The clenched fist

So I’ve been running—no, jogging—for about five weeks now. It’s still hard for me to say that I’ve been running. It’s still incredibly hard for me to call myself a runner. Too much expectation of what a runner’s supposed to look like, and that’s just not my body type.

I never thought that I’d take up running as my cardio exercise, ever. With the quirky exception of soccer, which I love to play, running has had bad connotations for me for a very long time. The timed high school run around the practice fields, the lagging behind almost everyone else. Unattractively out of breath and sweaty in an unattractive big T-shirt and shorts. Running was all about pointing out how out of shape I was, particularly compared to (as it felt) almost everyone else.

Oh yes, and running was always about the aching feet, which I thought was just a natural part of running for everyone. And then I got some real running shoes, from a store that actually analyzes your feet, the shoes’ fit, and your stride. As a lifelong low-maintenance girl, the running-shoe fit is the closest thing I’ve come to an in-store makeover, for now. (What’s next: Sephora?)

I didn’t even want to run. Walking has always been more, ahem, my speed. However, having come through a difficult year with my mind mostly intact, it was time to take better care of the body. A couple of people very close to me have had great success with this program, so I thought I would give it a try.

Now, running by myself meant that I didn’t have to worry about anyone timing me, or about competing with anyone else, or thinking about how quickly I lose my breath. So for the first two weeks or so, I walked most of the time, and listened to music, and walked a little faster for a minute or two, here and there. But I didn’t think that it counted as running. Then, ventolin inhaler nyc during the “run” portions of the program, I began to shuffle, faster than walking and almost to a fast race walk. I didn’t think that was running, either.

Maybe it wasn’t. I now realize that in running, there’s something important about the hands.

As I walked for the first few weeks, I’d kept my hands open, loose, mostly so I could move them along with the music coming from my Itouch. I played air piano for Stevie Wonder, or waved my hands around as I sang with ABBA, and even played air typewriter for the Prince lyrics. But the hands have always been loose: fingers open, keeping their options open. I’m not running, no sirree. Who’s running around here? Not me, not me. La, la, la.

But last week I began to close my hands into loose fists, thumbs inexplicably tucked under index fingers. And I realized what making a fist does to the arms: it activates the muscles in the forearms. Once the forearms commit, they activate the elbows. When the elbows swing forward, in counterpoint with your feet, they bring their own momentum. When your elbows and arms are swinging, your entire upper body commits to the run. Since your lower body’s pretty much moving already when you run, simply clenching your fists involves your entire body in the run. The grip isn’t violent. Your fists just have to be clenched, fingers closed enough for a fist-bump. Those of you reading this who are runners, you must know this already. But it’s huge news to me.

You have to clench your fists first: then the commitment will come.

I’m here, after a couple of crazy weeks. I’ve been worried about writing, worried about grading, worried about teaching, but mostly worried about showing up in the first place. I still don’t think I’m a runner. And yet, I suspect that I’ll be learning from what it is to run, for a long time.

Thanks for coming back and reading.