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Going The Distance
The definitive chronicle of the Portland Marthon
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Learning to Walk
From the Sofa to a Marathon in Nine Months
The essays in Sheilagh Conklin's book, Learning To Walk, chronicle the nine months leading up to her participation in the 2006 Portland Marathon. At the onset, a simple walk around the park proved to be too strenuous. Forty-five years old, fifty pounds over weight with no previous athletic experience, Sheilagh had her work cut out for her. But with supportive friends, a common sense attitude, determination, and a sense of humor, she put one foot in front of the other and eventually found herself in Portland, Oregon on October 1, 2006 for the marathon. Her book is inspirational, informative and laugh-out-loud funny.
The Portland Marathon will feature a different excerpt from Learning To Walk each week leading up to the 2008 Portland Marathon with the hope that readers will be entertained and inspired by one very typical woman's experience with marathon training and participation. Sheilagh is registered for the 2008 Portland Marathon and is once again assembling a team of walkers and novice athletes. Her goal: finish in 8 hours. If you would like to join Sheilagh's Team, let her know through her website, www.learningtowalk-book.com
If you like the excerpt, you can purchase the book through her website at www.learningtowalk-book.com. In keeping with the Portland Marathon's tradition of community service and charitable contribution, Sheilagh's efforts were done in support of her chosen charity, The Children's Tumor Foundation and a donation is made with the purchase of each book.
Learning To Walk
By Sheilagh Conklin
Excerpt #7: Personal Space: Thongs and Locker Rooms
Now that I'm an athlete (I love saying that), I have to remind myself that most people want more personal space than I'm inclined to give them. The various activities associated with exercising are the first I've encountered - that I can think of, anyway - that put me together with other people that don't consider themselves to be together. We're together, but we're not together. I'm now undressing, swimming, showering, soaking, sweating, walking, blow drying my hair and doing all sorts of personal things in close proximity with other people, yet we pretend we're alone. As humans, we weave through our daily routine, shifting between being social animals and solitary recluses. Some of us fall farther to one side of the spectrum or the other based upon our nature, but we all struggle with finding the right balance between connecting with those around us and giving each other appropriate space. Well, it's a struggle for me, anyway.
I'm like a Labrador - assuming everyone is as friendly as I am and anxious to get to know me. I am quick to wag my tail and lick a hand as a friendly gesture. Asking me to pretend that the people I'm together with are not really there goes against my nature. Imagine a yellow Lab in a crowd and not sticking his nose in someone's crotch. No way.
I'm now spending more time than I ever have dressing and undressing in front of strange women (unknown to me, not necessarily bizarre). I don't want to appear to have something to hide, so I don't opt to change in one of the few private corners with curtains. I'm out in the main locker room area, naked, with all the other women I'm not supposed to notice. As I dress and undress, I want to look around, compare and contrast, but I don't...much. My inclination is to want to look carefully at those I'm with, engage in conversation, ask questions, and make personal connections, but I've learned that this is neither the time nor the place. I'm especially intrigued by women I perceive to be my age or older and look great. Not skinny, or necessarily fit and firm, but with bodies that flow seamlessly from one region to the next. Legs that melt into hips and butt which then flow effortlessly north to the waist, gently expanding out to accommodate the torso and chest. Arms that emerge easily out of the shoulders and a neck that smoothly rises up to support the head. In other words, all the pieces fit together into a single package and nothing looks out of place, blown out of proportion, or stuck on as an afterthought. I would love to look like that, like all my parts were purchased at the same time from the same manufacturer.
I'm also drawn to women in thong underwear. I want to know how they work, where they go exactly and how they feel (the underwear, not the women). Is it the personality-type or the body-type that chooses to wear a thong? And are thong liners intrusive or functional? I'm curious! But I've learned that inquiring minds get shunned. I am making a vow to myself right here and now: when I lose a bunch of weight I'm going to get a thong and see how the other half lives.
My thong nightmare:
I'm slipping into my new thong while dressing in the ladies locker room at the health club. It's on, and I bend to pull on my pants when, snap, something breaks. The thong is gone. I look around on the floor, but there is no sign of it. I realize to my horror that it has disappeared into the dark vortex of my derriere. I fade out then fade in to find myself face down on a hospital gurney being wheeled quickly down a long hall and through several sets of double doors (see "Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life", the miracle of birth scene). The emergency room doctor comes quickly into the exam room, just out of my view. "What do we have here, nurse?" as he picks up my chart. His voice is familiar, and I realize I know him as he comes to the head of my bed. "Sheilagh, is that you?" We exchange pleasantries. We had recently met at a fund raiser for this hospital where, as it so happens, my husband works as a prominent physician. The nurse pipes in, "Apparently she had a wardrobe malfunction, and her thong is now lost in her extreme lower GI." "Hmm, an unfortunate mishap," says the handsome, serious ER doc. "What color was it?" The nurse comes to my head, "What color was it?" "Black", I say. She returns to the doctor's side, just out of view. "Black". "Hmmm. OK, I'll need a headlamp and some long palpation gloves". A minute later he moves back into view. Headlamp in place like a coal miner, he is pulling on long latex gloves that go up to his armpits, like a large animal vet preparing to do a rectal exam on a horse or cow. "Warm up that KY, nurse. And I think I'll need the spreaders." It is at this point I wake up.
I certainly don't want to socialize while I'm the one that's naked, but I am really impressed with those that can. The few times I've run into someone I know while undressed, I get a little anxious and feel like an idiot. One time I had just pulled off my swimsuit and had not dried off fully, when a woman I had met through my child's school saw me and started chatting. I felt panicked and totally self-conscious, trying to quickly put on my clothes over wet skin, all while keeping up a friendly conversation. Finally, my bra had me completely hogtied. It would not slide around my wet ribcage. I shoved my arms through the straps even though the cups weren't lined up in front. I couldn't get it on, and I wouldn't take it off. I looked ridiculous getting tangled up in my big double D's. A calf roper couldn't have done any better.
It's not just the ladies locker room that requires me to modify my style. When taking training walks I find myself having to make decisions about human-to-human connectivity several times during each outing. I can't get lost in my thoughts while on a walk as there are too many interpersonal decisions that need to be made. My nature is fairly outgoing, and I'm inclined to want to connect with people. But I've noticed that I'm in the minority, at least with the mid-morning walking crowd. As we pass, left hand to left hand like good little drivers, I must decide to connect or not connect. I try to read their body language as they approach. Do I employ brief eye contact only, increase it to a slight smile, put on a full smile, move to a verbal "Hi", or look at something beyond them and give them nothing at all? All this must be evaluated and decided upon in a matter of seconds. If they are on the cell phone, no decision needs to be made. They're connected to someone else so I don't feel obligated to extend the invisible hand of friendship. On a typical walk, only about ten percent want a smile and "Hi". Most take my brief eye contact and respond with the unspoken message, "that's all I want so don't try to connect with me any more than we already have."
Lap swimming is a completely solitary athletic activity. In the lap pool, hemmed in by my lane buoys, "I touch no one and no one touches me. I am a rock. I am an iiiiiiisland" (Simon and Garfunkle). Any sound is muffled by the water, my goggles quickly fog, and I can barely make out the stripe on the bottom of the pool let alone anyone's face. Even in crowded lane conditions, I am alone. I get a lot of thinking done while swimming laps, but it's not the workout routine for me long-term. The Labrador in me likes the water, but I would still rather put my wet nose on someone and get to know them better.
