Bleep, bleep

I've been doing something on my runs this week that I hate doing: I've been wearing a heart rate monitor. I hate doing it because it forces me to calm the fuck down. I normally run hells bells, all out, demanding that I hit a pace that's at least under nine minutes a mile, usually much closer to eight.

Eight minute miles are about what I used to average during high school cross country practices. Probably a little bit less, but not a whole lot. High school was a long time ago. Like, before endometriosis. Hip pain. Graduate School. Insomnia. Age 30. Plus.

Just saying. Eight minute miles are pretty fast for me now, but I push pretty hard for them. On training runs.

Until I strap on the heart rate monitor, that is, or I should say I'm starting to think. Heart rate monitors make me realize that running can bring out the bananas in me. At least that's what all the bleeping seems to imply. I strap the thing on and the next thing I know the damn thing is shouting out absurdities like 171 beats per minute, 172, 176, 178, 181, bleep, bleep, BLEEP. Is this thing even working right?

The first time I used it this week, I was on a treadmill. I warmed up at a 10 minute pace, no problem, 138 beats per minute. Went up to 6.2, 143 beats per minute. Up to 6.5, 150 beats per minute (that's about a 9:13 pace). I should have held there, but I was thinking -- I'm not kidding -- I bet my heart rate won't even increase if I press my pace up to 7.0 (within a minute I was at 163). Now, here's where all rationality went hasta la vista, baby. I actually had the following conversation with myself: "I know why my heart is beating this hard. Since I'm not getting tired, my heart is over-working itself trying to go this slow. I better up the pace."

I amped the treadmill up to 7.5 (an 8-minute mile). My legs were whisking along beneath me, proud and strong, and I knew that somewhere out there Paula Radcliff herself was aware of my graceful prowess. I made sure to relax, concentrated on my form, took several deep cleansing breaths just to make sure I was as calm as possible and looked down at my watch.

192.

WHAT? I'm not even breathing hard, I thought to myself. So I looked down again, legs still galloping beneath me, in their seemingly effortless stride. 194.

Fine. Whatever. I pushed the buttons down, first back to 7.0. This only got my heart rate down to 176, still in the watch's "emergency" red zone. Also, the treadmill at my gym automatically syncs with my heart rate monitor, so it had started warning me, too. Giant red letters were scrolling across the machine's screen, "Urgent! You are exercising too hard! Reduce effort immediately!" It was awful.

I turned the pace down to 6.5. Now even this was too hard and only brought my heart rate down to 168, 69, 68, 69. The watch continued to bleep, the treadmill continued to lecture. I was completely dismayed. I still didn't feel tired. I was still not even breathing hard.

Down to 6.4. This got my heart rate down to 160, which at least settled down the treadmill, but the watch was still unhappy. (I had programmed it to encourage me to hold a pace between 147 and 157 beats per minute.) I couldn't get down to 157 at 6.4, a lousy 9:22 per mile. I punched the level down one more time, to 6.3. I finally achieved a rate of 155 beats per minute, running a pace of 9:31.

9:31! I'm embarrassed just to write it down. That's barely even anything. Who runs 9:31?

Well, me, I guess. Because, the thing is, I ran that pace, for the most part (I did allow myself a pick up for the last one minute), and the run actually wasn't awful for once lately. I didn't need to collapse at the end. I still had something left for the pick up at the end, when I could run hells bells, and most runners know that pick ups are really important, because they teach you to finish strong, run hard, go all out when you're tired.

But most important, I held the pace. I just ran. I wasn't working so damn hard, I was just lost in the running, not doing more than I really can do. God, that's so how I live my life, constantly doing more than I really can do, demanding that I turn up the pace, no matter how damaged my insides are, there has got to be a faster pace that I can find a way to hold. Truth be told, I've been running more on treadmills lately, and I think it's because I haven't wanted to admit that I can't run as fast on the open roads anymore if the pace is left to me, and the treadmill can force me to do it. The belt can make me go, and before the heartrate monitor, I would not turn it down. I would run those nearly 8-minute miles, no matter how my liver hurt, no matter how my diaphragm begged, no matter how my pelvis ached. I would do it, because I used to be able to, and so if I can't do it now, it means that I am losing.

Losing what? I don't even know. I know that running used to be smooth and easy for me, something that I just did, not to prove something, but because it existed, and I existed in it. I wish sometimes that I would never have found out that I was relatively good at it, because sometimes in finding out that we're good at things, all the grace and beauty gets sucked out. But I did find out and, anyway, that was a long time ago.

Now maybe I'm not so good anymore. This makes me sad. I identify strongly in being able to run farther and faster than can lots of other folks. But you know what? My arrogance in that ignores the fact that there have always been lots of folks who could run farther and faster than me, that I've always been getting older, and that I've always been trying to outrun so many things that were bound to catch up with me at some point anyway. Now I have to face the truth. My liver grows this stuff it shouldn't grow and it grows it right next to my diaphragm and it hurts when I run too hard. I had a really big surgery not so long ago. Maybe my heart is saying, we're sad, me and you, and we need to go slow. We're not like we were before this happened. We have to live in the after. We have to hear the bleep.

There were bleeps in the hospital, too. Bleeps when I pressed the button for more pain medicine. Bleeps when my blood pressure dropped too low. Bleeps when we called the nurse because the pain was so intense I was hyperventilating. Bleeps for things I can't even remember anymore.

But even though I know all this, I'm not so good at slowing down. Not in my running, and not in my life. I want this to be over. I want to run like I did when I was fifteen. But I have to admit that the running feels better when I'm not pressing so damn hard. Everything feels better that way. I feel so stuck.

I want this to be over, but that's not a realistic want. Like I've said before, this is something I'm under, and I'm gonna be under it for quite awhile yet. There's not a pithy wrap-up or an easy lesson. I can't promise I'll never go hells bells again. I know that I will, maybe even tomorrow. But at least I know when I do, there'll be a bleep-bleep going off somewhere deep in my head.

Or maybe even on my wrist.