Work Energy

by Jim Harmer

  I started the timer on my iPhone and set it down hastily so I wouldn’t waste a second before I began to run. All we needed to do was accomplish four laps around the track—one mile. I remember thinking after the second lap that I was circling the drain of death, but I trudged on. At 10 minutes and 30 seconds, I fell across the finish line. It felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to my chest, and my lungs were filled with fire. I was sure my next cough would bring up my left lung. How had I allowed myself to get to such a state of poor physical fitness that one mile was so difficult to run? I shouldn’t have even broken a sweat.

  We spent a few weeks just pushing ourselves to get to two or three miles in a single run so we could begin a traditional marathon training schedule. The schedule we decided on was 13 weeks. The book we bought advocated running three short runs per week and one long run. During the three shorter runs, we just kept up our stamina and practiced increasing our pace. Then, one day a week, we’d push ourselves as hard as we could to increase our maximum distance. We had a plan that we could simply groundhog into success.

  The runner’s high is a real thing. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve met who become addicted to running because of the sense of accomplishment they feel. Every morning, millions of people around the world wake up early, lace up their running shoes, put in earbuds, and run. I, personally, am not one of those people.

  I despised every single run. All of them. I despised the way it made my lungs feel. I despised the exertion, the sweat, the pain, the exercise of will power, and I especially despised the dorky short-shorts the sport requires and the fact that I had to apply anti-chafing lubrication on my inner thighs. Embarrassing. Waking up early and greasing up my thighs to prance around in Richard Simmons’s shorts until exhaustion was not a great way to get me feeling good about my body.

  Oh, and I hate how public running is. Spending that many hours running around the streets near my home, everyone I knew saw me out there. I’m sure they thought, “Oh, how sweet. Chunky Jim thinks he’s an athlete! And how brave of him to wear Richard Simmons’s shorts!” Some of those onlookers were more discrete. They’d say things like “Hey, saw ya running yesterday. Looked like you were working really hard!”

  “Um, yes. I was. I felt like I was dying. Thank you for asking. I do not look elegant, sophisticated, nor respectable when I run. Running is stupid. For the rest of my life, I will run from zombies and for no other cause. None at all.”

  I continued anyway. After all, I decided I’d groundhog this routine and I wasn’t about to ruin the plot of the movie. Plus, as I’ve mentioned, I’m a sucker for any goal which allows me to compete with myself and track my progress with a number. If I’m honest, my main motivation was the picture I could post on Facebook of me finishing a marathon. My work energy is so childish. I could clearly see how far I ran each time and how long it took me to do it, so secretly I was in love with the goal at the same time that I despised it.

  Emily and I kept up our marathon training schedule diligently. We took turns watching the kids while the other would go out and run. If we couldn’t convince ourselves to get out in the morning, we’d force ourselves out in the afternoon even during the August heat. One of us would limp in the front door, red-faced and exhausted, and just fall down on the living room floor—unable to speak for a solid 20 minutes. That was the cue for the other person to lace up and head out on their run. We learned not to say things like “I’m back from my run, so it’s your turn now,” because those words were too agonizing to hear.

  During the forming phase of our goal, we were all energy. We dreamed our goal and designed a day that we would groundhog until success. But the problems began during the long phase of training. The demons in your mind want you to stop and return to life as a lazy lump of lard.

  The troubles hit after about seven weeks of marathon training. It was still extremely difficult, but we began feeling like we were on track to meet our goal. Being “on track” is often the most dangerous thing that can happen when working toward a goal. “On track” usually means a storm is coming.

  When we see that we’re “on track” and yet a tremendous amount of work is still required, it can be easy to let our willpower begin to relax. We silently tell ourselves, “Okay, all I have to do is continue and I’ll get there.” That’s not the kind of attitude required to punch your legs forward after mile seven of a difficult run.

  The storm came indeed. We skipped some runs. We ruined the plot of the movie and stopped groundhogging. We walked the last few miles of our long runs some days, and we didn’t stick to the training schedule when we were traveling.

  That’s how “on track” so quickly turns into “far behind.” Then, we see that we’re far behind on reaching a difficult goal, and so we quit, thinking it’s impossible.

  It was only my work energy that kept me going. We had a ticket to run a marathon and I’d committed to the goal. We had to finish somehow.

  In the book we’d purchased, I read one trick that helped. When I began to feel extremely exhausted and near the point of slowing my run to a walk, I told myself, “I’ve used up about 30% of my energy, and I’m more than halfway done with this run.” Somehow, that trick really worked. I just viewed my energy as a metered amount on a scale and compared that scale to how many more miles were left to run. It made me feel like I could easily continue.

  Yet we were far behind schedule. We had anticipated completing training runs of up to 21 miles before the marathon. Our thinking was that if we could run 21 miles in a practice, we could probably push ourselves the extra 5.2 miles in an actual marathon to finish the race.

  Fourteen days before the marathon, we looked at the training calendar. We hadn’t even come close to finishing what we’d planned. We ran our longest run to date—eight miles. At the end of the eight-mile run, we were completely spent. We had nothing left in the tank. But we were committed, so we continued.

  Seven days before the marathon, we had one last chance at a long training run to push our max range. We determined on a Saturday morning I’d start at 5 a.m. and run as far as I could, then Emily would start as soon as I finished. Somehow, in a week, we needed to run 26.2 miles, but the furthest we’d ever gone up to that point was merely eight miles.

  I drove over to Lake Lowell, only a few miles from our home, and parked the car. I wasn’t looking forward to the run and consequently wasn’t in a good mental state, so I foolishly hid the car keys in the little door that covers the gas cap. Yeah, the little door that locks when you close it. I was locked out of the car, so I figured I might as well just run a long time. There was no car to which I could return.

  It was a perfect morning for running, with a nip in the air. I put in headphones and listened to audiobooks or podcasts for most of the run, switching to country music when I needed a boost of energy. I began running around the lake. The first five or six miles went by without much effort. I had done that many times before. Miles seven and eight were tougher, but I’d also done that, so I pushed through. I was determined to get a long run in since I was behind in my training schedule, so I pushed myself with sheer will through miles nine through 11. At mile 11, I was entirely gassed. I couldn’t move another step. I had nothing left.

  I called Emily to pick me up but she missed the phone call, so I just kept running. I eventually reached her: “I … can’t … go … on. Pick me up!” I was 12 miles from home so it took her a while to reach me. By then, I’d reached 13 miles. I nearly collapsed when I fell into the car. I was so weak and exhausted and in pain. I had absolutely nothing left in the energy tank.

  Emily went out on her run right after me. Her experience was nearly identical to mine. She called at 12 miles and by the time I picked her up, she had gone nearly 14. I had to make a quick stop by the local Thai restaurant before picking her up. It wasn’t my fault! Thai curry was on the mind.

  That was seven days before our marathon, where we were supposed to run 26.2 miles. A half marathon nearly killed us,
yet seven days later, we needed to double our max capacity. It looked as though it would be nearly impossible.

  I was discouraged. I’d put in so much work. Sure, I wasn’t perfect. We had slacked off during the storm phase of the goal, but we’d come so far since that first one-mile run at the high school track. Now we were only seven days away from the race, and the furthest we could accomplish was only half of a marathon. Obviously, it would be impossible to double our range in seven days.

  But I had committed to the goal. I had bought my ticket, and we were going to that race.

  On the morning of the race, we stayed in a hotel near Logan, woke up at 5 a.m., and got on a bus with dozens of other runners to head up the mountain to the starting line. It was a crisp 45 degrees when the starting gun initiated the race. Another 913 people ran with us to complete the 26.2-mile torture.

  I flew through the first 13 miles. I remember crossing the halfway point and being amazed that just seven days earlier, I was entirely spent at that distance. I continued running. At mile 15 I began to tire.

  I repeatedly lied to myself about my internal energy tank: “Oh. I’m about 30% tired now. I have 70% of my energy left, and the race is more than half over, so I’m gonna make it.”

  Thinking of my energy reserves like a gas tank was the only way I could go on because intuitively I knew my body could be 100% capable of finishing the race. Tens of thousands of people finish marathons each year who are old, overweight, very young, etc. Knowing my body was capable, the problem with finishing was 100% mental. I had to force my mind to shut off and just allow myself to keep going without convincing myself to stop or turn back. Again, I must point out what running does to the mind—you talk to yourself as if you’re another person and have arguments with yourself. It isn’t right, and neither are those shorts.

  I stopped at aid stations and sprayed this really awesome stuff on my thighs that felt cold and made them go numb. No idea what that magic potion was, but all the serious marathon runners seemed to use it a lot, so I indulged. Side note: do not spray said magic potion on your tongue out of curiosity. It will make it numb. Lesson learned.

  At mile 21, I hit a wall. Runners understand “the wall” in a way that anyone who hasn’t done it probably never will. One step you’re tired but still going, and all of the sudden your legs just stop involuntarily. Suddenly you find yourself walking. You scream at your brain, “NO! As soon as I start walking, it’s 10 times harder to get running again! Do not walk! Do not walk! We’ll have to cover the same distance, but it will be much harder.” And yet you walk.

  I called Emily to tell her I just couldn’t go on. I had nothing left in the tank. I’d lost track of her at some point during the race. I wasn’t sure if she was ahead or behind me. She answered the phone with “I can’t go on. I have nothing left.” We both hit the wall.

  If there had been a bus anywhere along the path at that point, I probably would have taken it. Both feet were bleeding in multiple spots. I had hit a point of complete mental exhaustion. I got so angry at my own mind from pushing myself to the max that I remember coming close to ripping out my earbuds and throwing my phone into a river as I crossed a bridge. I couldn’t tolerate even one more beat of motivating music! We were both entirely spent.

  And yet we continued on. There really was no other option. Yes, we had hit a wall, but now our backs were against that wall and we were about to fight through it. We walked a mile, then got so angry at the race that we sprinted a mile, then jogged, then nearly crawled across the finish line. We finished the race in just over five hours, which was nearly three hours slower than the race winner.

  Our months of training didn’t suddenly turn us into runners. The excitement of the marathon did not even make me wonder if I’d ever want to run a marathon again. I knew I didn’t. Running is painful and boring and I’d much rather play sports for exercise.

  Yet the only way to describe the feeling of crossing that finish line with Emily was euphoria—more than just relief that we could stop running. It was euphoric.

  I laid down on the grass in the park at the finish line and committed to simply lying there on that spot permanently. I still had a few months until winter, and I was sure I could order food from there. “Um, yes, I’d like to order two bowls of Thai curry? If you could please just bring them to my little spot on the grass near the finish line and insert each bowl into one of my giant Santa Claus cheeks, that’d be great. Okay, yeah, see you again at dinner time.”

  After an hour, I peeled myself up, took off my shoes, and wandered over to our car. We drove the two miles to the hotel and I laid down. Standing up to shower was entirely out of the question, so I must apologize to whomever the next hotel guest was in room 204. I’m sure they wash the sheets, but I’m not sure the sheets could have recovered from what I put them through.

  As I closed my eyes, I honestly felt concerned that I might not wake up. That may sound like hyperbole. It was not.

  It took 10 days for the soreness of the marathon to wear off but as time passed, I felt very proud of that medal. It was by far the most difficult physical thing I’d accomplished, and it gave me a sense that I could take on absolutely any goal in the future with the work energy formula.

  In the ensuing years, I’ve often thought about the marathon training and wondered at what the human mind can do. Yes, the mind, not the body. Fourteen days before the marathon, the longest run I could do was eight miles despite exerting myself to the extreme. Seven days later, I ran 13 miles on those same legs. Another seven days later, I ran on those same legs, in that same body, in those same shoes, and went for 26.2 miles. How is that possible? Did I suddenly grow double the leg muscle in seven days to miraculously double my range? I seriously doubt that. Did my lungs or my heart suddenly double their capacity? Of course not.

  The truth is that we all live in a space far, far from our capabilities. The Creator, our spiritual father, placed us on the earth with unlimited potential, and we allow ourselves to live far below our privileges.

  While the marathon was empowering, it was not the end goal. The goal was to get down to a healthy weight. That day I was sick, lying on the couch watching the Boston marathon, I reached a breaking point where I was prepared to make sacrifices to achieve my goal.

  After the soreness of the marathon wore off, I stepped on the scale and saw 220 pounds. I had not lost a single pound. Not one. How could this be possible?

  I got a little smarter. I recognized that exercise alone simply did not provide an answer. I burned calories, but the exercise made me hungry, and without realizing it, I must have been eating more.

  So I began focusing on consumption. I cut out all desserts and sugars and cut back on the portions I ate. This went on for months of working toward the goal. Still 220 pounds. No change.

  I told myself that if I couldn’t accomplish losing weight in two more months, I’d go to a doctor and get checked out to see what was wrong. The two months came and went, until I humbled myself and went in. The doctor tested me and got back with the results. My body was perfectly fine and nothing was keeping me from achieving a healthy weight.

  The doctor prescribed a weight loss pill and promised it would help me lose weight, but the effect would only last two or three months, and then it would wear off and I’d have to do the hard work of maintaining it. I took the deal. I convinced myself I would have no problem whatsoever maintaining a lower weight. I just needed a jump-start. There’s no way I’d allow myself to eat right through the pill and gain weight.

  It worked incredibly well. I dropped nearly 30 pounds in three months. The pill simply stopped my appetite nearly entirely. I had no desire to eat. I stopped taking the pill when the doctor asked me to and focused all my effort on not gaining the weight back.

  But I did. My weight skyrocketed over the next five months—placing me almost back to where I started. I was up to 207, which was only 13 pounds down from my starting point. I was able to maintain 207 for a few years comfortably.


  I lost track of my goal, though. I have a digital scale that tracks my weight and allows me to see my historical weights going back 10 years. I gained about three pounds each year at a slow pace until I found myself right back at 220 pounds.

  It was time for war. Nobody can out-willpower a goal like I can. I was not going to allow myself to be mediocre.

  I decided it was time to begin lifting weights. Vast amounts of cardio in running a marathon was not a standalone answer. Unmitigated willpower in maintaining a quick pill-induced weight loss was also not an answer.

  I determined that I needed a balanced approach. I needed to watch my caloric intake while simultaneously gaining muscle. If I gained muscle and built my body, it would use up more calories and make it much easier to maintain the weight loss when I got there.

  I knew nothing about lifting weights, so I started shopping for a personal trainer. I read the websites of every personal trainer within a 20-mile radius of my home and settled on one with pages of inspiring testimonials with before-and-after pictures.

  I laughed because I’d taken so many “before” pictures over the previous four years. There’s so much hope in a before picture, but then six months later I would take another “before” picture as I began the next round of diet or exercise that would surely be the silver bullet.

  I walked into the office of my personal trainer for the first day. I didn’t have to swallow my pride—I had to gag on it as I crammed it down my throat. It was really hard walking in there—60 pounds overweight—past the other superhuman weightlifters to the office of my personal trainer to ask for help. Most of their clients were preparing for competitions, and there came Santa Claus-cheeks to try and burn off his Twinkies.