I can’t remember the last time I had Pringles. They were a summer staple at the pool when I was growing up. Something I always remember my Aunt Patty unpacking when it was time for lunch.

But here I was in my running class, eying each of the instructors and her can of Pringles. It’s November. Thirty-two degrees outside and dropping. This is not the schema I have for Pringles. They weren’t supposed to be a snack for us; that much I could figure out. Maybe the instructors were going to shake them at us? Maybe the cans were filled with something else? Maybe we were supposed to pass the can like a baton? I was intrigued. And clueless.

We each got two Pringles, one for each hand. Oh man, the smell that filled the gymnasium made me want to eat the whole can. The chips’ slogan was certainly applicable to me, and I was exercising extreme restraint. Finally we were told the purpose for the Pringles. We had to hold them the whole run without breaking them, a practice in staying relaxed and not tensing your hands, shoulders and upper back.

I looked down at the Pringles cradled in my gloves and knew I was screwed. I can get tense just looking at people for five seconds. How am I supposed to last 22 minutes? And while moving?

We went to Central Park, where the instructor told us to run a loop for 22 minutes. I started running in the back of the pack and soon passed the other runners until I was at the front. The pace still seemed too slow for me, so I continued until I reached a challenging but bearable speed. Then I kept running. It was pretty dark and cold and not many people were in the park. The quiet was more noticeable because I’d lost most of the group. I could hear a few pairs of feet behind me, but I’d managed to take a large lead.

This personal feat did not go unnoticed.

This was huge.

I was the lineleader of a pack of runners for the first time ever in my entire life. In elementary school, which was the extent of my running because I was excused in middle and high school because of foot problems, I was always in the back. Being anywhere toward the front was beyond my realm of possibility.

I almost couldn’t believe it. I didn’t dwell on my accomplishment for too long because, sure enough, I took a deep breath and broke a Pringle. I didn’t notice any tensing of my hand and was pissed that such a slight move was considered tense. At least this freed up a hand to wipe the water streaming from my eyes from the cold wind.

The running wasn’t as enjoyable without people around me though. I don’t usually chat during runs, but we’re supposed to comfortably be able to have conversations, and usually we’ll mumble about how we’re not sure where we are or how much longer we have to run or what our holiday plans are. I might as well have been on the track at the park by my house. And that’s boring.

I took another deep breath and broke my last Pringle. I was still holding the pieces of the other one and spent nearly an entire lap wondering whether it was considering littering if I dropped the crumbles into the leaves or if I was supposed to throw them in the trash. The trash option would require weaving to the other side of the path when we came to a trash can, and with a crew of dogs and owners gathered around it, I opted for “composting” them.

After 15 minutes of solo running, I heard the footsteps getting closer and saw two familiar faces. We ran together for awhile and then they passed me. We couldn’t see the rest of our group, so we kept an eye on our watches and hollered each time we lapped the starting point, debating whether it was the Metropolitan Museum of Art or a cross walk.

Finally we saw the rest of the group running toward us and we fell in behind them until the park entrance.

Then came one of my favorite parts of running. The end. When you’re walking to cool down but have a great high from all that oxygen you’ve been breathing and your body feels amazing and all the muscles are saying “Thank you.”

I reflected on the run as we walked. How I could’ve pushed myself a little faster, but should’ve started slower, like those two familiar faces, and then sped up at the end like they did.

As we walked back to the gym, our instructor asked who the girl in front was. I went up to her. I wondered if she was going to tell me she thought I should go to the next level. We’d lost quite a few runners in the beginning because they completed our runs too effortlessly. She’d usually say something like, “I like you, but I don’t want you here. Go up to the next level.” I already had my response figured out, “My knee’s been bothering me, so I want to stay in this level and take Level 3 in January after I’ve gotten the OK from the knee doctor.”

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

She got mad.

I ran too fast.

I was confused. I thought the point of this week was to improve speed (and not crush Pringles).

She said it was irresponsible of me to set such a fast pace. Um, who said anything about setting a pace? I was just running. She never tells us if she’s going to run with us the whole time or stop at a certain spot to watch us and critique our form. I just ran until I heard or saw otherwise. And how was I supposed to set the pace if she’s never told us how?

My face burned. Had it not been pitch black, my flushed cheeks would’ve given me away. As she continued to tell me I could’ve gotten her in trouble for being so far away from the rest of the group, I fought back the urge to cry.

I wanted to stop her right there. I wanted to say she didn’t understand. That I had just accomplished a milestone. I was in the front of the line. And for 15 minutes. I wanted to be happy. But the emotions washing over me were anything but. I looked down at the ground and managed to get out an “Uh huh” once or twice before someone asked a question and I could veer away from her.

A few tears fell, but not because of the wind this time; I’d distanced myself enough from the group that no one would notice. I could understand the point that my instructor made: that she needs to be able to yell to the people in the front and back of the group, but she’d never told us this. She’d never taught us to be a line leader or how to set the pace for a group or told us not to pass her. This is my first running class. I don’t know any of this stuff.

Then I got angry. The point of the class is to challenge myself, and if my pace is more like standing in place, how am I benefiting? How will I know what I’m capable of if I settle for what everyone else is doing? I do not settle and I do not stay with the pack just because it’s easy. Now this was morphing into personal philosophies.

Just like my Pringles, my spirit was crushed by the end of the run.

We made it back to the gym and I grabbed my stuff and left without stretching, taking out my anger on my body instead of her. I calmed down on the walk to the subway and considered writing a letter to the program directors about having expectations better explained and comments like hers better phrased. She had managed to get in something about it being good that I was “gaining back my speed” (which was false because I never had any speed to begin with). But her approach sucked and could’ve benefited from what some college friends called “the compliment sandwich.” Perhaps starting with something like “You’ve really improved your speed and that’s great, but the group needs to be closer together so I can communicate with everyone. Keep up the good work.” You still get in the problem, but you approach it from a more positive angle.

We had a week off because of the Thanksgiving holiday, and I’m quite thankful that I have more time to move past the conversation and focus on being a better runner. Because that’s why I signed up for the class in the first place — to find out what my body and mind are capable of.

2 Responses to “Once you pop, you can’t stop”

1. Jamie Hergott Says:
   December 2nd, 2008 at 8:20 am

   Love this. I so relate.

2. This Ordinary Day » The leaders of the pack Says:
   December 19th, 2008 at 12:36 am

   [...] promise that I talk about things other than my running class. But in light of my last post, I thought an update was in [...]

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