A Lazy Caterpillar Could Outrace You

On the horrendous things I say to myself while running. And other times, too.

One of the most powerful workouts I ever did involved a stack of post-it notes.

It was at the Wilder Retreat in Bend, Oregon – where we spent a long weekend exploring the interplay of writing and running and the outdoors. Each day of the workshop involved some miles around the riverside paths and alpine trails of Central Oregon, alongside some hours scribbling away in our notebooks and learning to let our words run untethered.

I don’t remember exactly how many miles we ran during this very memorable workout. Or how long our speedy intervals were. Or how fast I did them.

I do recall that the workout was hard enough that my legs reached that place where it felt like someone was administering shots of lactic acid into each stride. Where my lungs burned with effort. Where my legs had to choose between pushing through a wall of tired limbs or backing down a notch or twelve. Between embracing discomfort or surrendering to fatigue.

The real standout memory of the run was the unconventional instruction for our intervals from Lauren.

“Take note of the negative things you tell yourself during this run, especially after it gets hard,” she called out to the group of runner-writers.

When the workout was over, we cooled down in the grassy field beside the Deschutes River and then retreated back to our writing den. Where we settled into heaps of sweaty limbs on the hardwood floor, with sunlight spilling into the room from the windows overhead. Lauren pulled out a rainbow of post-it notes and told us to write down any of the negative self-talk that had invaded our brains during this workout.

I grabbed a sharpie and started scrawling across the neon paper:

“Who put your fire out? You’re uninspired. You’re lazy. You’re a sack of uninspired, lazy bones.”

“Your thighs are as squishy as the mud. This is why you’re slow.”

“Look at all of those real runners ahead of you.”

After a few minutes, Lauren addressed the room again.

“Now, partner up with someone near you,” she said.

We all shuffled around and paired up with one of the women nearest to our pile of sweaty limbs and post-it notes.

“Now, look your partner in the eye and read them what you wrote.”

Audible gasps traveled across the room like a game day wave.

I nervously glanced down at my post-its and flicked my eyes up at my partner. Nothing I’d written seemed appropriate for directing at another human. A very kind, very lovely, very wonderful human being. A human being who did not deserve the nasty brutalities I’d inked onto my paper.

Which, of course, was the point of this drill.

As I looked my partner in the eye and told her things like “a lazy caterpillar could outrace you” and “slow fits you,” the weight of the words I say to my own face slammed into me like a dump truck full of lead.

The room was full of women coming to similar realizations as a flurry of insults ricocheted from wall to wall to wall.  

When I woke up a few Mondays ago, the inside of my thigh hollered like an angry screech owl.

It was clear that something during my muddy trail run the day before had agitated it. While I have ever been dumb or desperate enough to push through a red flag like a screaming thigh, I decided to listen to it and take a few days off running to give it a break.  

On the first day of my voluntary-involuntary rest, the negative thoughts started to rush my head as fast and furious as a charging rhinocerous.

“Well, there goes 2021.”

“Your fitness is now in the trash, along with every goal you might have set this year.”

“You are such an idiot – this is what you get for training with stupidity as a running partner.”

“You and running are as over as O-Town.”

They kept coming and coming, as dramatic as a midday soap opera.

As I swam through my negativity, I thought about what would happen if any one of my good running friends had to take a few days off from running for illness or injury or thigh niggle.

I would reassure them that it was no big deal. That they were making good decisions for their health and body. That they were being kind to themselves. That they were taking care of Future Friend. That they were choosing long-term sustainable running over short-term impatience. That a few days off is not going to squash every ounce of their running potential.

But when it was me that was faced with a hip niggle and a few down days, my inner dialogue sounded a bit different.

As I realized what a bully I was being to myself, I traveled back to the post-it drill at Wilder. I thought about reading my inner dialogue to a friend. Looking them straight in the eye and actually uttering all of those garbage words out loud to someone I love.

And I knew without a sliver of a doubt that I would never-ever-ever-ever do that.

So why was I doing it to myself?

I went for a run earlier this week, on the undulating strip of trail in the forested hills behind my house.

As I was running up the first big climb of the run, I felt slow and heavy as I grinded up the hill. My legs were more sluggish than springy. My brain started to tee up a flurry of harsh words about what a terrible and hopeless runner I am and how all of my goals are unrealistic and unattainable and should be scrapped forever and ever.  

And then I caught myself mid-insult and realized what I was doing. My mind was cocked and ready to chuck another unforgivable statement straight at myself. A statement I would never dare utter to another human. A statement that was untrue and unfair and unnecessarily cruel.

As I kept running up this hill, I realized a better use of my brain would be to ask: “What would I tell someone I love right now?”

And then I repeated those words to myself.