

Youthful, carefree, bliss, yet vulnerable.

Makes me think about my jogathon when I ran 9 miles in 2 hours. I was one of two girls that ran this much. I felt proud, and I showed the guys that anything is possible if you put your mind to it.

Then: Endless summer afternoons playing kickball with the kids (boys and girls) on the block. The losing team was subjected to the paddy-wack treatment by the winning team before the winners pranced around the losers "running like girls."

Do not look butch. If you are running for your life, run like a guy.

Reminds me of what my ten-year old serious softball playing daughter is learning to do: throw like a girl! And that is meant in a good way. She has had the good fortune of wonderful male and female coaches and we've watched many high school and college softball games. The upshot—she's learning to throw like a girl—and she's got a bullet!

Gawky, aimless and silly.

Clumsy and uncoordinated.

Run freely, with wind on one's back.

When I was told that I run like a girl—it meant that I did not have good running form. Anyone could run faster than me. My arms were all wrong.

I remember 10-12 year old kids making fun of a boy who "ran like a girl."

Reminds me of the term "take back the night" From the marches of the 80's—it's about reclaiming something that was taken.

Being so confident as to be able to overcome cultural bias—without blinking—and just do it!

I picture a woman with a very short skirt, high heels, probably drunk, running to try to get a taxi.

Means…watching an Ethiopian or Kenyan woman win the marathon. Game on men!

Run like girls, emphasis on the plural—there is something magical, unique and indescribable about the sisterhood between female athletes. Rock on title IX.

Running feels like freedom—like being a kid again—joyful…

Reminds me of being made fun of by the older kids on the playground in school.

Forget the "like a girl." Just RUN.

Got ambitions?

A friend of mine recently had the good fortune to participate in a women's leadership forum. As part of the materials, she received the transcript of a fantastic speech, given by the woman in whose name the forum was founded; a speech, which eloquently defines the challenge women face when it comes to ambition.

Highly recommended reading: Judy Elder's speech; given to the Toronto Board of Trade as part of the Women's Television Network 'Gift of Wisdom" series. To view the speech, click the link here and then the second link on the page you will land on, which is titled "Mothers, Fathers, Men, Ambition."

Own ambition audaciously!

I Missed the Part Where I Asked...

Running across the George Washington Bridge this a.m. I passed a man on a bike (yes, I was running, he was on commuter wheels); a minute later he cycled up beside me and proceeded to advise me on arm position. --??-- I missed the part where I asked him for advice. From whence this urge to be an unsolicited advisor?...to a woman...natch...because it seems highly unlikely that said commuter cyclist would offer unprompted style tips to a man running.

And what about his advice?--not wrong--drop my arms to ninety degrees--which, strangely, I happened to be working on that morning, as I was trying out new minimalist shoes (thank you, Newton), so I was already concentrating on form (apparently insufficiently, at least according to my new volunteer coach). But the "rightness" of the advice is beside the point, it was the unwelcome, chauvinistic intrusion into my own peaceful concentration.

I'm a girl though, I thanked him and smiled (weakly, I admit). I'm not the only one, right?