Happy Anniversary, Talking to Strangers. You and I have been in quite the relationship for the past year, and I want to thank you for everything you were, are, and will be for me. When we first began, I was burned out, hesitant, unsure, wary of sustained commitment, but hopeful and determined. Over the past year, you’ve taught me so much about myself, pushed me beyond my perceived limits, made me think about myself and the world around me, and opened opportunities for me to connect with others – superficially and momentarily, but also fundamentally and deeply. I started this blog hungry for relationship, for connection, and for growth. I found all three in ways I expected, and in ways I could never have seen coming.

Two weeks ago this past Saturday, over Memorial Day weekend, a group of friends and I took a class at Barry’s Bootcamp. For those unfamiliar with the franchise, Barry’s is billed as both “the original high-intensity workout” and “the best workout in the world.” Two of my friends were Barry’s veterans, and they encouraged the rest of us to give the boutique gym a try – specifically, we signed up for a class with their favorite instructor. He is a fitness model, rockstar trainer, and impossibly charismatic father of three who teaches a perfectly choreographed class set to electronic dance music. When the beat drops – you sprint. There are few things I love more than a brutal fitness class and a beat drop. I was sold before I even logged on to reserve my spot.

The class was exactly what I expected – sweaty, exhilarating, mentally and physically challenging, and I left with a massive endorphin high and a crush on the instructor. In a scheduling snafu that precluded my claiming a free introductory class for our Saturday workout, I found myself with a free class I had to use within a week. I sat on it for a few days as I gingerly made my way up and down stairs and lowered my body – gripped by delayed onset muscle soreness – into my car, onto my couch, or down to toilet seats. On Wednesday, I decided to go for it and looked up Andrew’s other classes. He was teaching a 9:30 am class at the Lincoln Park location. I chose my starting position (spot F11), redeemed my free class, and waited for Friday.

By Thursday night, I wondered if I would be able to make it through the class. I had worked out with my trainer on Wednesday and, in his continued attempts to ready my thirty-five-year-old body for a fifth marathon, he had maxed out my hamstrings. From the refuge of my tub, bath run as hot as I could tolerate, I voiced my concerns to my best friend over the phone. “You’ll be fine,” she said, “but you may need a wheelchair for the rest of the weekend.” I crawled into bed and prayed I’d be able to run in the morning.

My alarm went off at 7 – plenty of time to drink some coffee, hobble to my foam roller and calculate my risk of falling off a treadmill. Surprisingly, I felt a little better than the day before, and I made it to Barry’s LP with plenty of time to find parking, lock up my belongings, and claim my floor space for the class.

As I waited in the lobby for our 9:30 start time, I watched other gym-goers file in with their tight bodies and even tighter workout wear. I am pretty poor at estimating ages, but I would guess the people in that room had lived an average of twenty-five years on this earth. Who these women (and a few men) were, and what they did for a living that they were free at 9:30 on a Friday and could afford Barry’s classes (which tip the financial scales at $30 a pop) was far beyond my comprehension. I stretched my angry right glute and waited for the blessed blood-red lighting of the studio, which I hoped would both obscure my fine lines and make my biceps look fierce.

At 9:28 Andrew threw open the doors with all the enthusiasm of a golden retriever puppy and, with the steely command of a drill sergeant, he gave everyone a high five and delivered orders to the room. “I don’t have time for you to think about being ready, I need you ready right now,” he said. I smiled and squatted – my hamstrings and glutes loosening, the steady beat of the electronic music pulsing in my chest. I finished my round on the floor and headed to the treadmills where we started out with a jog, progressed to a run, and then transitioned into an all-out sprint. As we approached the sprint portion, Andrew warned us. “Treaders,” he said, “when the beat drops, you sprint. That’s going to be at least 2 [miles per hour] above your run. That number you just thought of? The one that scares you? That’s what I need you to do.”

I smiled, again, and shook my head. I’d thought of a number that scared me, and then I’d thought of a safe number. Until Andrew suggested otherwise, I was going to run the “safe” number. Instead, I cranked my treadmill up to a full-on sprint and went for it. As I jumped onto the sides of the treadmill to allow the belt to slow, my muscles quivered, my chest heaved, sweat dripped down the back of my tank top – but I did it. I also knew that I could do it. I wasn’t reckless in cranking my run up one more mph. I knew I wouldn’t fall off the treadmill, but I also knew it would hurt – so I was going to go with the “safe” number.

Andrew repeated his directives each time we went into a sprint, and each time I went for the number that scared me. On the way out, he gave everyone a sweaty hug and pressed his cheek to each of ours for a very Parisian “Good job. You kicked ass,” kiss. I wobbled out on cloud nine, and with shaky hands picked up a gourmet donut one of the other trainers had brought for everyone in the class (it was National Donut Day. Another thing I love? Fabricated national holidays). I was so physically obliterated I couldn’t eat the donut, but it didn’t matter. I had conquered my second Barry’s Bootcamp class, and Andrew had planted a seed.

This past Saturday was meant to be my first long training run for the 2018 Chicago Marathon, which I will be running to benefit PAWS (shameless link to my fundraising site. I mean, come on. Puppies!). To be clear, I love pushing my body, but I don’t particularly love running as a discipline. I love running groups, running buddies, eating carbs, and taking long hot showers after long runs. Because I would rather lift or take a HIIT class any day, I haven’t run more than 4 miles in the past eighteen months. All that being said, I knew that with the training I do regularly, I could easily handle the mileage on Saturday. I looked forward to starting my runs with CARA.

I set my alarm for 4:45 and awoke to rumbling thunder and the sound of raindrops on my window. I checked my email and Twitter to see if our run was still on. Seeing nothing to suggest otherwise, I ate a light breakfast, got dressed, taped up my blister-prone feet, and headed out the door to meet my training group at Lakeshore Sport and Fitness in Lincoln Park. Proud of my timely 5:45 arrival, I checked in at the desk and was ushered into a large holding area where a group leader announced mournfully, “The run is canceled due to lightning strikes.” Disappointed but not surprised, I decided to immediately run the mileage by myself.

I drove down to 31^st street beach, paid to park my car, put my phone in a plastic baggie, and started running before I could talk myself out of it. Like Andrew had said in class “I don’t have time for you to think about being ready. I need you ready right now.” As I ran, I considered my mileage. Truthfully, I should be running the intermediate schedule to train for this race – I’ve completed four marathons in decent time, and I take my fitness seriously. I know I can run the mileage on the intermediate schedule – but I had planned on defaulting to the novice requirements. I heard Andrew’s voice in my head. “That number you just thought of? The one that scares you? That’s what I need you to do.” Damnit, I thought, I’m running eight miles today.

And I did. It thundered. It rained. I questioned my safety when lighting bolted, but never as much as when I ran through a flock of resting Canadian geese. Those birds are mean. As I ran, I thought. I thought about what scares me, and about what it means to take risks – what it means to be ready now before I’ve had time to think about being ready. I thought about the difference between being a hero, and knowing what I’m capable of. I hurt, I ran through huge puddles, I was soaked to the bone and my feet were pruned and water-logged when I pulled my shoes off to drive home, heat cranked up like it was January. But – I did it.

Over the past few days, I’ve continued to think about risk, reward, and what scares me. Starting this blog scared me, but what scares me more? Sharing it. When I published my first post, I shared it with twenty or so close friends and family members. Over the past year, I’ve encouraged those original twenty to share it with anyone with whom it might resonate. Several months ago, I bought my domain name and migrated my Blogger site to WordPress. About a month ago, I put a link in my Instagram profile. Baby steps. “Safe” numbers.

This blog is readable, but, visually, it’s far from professional. It falls far below my expectations of myself. My rational mind says, “It’s not ready.” Again, I think, “I don’t have time for you to think about being ready. I need you to be ready right now.” I wonder if I should share it with a wider audience, and then I think, “That number you just thought of? The one that scares you? That’s what I need you to do.”

So, on the one-year anniversary of starting this blog, with the same trepidation with which I first hit “publish,” I will share it openly on my social media. I’m not ready, it’s not ready, it’s not perfect, and sharing it sure as hell scares me – but it’s the next step. Happy Anniversary, Talking to Strangers. I can’t wait to see where we go from here.

Until next time…

P.S. If you’d like to read where it all began, here is my post from one year ago today – The Challenge.

Since I don’t have a photo of me running this past Saturday, here is one from a few years ago.