When you lose weight, it often takes awhile to adjust to your new form. My fat years were but a blip in my lifespan, and I wasn’t that overweight. Nonetheless, my brain needs to catch up with my body from time to time.
It’s completely irrational. Yet, sometimes, even several years after losing double-digit pounds, I look at a pair of jeans or swimsuit bottoms and think, “There’s no way I can wear those.” Then, the item proves too big. I even worry that a weekend spent eating too much or too unhealthy means ballooning 30 pounds by Monday and having to start over again. The chubby girl lurks in my brain.
This seems to be my experience with fitness as well. Apparently my inner fatty ate the tenacious, goal-driven collegiate cross country runner (well, JV in D3, so we’re not talking anything amazing, but still athletic) who enjoyed rock climbing and downhill skiing and wanted to run marathons and scale mountains. The panting, hacking, pain-filled bike racing neophyte appears alive and well after more than three years in the saddle, just when I think I may have unloaded her. Even as I started allowing myself to acknowledge improvements this summer both on the track and the trail, I worried a few days off might render me back where I began – sucking wind and barely pedaling way behind the pack.
And this mindset followed me to the Fridley cross race on Saturday. I kept my expectations low. Perhaps a couple of recovery weeks meant complete fitness loss. Doomed, I would be mercilessly lapped and pulled from the race – or, worse yet, give up out of sheer exhaustion. At least I would get an intensity workout, right?
Riding the course surprised me. It seemed reasonable. I didn’t feel like a breathless heap of atrophied muscle. Lining up at the start felt exciting, not dreadful.
Even though this 30-minute race on a relatively flat circuit hurt far worse than Chequamegon with its 40 punishing miles, I hung in there. Even though the 80-degree weather left me a bit dizzy and longing for water, I pushed myself to tough it out. My heart rate spiked to a number it rarely reaches, and I probably looked incredibly slow in spots. By the end, I could barely run up the runup and I more or less stepped over the barriers – about knee-height of someone my size. But I had enough juice to pick it up on the flats, and that felt pretty good. I focused on cheering on and sticking with the other riders around me – I wasn’t off on my own. Something crazy happened, I had a great time and didn’t finish last.
With the taste in my mouth, I started looking forward to the next race. And this thought pretty much slapped my brain into reality: If I move backward, it’s because I’ve given up or slacked off. I’m not the same rider I was three seasons ago; I’ve improved. I have put in some hard work and am dedicated to taking it up a notch. It’s time to retrain my brain.
