Half-Marathon Boot Camp: Pull, Lift, Squat, Hop, Lunge

My October 30 10-mile training walk was revealing. The first 8 miles are great. The sun shines, glinting off the Potomac River, and the trees are in their autumn beauty. 

The last 2 miles-not so much. My back, butt, even my feet muscles, for heaven's sake, are screaming. By mile 10, I can't wobble one step farther. My speed: a mile every 18 minutes.

I take stock.

How can I move up from 10-mile to 13.1-mile stamina? I'm discovering 10 miles is a really long distance. And 3 miles on top of 10 seems a lot farther. (Half-marathon training plans here).

How can I go that much farther, faster? To finish in Disney's maximum allowed time of 3 hours and 30 minutes, I need 15-minute miles. That's a good deal faster than my current 18-minute mile. 

And the race is just nine weeks away! How can I push my body to go farther and faster in just nine weeks without getting hurt? 

The answer is clear.  I need a personal trainer.

The first time I mention a trainer to my husband Russ, he harrumphs. "That's ridiculous!" he splutters. "You don't need a trainer! You should be able to do this on your own!"

It takes heavy negotiating to win Russ over and serious budget adjustments to pay for my plan. In the DC area, good trainers don't come cheap. Twelve sessions with the one I have in mind, an "elite" trainer at my gym, cost $864.

Looking back, though, hiring Paul was worth every penny. He... 

* prevented me, a hefty, novice runner, from getting hurt while training; 

* built my strength, endurance, and speed;

* showed me that I could do dozens of exercises I never would have tried on my own;

* vastly improved my posture, carriage, and gait; 

* helped me drop below my 180-pound barrier, where I'd been stuck for months;

* believed, and led me to believe that I actually could run 13.1 miles in 3:30!

Meet Paul

Paul teaches electrifying Metabolic Effect classes at my gym. He's got endless muscles, energy, and humor. "Russian twists!" he'll yell in class. "I'm rushin' and I'm twistin'! Rushin'! Twistin'!" Paul played football at a local high school, once pursued a professional boxing career, sometimes wears giant red basketball shoes, and has a well-earned rep as one of the gym's strongest and toughest trainers.  

"High knees!" he'll yell in class. "Run with high knees! If you don't get them up, something's gonna bite you in the rear!" He runs around the class, standing behind various people, yelling "Bite! Bite! Go higher!" People get their knees up. 

On November 9, I give Paul his mission: "I need a stronger back, butt, and feet muscles. I need to run 13.1 in 3:30 on January 7."

"Let's go!" he shouts. "We can do this!"

Our first workout is intense. First we work on back muscles. We do endless lat pulls and vertical flies. Cross cable, 25 pounds, wood-chop motion, 15 reps, low to high, and then 15 high to low. Again! Again!  As I pull, Paul presses his knee into my back, molding it into good form. "Pull!" he yells.  

"Give me more! Faster!" 

Then feet: "Hop on the left foot for 60 seconds. Hop on the right. 60 seconds. Do it again. And again. Leap back and forth over the kettle weight as fast as you can." 

"Faster! Go champ! Faster! You got this!" 

For every exercise, Paul pushes me to do set after set until I can't do a single nother one. 

As a teacher, I came to dislike whining so much that I had a "No Whining" sign posted on my wall. So I am determined that no matter how hard Paul pushes, he will not get a peep out of me. Also, I notice that if I plaster a smile on my face, I can do more hops, jumps, or pulls.   

"Wow! That felt great!" I gasp after every exercise (or at least after the ones where I still have enough breath to get a word out). "What's next?"  

At the end of our first hour, Paul puts me on the treadmill. My jaw drops. I've never run on a treadmill. I can't possibly do this! I think. He shows me how to set the thing up and presses the "on" button.  

"Run 2 miles. Try for 13-minute miles!" he says. I plaster on my smile. "Great!" I whisper, somewhat unconvincingly. He leaves me to it. 

Pad, pad, pad. Actually this isn't so bad. Every time a drop of sweat rolls down my cheek, I feel a rill of pleasure. Another drop of fat down the drain, I think. 

By the end of the workout I think, Getting a trainer is the smartest thing I ever did. For the first time I think, maybe I can do 13.1 in 3:30. And This is going to get me under the 180-pound barrier! This is huge. I've been stuck at 180 pounds for months.

Paul gives me daily exercises to do at home: 

* 50 pushups (my form needs work)

* 25 dips 

* 3 minutes of airplanes (lie on your tummy, put arms out like airplane wings, lift chest, pull back shoulders, and hold it!

My weak back is the biggest barrier between me and 13.1 in 3:30, so I work hardest on airplanes and other back exercises. Soon I'm practicing pulling my shoulders back all day-in the car, in the grocery, everywhere I think no one will notice a mom sticking her mighty chest out as if she were Mighty Mouse. 

Three days after my first treadmill run, I try it again. Pad, pad, pad. This time I cover 5.2 miles in 75 minutes. After some experimenting, I find that if I run in intervals of 8 minutes at 4.4 mph, followed by walking for 2 minutes at 3.2 mph, I can keep going for a long long time. Pad, pad, pad. As I jog along, I feel the fat on my hips and legs shaking. I imagine that the fat is bouncing right off of my body. I pull my shoulders back.

 "Shake, baby, shake!" I sing to myself.  

The treadmill run liquefies my digestive system, but I'm on air. I can do this! I think. I can do it! If nothing else, training for the marathon is giving me the strength to run on a treadmill for an entire hour! Who would have thunk it?

A gym friend comes up to me: "You're my inspiration," she says. "I only walk the treadmill. But geez-if you can do it, well, I decided I'd better run, too."

Actually, I never think I can do any of the exercises Paul asks me to do in the coming weeks. Stairclimber? No way! Revolving side planks? Get out of here! 

"Squat and wrap the kettle weights in figure eights around your legs 10 times!" he yells. Really? I think. But I gasp, "Okie dokie!"  

"Now squat and crab-walk across the gym floor to the other wall. Now crab back. Now do it again! Again!" My legs scream bloody murder, but I'm damned if I'll whine. There's nothing I won't do to please Paul.

"Curtsey lunges-how many can you do in 60 seconds?" 

Paul becomes my number one cheerleader.  "You are strong!" he tells me over and over. "Come on champ, you can do this!"  

For some reason Paul's encouragement works wonders on my self confidence. "Really?" I ask, incredulously. "Are you sure?" He is very convincing. Just as I learned that I need much less food than I thought I did when I was 50 pounds heavier, now I'm learning that I can do more physically. I also realize how desperately I have needed at least one person to believe that I really can go 13.1 miles in 3:30. 

After four weeks of Paul's training, which I'm doing in addition to regular gym classes and long weekend runs, I finally do it. My weight scoots under the 180 pound barrier. Yahoo! I've been stuck at this weight for so long, I want to set off fireworks.

One day we arrive at a platform about a foot high. "Put one foot on the platform, pull to a stand, then knee to chest. 25 times! Other leg! Switch! Switch again!" 

Suddenly I think of all the times I've eaten food in search of instant strength. 

As a student, I'd eat junk food and pray: "Please God-munch-give me the strength-munch -to finish this paper before dawn!" 

As a teacher, I'd hit the cookies after school: "Please God-munch-give me-munch--the  strength--munch--to talk to this crazy mom without yelling! Munch, munch, munch!" 

At home: "Please-munch-give me the strength-munch--to cope with a 5-day-old baby-munch--when the air conditioner is broken-munch--and it's 102°F outside!" 

At my weight clinic, Deanie has always encouraged us to ask, "What's the hunger under the food?" 

Now I have a new answer: I hunger for strength. I see in a new way how mental toughness can grow out of physical toughness. As a high school teacher, I was sometimes squishy in a job where kids sometimes hurl themselves against every limit an adult sets. High school teachers must be fantastic limit setters, which may explain why ex-Marines are often great teachers. 

With this boot camp, I hope I'm creating some Marine-level firmness in myself.

"Swing the kettle weight up to your chest, then down between your legs!" Paul commands. "How many can you do in 60 seconds?"  Thirty-two, it turns out. "Do it again! Again!" 

"Assume plank position, and push the kettle across the gym floor! Now back again! Again! Again!" After each set, we don't even pause to catch breath. We just scurry on to the next thing.

"Leg extensions, 50 pounds. Feet under bar, lift it up, 25 times! Again! Now, seated leg presses, 150 pounds, 25 times! Again. Knee extensions, hip flexions, revolving side planks!" 

One day I'm holding a side plank, rotating the top leg in the air, pointing with one arm. "Airborne!" I yell. He laughs.

My weight drops to 177. 

"On your back, bike as fast as you can, 10 seconds, elbows to knees. Go slow 5 seconds, then high-speed again! Elbows touching the knees! Come on! Repeat! Repeat! Repeat!" 

One day in the locker room, the women are admiring. 

"Wow! You two were really going at it," one says. "You go gurl!" says another.

In our last session before I leave for the half-marathon in Orlando, I promise Paul I'll call him at mile 9, which I guess is when I'll need his encouragement most. As I'm getting on the plane, he sends me a text:

"Great job !!! U r ready!  U r soooo much stronger n faster than u think . N I feel honored to work with u."