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Ochazuke | |
 Nao Gunji |
A couple friends of mine and I are participating in a sprint triathlon race in September. It is a mini one, which consists of 0.5 miles of swimming, 10 miles of biking and 3 miles of running. When we made the decision last fall, I figured a year of training would make me perfectly fit for the race. I imagined myself trim and strong, crossing the finish line with a smile. However, the event is approaching rather rapidly now and I am anxious that I don’t have enough time to prepare. I have been going to the gym for 6 or 7 years. My then boyfriend was sort of a gym rat and he couldn’t understand how anyone in his or her right mind could survive without a gym membership. He brainwashed me into the world of sweat, muscle shorts and “guns.” Although I pretended to be a good girlfriend and gym lover, I was mediocre. Running on a treadmill made me feel like a hamster in a running wheel and swinging the tiniest weights in short-shorts seemed too girlie. Still, I kept going because I enjoyed clearing my head with exercise and I was afraid that I’d be the size of a small whale without it.
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Since I was a little girl, I have been always relatively athletic. I started attending a Spartan swimming school at the age of 4. The instructors there were so strict that they hit me with a kick board whenever my performance wasn’t satisfactory. I learned to pee in the pool since they didn’t allow young swimmers to come out of the water too often. I am not sure if I ever loved swimming competitively, but being a swimmer gave me an edge at school, and most of all, I loved feeling, smelling, and hearing the water– and still do. Meanwhile, on dry land, my athletic performance as a young child didn’t amaze people but amused them, according to my mother. She once told me that I had the most comical style of walking among all the neighborhood babies. Imagine Donald Duck in a diaper, my butt all stuck out and legs bent at the knees and all wobbly, I debuted my walk in front of the moms and older kids who pointed and laughed at me. My mother said I walked surprisingly fast despite the unfortunate form, though. In kindergarten, waving to my parents while running became my trademark at athletic meets, and I continued to entertain others with my performance. I remember it was when I got to elementary school, exercising, especially running, became so competitive. Times were recorded, and faster kids were picked for relay-race teams during athletic meets. There was a pride and joy to being an athletic kid, and one day, I decided that I should taste victory, I should be the one whom everybody looked up to. Motivated by determination and jealousy, I ran. I ran so fast that I was a relay-race team member till I graduated the school three years later. As I hit puberty and learned to be cynical, I lost my enthusiasm for sports. Suddenly, hating everything was cool and trying hard to achieve something became extremely un-cool. My athletic ability went downhill and my figure expanded. I spent hours and hours writing angry journal entries, which, I suppose, eventually led me to my current career. So, thanks to the gym rat ex, I was back in the scene. For the past five years or so, I followed a routine including running, weight lifting, swimming, biking and occasional yoga/pilates, and I was getting bored. I didn’t have any goals. My cholesterol level might have been low, but my energy was low, too. Out of boredom, I participated in a 5K race for the first time last year and learned that running 3 miles on the streets with thousands of people was a totally different experience from running on a treadmill at the gym. Outside, the air goes more aggressively in and out of the body. The pressure to the feet is heavier, and fellow runners often break one’s pace and concentration. Overall, that was a refreshing experience. I greatly enjoyed the sense of accomplishment and how my body got utterly exhausted. I guess that is what is called the “runner’s high.” After 30 minutes of running, sweating and losing my breath, I felt alive. As I stumbled onto the curb at the finish line, I thought to myself, “a jock is born.” I am not ready at all for the triathlon, and I probably won’t be ready. I am an amateur, newborn jock who still has a hard time in choosing to go to the gym over sipping cocktails or staying in my nice, warm bed. I don’t think I will learn to wake up earlier and work out in the morning any time soon. However, I don’t think I will stop running any time soon, either. I am just having too much fun.
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