Amy Reinink

I’ve spent the past several days in D.C., and on Saturday morning, I enjoyed a lovely trail run in Rock Creek Park with some of my favorite running buddies. The route was a little longer than I would have chosen on my own, and we took the hills a little faster than I would have if left to my own devices.

When I returned to Virginia Beach yesterday afternoon and prepared for another easy, chatty 4.2-miler around my neighborhood with my Virginia Beach running group, I thought wistfully about the hard training runs I enjoyed with my group in Silver Spring—how we’d push each other to go faster and farther (though I certainly enjoyed my share of slow, chatty runs with that group, too).

Kids, be careful what you wish for.

Steve and I were a few minutes late getting to the meetup place for the group run last night. We could see the group a couple blocks ahead of us, so we sprinted ahead to catch up.

“We’re getting closer,” Steve said after we’d been at it for a minute or two.

Another minute or two passed. I was wheezing. The group was just as far out of reach as they’d been in the beginning.

“We’re not getting any closer,” I choked out.

“Sure we are,” Steve said encouragingly, before taking off like a gazelle to close the gap.

I gritted my teeth and tried to use my rage to propel myself forward, finding that magical high gear. I regret to report that I was already in that gear. I watched the group, and Steve, fade into the distance.

A traffic light let us catch up to the group, and me to Steve. The two women I ran with last week were both out of breath, too. “I’m about to fall back,” one of them said. “Low eights is too fast for me tonight.”

Low eight-minute-mile pace explained a lot. The light changed to green, and we took off at the same pace. But this time, I attributed my panting and exhaustion to the correct culprit—the fact that I simply haven’t run that fast of a pace for a while. I slowly worked my way up in the pack until I was trailing the leaders, and hung on for dear life.

I won’t say that the run was over before I knew it. I will say that running hard and fast (for me) was more enjoyable than I remembered, and that sprinting up to H.K. on the Bay, the restaurant where we start and finish our runs, gave me a feeling of triumph I haven’t experienced for a long time. My watch tells me I ran eight-minute miles for the 4.2-mile route, which is on the faster side of my personal range of running speeds. The whole experience left me motivated to push harder again in the future—maybe with the same running group’s hill workout tomorrow night? Stay tuned …

Now, two shameless plugs:

First, a plug for good cause: The Run for Shelter 10K & Fun Run on April 28, a new road race in Alexandria that will benefit Carpenter’s Shelter, the largest homeless shelter in Northern Virginia. Check it out, and be sure to let me know how it is if you run it!

Now, a plug for Since You Asked, the Q&A column about lower Montgomery County I write for Bethesda Magazine. As always, I’m looking for new, interesting questions about lower Montgomery County for the column. If you live in lower MoCo, submit your questions about the community to sinceyouasked@bethesdamagazine.com. Don’t live in Moco? I’d be much indebted if you’d help spread the word to friends who do!

There are lots of reasons I sign up for races rather than simply going on nice, relaxed 5-milers, as I’ve been happily doing for the past several months. One of the chief reasons is motivation: To push harder, to go faster, to challenge myself more. To that end, over the weekend, I signed up for the Philadelphia Half-Marathon on Nov. 16.

I’m still planning to run the Virginia Beach Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon over Labor Day weekend. The jury’s still out on the Frederick Half-Marathon in early May. But even though my next official race obligation is several months down the road, I feel a greater sense of purpose and focus on my 5-milers, and a sense of nervous excitement about adding some longer, harder runs in the future.

Do you rely on race registrations to motivate you to run—or to run harder or longer than you would without a race looming in your future?

A few weeks ago, as we were sitting on the couch and prepping for dinner in our still-new home in Virginia Beach, we spied something interesting through our glass front door.

Roughly a dozen people clad in neon vests, technical T-shirts and other running gear were gathered outside the seafood restaurant across the street from us. Steve ran over to find out their deal—who they were, where they ran, how fast they ran, whether we could play, too—and reported back that he’d found us a new running group.

Before I lived in D.C. and ran with the Pacers Silver Spring “fun run” group, I had a bit of a phobia about running with others. I lived in constant fear of not being able to keep up with a given group, or of accidentally forcing the group into a faster run than it wanted thanks to my lack of an ability to pace properly. Three years later, I’ve learned that both of these things sometimes happen during group runs, but that neither scenario is the end of the world. More importantly, I’ve learned that these instances are actually pretty rare, and that running with a group can greatly increase my motivation, inspiration and enjoyment of a sport I love so much. Plus, I’ve learned that it’s a great way to meet fun new friends who consider Gu flavors and long-run bathroom strategies good dinner-table conversation topics.

Last night, I met up with the Hampton Roads Runners for the group’s weekly 4.2-miler around my neighborhood. The group runs between 8- and 10- minute miles—which basically describes every possible pace scenario for me. My Garmin tells me that my little sub-group ran about 8:50-minute miles on the big loop along the beach, through a park and back to the aforementioned seafood restaurant, where we gathered post-run for drinks and dinner. My heart tells me that the pace, the distance and the chatty, easygoing vibe of the run is just what I need right now. When I left, I told everyone I’d see them next Tuesday.

Better yet, the group’s Meetup.com page lists dozens of runs at various times and places around the area, from long runs on the beach to hill workouts at Mount Trashmore (literally a repurposed mound of trash—gotta love Virginia Beach for its lack of pretensions!). Score!

Do you run with a group? Why or why not?

I’m back. Back to regular deadlines, back to grocery lists and prescriptions to fill, back to bills and vacuuming and the other mundane tasks that fill most of our everyday lives.

The silver lining: I am also back to regular running. And it’s awesome.

While we were gone, winter changed its RSVP on the great evite of life from “maybe” to “no.” The ski season that was limping through the fake-outs that were January and February is now officially over, and if I don’t slather some sunscreen on my arms before heading out for my every-other-day 5-miler on the beach, I have a thick watch tan-line on my left wrist when I get home. It’s ideal running weather—warm enough to not bother with the half-zip, but not so hot it’s slowing me down or reducing me to a puddle of sweat before I even get out the door.

And now that I’m running more regularly again, my mind is turning to thoughts of upping the ante on the slow, easy recovery runs that helped my legs get through ski-patrol training this past season. I’m not actually speeding up or adding distance, just contemplating some events that might encourage both—the Frederick Half-Marathon in early May, the Virginia Beach Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathonover Labor Day weekend.

The Osmanthus Trail, where we did part of our run yesterday.

At the same time, I’m enjoying the simple pleasure of heading out for a run with no distance or speed requirements, as I did yesterday, when Steve and I explored First Landing State Park. The 19 miles of trails wind through cypress swamps, rolling dunes and pine forests. The morning was misty and a little bit cool, and after we finished the 5-ish-mile loop, I felt like I could’ve gone 10 miles more. It was the kind of run that made me remember why I love running to begin with, and the kind of run that makes getting back to a regular routine that much easier.

On Monday, March 12, we embarked on the Ed Reinink memorial ski tour with a lucky charm in tow: My dad’s favorite hat (a gift from me and Steve, as were the patches he sewed on it). It kept us company on the road to Arapahoe Basin, our first stop.

We couldn’t find any photos of him wearing the hat, but found lots of him in this pose—arms outstretched in an expression of pure joy.

We tried our best to emulate that pose, and that joy, throughout the trip.

My dad and I never got to ski Pali, a notoriously steep and rocky part of A-Basin, together while he was alive, but I certainly felt his presence there on this trip.

After a gorgeous, exhausting day at A-Basin, we moved on to Steamboat, where we stayed at the coolest little hotel, the Rabbit Ears Motel, named after the nearby Rabbit Ears Pass.

The next day, we did laps off the Pony Express lift, which services a big, bowl-like area interspersed with pockets of glades. We had a great ski day, but the intense freeze-thaw cycle (sub-30 at night, 60-plus by day) made us feel like we were skiing back home …

… so after breakfast at Winona’s, a Steamboat staple …

… we drove two hours to Winter Park for our last day. We enjoyed conditions that were as close to perfect as you can get without actually getting a powder day. The snow in the trees was soft and fluffy, even though Winter Park hadn’t gotten new snow for days. I hesitate to use the phrase “heaven-sent,” but …

The trip wasn’t complete until we hit up Beau Jo’s, an awesome little pizza place off I-70 in Idaho Springs, located between the mountains and the Denver/Boulder area. We honored my dad once more by toasting him with his favorite beer, Coors Light.

I wish the trip never had to end.  Luckily, my dad’s joy for life wasn’t limited to one trip, one season, or even one lifetime.

We were on our way to the airport for a ski vacation to the Alps a couple weeks ago when I got the call that my dad had been referred to hospice. We re-routed our trip to Florida to be with him and my mom.

The man who taught me to ski, to make a perfect pie crust and to parallel park; who helped me learn the meaning of hard work and who helped engineer my high-school senior prank; who instilled in me a love of the outdoors, reggae and lobster bisque; passed away in HPH Hospice on March 9 after a long battle with Parkinson’s disease. He took his last, peaceful breath while watching a Warren Miller movie, with Steve on one side of his bed and me on the other, holding his hand.

There’s so much to say about how tough my dad was, hanging onto life by a thread for eight days after the doctors told us that continuing to administer nutrition with a feeding tube was prolonging and worsening his discomfort. There’s a lot to say, too, about how he never pitied himself or complained during an illness- and pain-ridden past four years. I could write volumes about his incredible traits—his healthy sense of mischief (he helped engineer my senior prank), his sense of humor, his easygoing confidence, his kind, nonjudgemental manner. Somewhere in my brain, there’s an essay about what I’ve learned from skiing in my dad’s tracks over the years. There will be time for this down the road.

I’m writing this from a sunny porch in suburban Denver, where I’m spending the afternoon with some coffee, my laptop, a good book and some breathing room. Why Denver? Because once we’d done all there was to do in Florida, we realized we still had five days before we were due back home. We asked ourselves: What would my dad do with this time? Fly to Denver from Tampa for a memorial ski trip, of course. Tomorrow, we’ll head to Arapahoe Basin, and the next day, to Steamboat. We will attempt to ski in my dad’s spirit, which I hope will lead to living in his spirit in the years to come.

Amy is on vacation, and will be posting sporadically until mid-March.

“Crap,” I thought as I stopped to catch my breath and regain my composure after making a few ugly, graceless moves while running a toboggan down White Lightning, a steep, icy mogul run at Sno Mountain in Scranton, Penn. It was my first loaded-toboggan run down the bumps at the Chicks on Sticks women’s toboggan clinic there last weekend, and I was officially choking.

This sign is not an exaggeration.

“Sorry, guys, ” I told my instructor and fellow students, trying to sound breezy and casual, as if the huge, icy moguls hadn’t robbed me of my last ounce of confidence—which, of course, they had. I took a deep breath and muscled through the last portion of the run, feeling like I’d forgotten everything I’d learned during my ski-and-toboggan training at Whitetail this season.

This run looks steeper when you're on it. PHOTO CREDIT: DCski.com.

On the lift, I told my instructor for the day that I was horrified to have performed so badly after spending my whole ski season learning how to feel in control in the handles of a toboggan. What she said next surprised me: She said my skills were actually quite good, and that she could tell I just needed experience selecting a route through the bumps and getting the feel for taking a sled through them in varied conditions (Whitetail’s slushy, tightly-spaced moguls did little to prepare me for the icy, sporadic ones we encountered at Sno). She told me the conditions would be tough for even a more experienced patroller, and that my next run would be better.

It was, and the next run was even better than that, leaving me with a giddy sense of accomplishment that only comes after conquering something that’s shaken your confidence and made you question your abilities. It was a pleasant reminder that feeling uncomfortable and untalented and in over your head is a natural part of the learning process, and that being willing to bruise your ego a little is the only sure way to get better.

I’ve been thinking about ego a lot this ski season, after noticing that the most talented instructors are the ones who seemingly have zero ego to them, and after experiencing firsthand the ego-crush that comes with trying to learn something new, and something that exposes all your flaws and makes you feel like a beginner again. For example, the instructor I worked with on Saturday is going through the National Ski Patrol’s Certified program, a super-intense process in which you learn every facet of mountain operations, and fine-tune your skiing and toboggan-handling to an absurdly high level. At the end of the day, as she got ready to go off and work with her own mentor, she confessed that while she loves working with him, it was often discouraging to try to ski up to his level.

Wow. It’s almost like the best skiers (and runners, and swimmers, and humans) are typically not the ones with oversize egos because they’re constantly pushing themselves out of their own ever-increasing comfort zones, and because they realize there’s always a higher level to aspire to. (Imagine that!)

I was lucky enough on Saturday—and all season—to work with instructors who had a good sense of which scary or difficult task would push me to the next level without totally destroying me. Most of the time, though, we have to choose our own challenges, and give ourselves our own lift-ride pep talks, in which we remind ourselves that the task we’re trying to accomplish isn’t hard because we’re bad, but because—well, because it’s just empirically hard. My hope is that next time I feel like I’m in a little bit over my head, I can do just that.

When’s the last time you let your ego get beaten up in the pursuit of a goal that felt out of your reach?

There are a lot of injuries going around these days. Both in the health-and-fitness blogosphere and in my non-Internet life, the past week has brought news of several friends being benched, from a runner-friend with a torn calf muscle to a fellow ski-patroller who has to skip this weekend’s women’s ski-and-toboggan clinic to recover from a car accident.

So when I read a story yesterday about Norwegian ski-racer Aksel Svindal in the March issue of Outside magazine, I naturally felt a connection to this quote, which describes Svindal’s convalescence from a horrific injury at the Birds of Prey race in 2007 in Beaver Creek a few years back:

“I knew I wasn’t going to ski for a while,” Svindal told Outside. “But I was like, ‘I don’t care how long it takes. That’s irrelevant. As long as I get back, 100 percent.’”

The quote reminded me of the single-minded, patient focus we athletes have the ability to channel, both on race day and in times of trouble off the course. Svindal went on to win the same race in 2008. At last year’s Birds of Prey race, Svindal termed that 2007 crash “ancient history.” Here’s wishing all of my injured friends Svindal’s patience and grace.

Check out my post from last year for more motivational quotes for injured athletes.