by Shauna Reid
Now all my nearest and dearest not only know I’m an Ortha, but they know I’ve spent the past four years babbling about my blubber on the Internet. It’s been such a relief to come clean. Rhiannon was excited and seemed to understand why I needed my little sanctuary, which helped ease my guilt. The Mothership was over the moon too. “I’m very proud of you, Miss Dietgirl!” she said on the phone tonight. “Would you mind if I took a peek at your Internet hideout?”
“Umm, if you like.”
“I might pick up a few more tips from you. Not that I need them, I’m melting away!”
“Are you?”
“Oh yes! I started with the walking just like you said, and six months later, well! I don’t think you’ll recognize me by the time you come over.”
“That’s great, Ma. I’ll look forward to it.”
“You know I showed your chapters to my neighbor,” she went on. “She’s a big lady too. She just cried because she couldn’t believe how much she related to your story. It’s amazing, don’t you think? How we’re all fat and going through the same thing?”
“It’s true, dear Mothership. We’re all well-padded people in a universal padded cell.”
WEEK 229
May 30
There’s only one week until race day! I’m trying to remember to breathe. I know I’ve improved, but I’m still going to be overtaken by leathery grandmas, so much fitter than me despite living on tins of cat food.
What we need here is a Rockyesque montage of my progress over the past ten weeks. We wouldn’t even need to make it in slow motion, because my motion is slow enough already. Cue soft focus and stirring orchestration!
Imagine if you will:
• Pathetic prerun arguments:
SHAUNA: I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE MAKING ME DO THIS AGAIN!
GARETH: I’M MAKING YOU DO IT?
SHAUNA: YES, YOU!
GARETH: YOU’LL BE FINE.
SHAUNA: BUT WE ONLY DID THIS TWO DAYS AGO! SHOULDN’T THAT BE ENOUGH? UNTIL THE END OF TIME?
• A dramatic collapse on the grass at the end of Week Three, Session Two, followed by a dramatic declaration: “I will never walk again!”
• The ongoing saga of the Reddest Face in the World:
CONCERNED FATHER-IN-LAW: DID YOU GET A WEE BIT SUNBURNED TODAY?
SHAUNA: NO, I AM STILL RECOVERING FROM MY RUN THREE HOURS AGO.
• The Hill Sprints of Week Six: Gareth racing up stairs and pumping a triumphant fist in air à la Rocky; Shauna arriving some two minutes later.
• Great moments of fatigue and delirium, when Shauna is so slow that Gareth must literally run on the spot to match her pace:
SHAUNA: MY BODY WON’T WORK! I CAN’T RUN ANYMORE!
GARETH: IT’S NOT RUNNING IF YOU DON’T LIFT LIFT YOUR FEET OFF THE GROUND!
• Revenge of the Vegetable Chili: in which Shauna farts uncontrollably when running up hills.
• Tears and ice packs in Week Eight as our athlete spends a week sidelined by a knee injury. Experts recommend increasing your mileage by no more than 10 percent per week, but some bright spark wrote down Julia’s instructions incorrectly and accidentally increased it by 25 percent!
• The touching finale. After Sunday’s grueling run, once again collapsed on the grass, our athlete experiences her first endorphin rush:
GARETH: YOU LOOK AS THOUGH YOU ENJOYED THAT.
SHAUNA: NO I DIDN’T.
GARETH: YOU DID SO.
SHAUNA: PERHAPS, BRIEFLY. ON SOME LEVEL.
After ten weeks I still hate running. I commence bitching and moaning two hours before each session and do not let up until we’re finished. Then I feel all smug and virtuous for about 24 hours before I start fretting about the next run. Every step has been a constant battle between my increasingly adventurous body and my lazy, sabotaging brain.
But running has been such a positive experience. In terms of the lard busting, there hasn’t been much change on the scale, but my clothes are fitting better and my legs look much slimmer.
Most dazzling is what’s going on in my head. Running has given me a newfound respect for my body. I’m focusing on what it can do instead of what it looks like. I’m in awe of its incredible ability to adapt to every challenge I throw at it. Five kilometers is hardly a marathon, but I can honestly say learning to run is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
I’m so proud that I completed every training session and didn’t give up. Most of the time it’s sweat and torture and yappy dogs getting under my feet, but it’s worth it for those brief, thrilling moments when my limbs move like liquid and my mind floats happily above.
WEEK 230
June 6
Signs your running event may be in Scotland:
1. It’s raining so hard that worms have been washed up from underground.
2. There’s a burger van.
3. The chick beside you at the starting line is eating a burger from said van AND smoking a fag at the same time.
The atmosphere at the Race for Life was electric, with 7,000 women of all ages, shapes, and sizes limbering up in the rain. Some had little pink signs on their backs with the names of loved ones they’d lost. Some folk were in fancy costume. Some were just content to gulp down their prerace cigarette and let the irony of smoking at a cancer charity event waft over their head.
I’d had to staple my race number to my T-shirt since there were no safety pins in our house. Who the hell has safety pins? The Mothership, Nanny, my supremely organized sister—they would have had safety pins. It took Gareth and me around half an hour to attach the stupid number without getting it crooked and/or piercing my boobs, but I was happy with the end result. They say safety pins are punk rock, but I say staples are even more so.
Finally it was time to line up. There were two different starting points, one for runners and one for walkers. This sparked a minor existential debate/Fat Girl Freak-Out.
“You haven’t been just walking these past ten weeks, have you?” Gareth reasoned.
“But I’m not exactly a runner, am I? I can’t run for longer than five minutes without feeling like I’m going to cark it!”
“Go and line up with the runners! And good luck, baby!”
I gave him a kiss on his wet nose and scampered off. By then it was so crowded I got shoved in with the walkers, beside a girl dressed in a Batman suit. I was so dazed by the crowd and the rain that I didn’t think to be nervous, I just had a faint inkling that something exciting was about to happen.
Somewhere in the distance the starting horn went off. It took five minutes to inch my way to the line, then finally I could hit the Start button on my stopwatch. Go go go!
My trance broke and I panicked, What the hell? What am I doing here?
Everywhere I looked there were legs and arms and numbers and puddles. Mistress Julia had advised me to start out slow so I wouldn’t fade at the end, so I did a leisurely jog, ducking around walkers and water. Then the course headed up a hill beneath Arthur’s Seat. Bloody hills. Better not waste energy weaving around people. I alternated fast walking with slow jogging. When I finally got to the top I was confronted by a second, steeper hill. Shit!
Stupid hill and stupid slow legs and stupid thousands of runners cluttering up the road, I grumbled as I made my painfully slow ascent. What’s so great about this running lark? Why do people rave about it like it’s so damn special?
My friend Meg had written to me about her first race. “You will love it,” she declared. She said it changed the way she thought about herself forever. WELL, YOU LIE, MEG! I DO NOT LOVE IT! I was never going to get to the top of that stinking hill, and furthermore I hadn’t seen any mile markers so I had no idea how far I had to go.
Finally the course evened out, and after a minute’s walk I picked up the pace and began to relax. I acknowledged the spectacular panoramic views of Edinburgh. Then some guy shouted from the sidelines, “You’re just past halfway, girls!”
Only halfway?
I looked
at my watch and wasn’t impressed with my time. Julia had told me not to worry about that, and just focus on finishing the damn thing, but I was dejected.
I gave myself a wee pep talk. Why are we here, Shauna?
• Because my excellent sponsors coughed up £300 for cancer research and they deserve value for money.
• Because Gareth trained with me and endured my whining, so I want to make him proud.
• Because Mistress Julia has helped me so much and I want to impress her and make her proud.
• Because I worked hard and I want to impress ME and make ME proud, dammit!
And I wouldn’t be satisfied with halfheartedly puffing over the line either. I wanted to finish as strongly as possible. I’d worked for ten weeks to get to this point, and it would never be My First Race ever again. I’d done some pretty half-assed runs in those ten weeks, so now I was going to stop the bitching. Just GO FOR GOLD!
I kicked up to a nice steady run. I told the slothful part of my brain that I could walk anytime, but since the first half of the race had been relatively slow I had plenty of energy left. I found a steady rhythm and my breathing was measured instead of the usual desperate gasps. I relished the feeling of my legs striding out and my feet springing off the ground, as though it was perfectly natural and right for my body to be running.
The rained stopped as I headed down the hill. Just run one more minute then you can walk if you need to. But I kept on running and running and it felt amazing.
Finally there was a sign: 500M TO GO. Holy crap! Five hundred meters!
How far is 500 meters? Ten laps of an Olympic pool. That sounded like an eternity. Half a kilometer? That sounded like ages too. OK then. How about one-and-a-bit laps of an athletics track. Hey, that wasn’t so bad. I could handle that!
I have no idea where the energy came from but I’d never run so fast before. I broke into a grin as I approached the finish line. I almost laughed but I didn’t have enough breath left.
When I finally crossed, a big sob sneaked up to my throat. I glanced at my watch—35:15. I was euphoric. Ten weeks ago I could barely run for one minute, yet I’d just run over half the course nonstop. I, Shauna Reid, formerly of the Whole Pints of Ice Cream in One Sitting, formerly of the 2.5 Miles per Hour on the Treadmill, had finished a 5K race.
I collected my goodie bag and wandered through the crowd with trembling legs, searching for Gareth. It was the strangest mix of emotions I’d ever known. I made weird gulping noises, like a chicken being strangled, as my body struggled to cry and catch breath at the same time.
When I finally found Gareth, I flopped into his arms and began to sob uncontrollably. The poor lad looked confused. Blame my hormones, blame relief and surprise and intense personal satisfaction, but I was crying for Scotland!
Later on I was embarrassed by my hysterics. After all, it was Just a 5K race, and a charity one at that. People run marathons all the time. Hell, they run across continents or sail around the world blindfold with one arm chopped off! I was all ready to downplay the whole day and dismiss it as a freak incident. But as I’ve reminded myself countless times during my journey, you can’t compare your achievements to anyone else’s. All you can do is compare where you’ve been and where you are now, and what you chose to do in between.
I remember a day when I stood at the bottom of the stairs in my Canberra flat, tearfully trying to summon the energy to walk up to my bedroom. It had felt like an impossible task. Now, five years later, I stood at the bottom of a nasty big hill and thought running to the top was just as impossible. So today I’m bursting with pride at how far I’ve come. There is no better feeling in the world than to take your mind and body to a place you thought it couldn’t go; a place you thought it didn’t belong. You should all try it some time.
WEEK 231
June 13
190 pounds
161 pounds lost—25 to go
My runner’s high came to an abrupt halt at the physiotherapist’s office last Friday. The niggling knee pain of Week Eight got worse, so I called in the pros, who diagnosed a nasty case of runner’s knee. Just when I was contemplating jogging back to Australia in September to save on airfares, they told me I’ve got to stop.
I was almost apologetic when I showed up for my appointment. After all, I was just a fat chick flirting with exercise, not a legitimate athletic person. How could a lump like me have a real injury? But just like when I bought my running shoes, he took me seriously and didn’t scream, “Get out of here, fattycakes!”
He explained that my knee will take a few months to heal and I need to strengthen my hamstrings and glute muscles. By the time he’d taken me through my exercises, I’d stopped feeling like an impostor. In fact I was almost proud that I’d actually done enough sport to have a sports injury!
The physiotherapist suggested I try cycling as a gentler form of cardio, so I’ve taken up RPM classes, which is similar to spinning. I’d always thought it was out of my league, especially when all the participants have sculpted thighs and wear those tiny bike shorts. But then I told myself, Dude! You just learned to run, so now you can learn to pedal. Get in there!
So I did. And instead of hiding at the back, I marched up to the instructor and introduced myself. She helped me adjust the bike seat and handlebars and soon we were off.
Holy crap, I loved it! I never thought a stationary bike could be fun. My heart thumped in time with the techno as the instructor talked us through hill climbs and brutal sprints. The forty-five minutes flew by and I was amazed to find I could keep up with the nubile regulars. Why did I waste all these years hating my body when I could have been appreciating that it’s an amazing machine?
At the end of the class I felt high, like I’d wrung every last drop of energy from my limbs.
“You did great,” said the instructor. “You’ve obviously worked hard!”
I grinned at my beetroot face in the mirror. “Obviously! Thank you.”
I remembered that day when my BodyPump instructor in Canberra told me my squats were good. That compliment kept me floating for days. But this time I already knew I’d done great, I didn’t need to hear it from anyone else to believe it.
My motivations are transforming. For the past four and a bit years I’ve worshipped the scale and ached to reach that elusive 165 pounds, but the numbers just don’t fire me up like they used to.
The closer I get to a healthy weight, the more I’m looking beyond that dreaded contraption. When I weighed over 350 pounds, the scale was the only way I could gauge my progress, since it took so long to see visible physical changes. But now the scale results are far less dramatic because I no longer have a dramatic amount of weight to lose.
Training for the 5K showed me the value of having nonscale goals. It had all the structure and accountability that I crave, but my motivations were pure and positive. It wasn’t about fat, nor was I obsessive or desperate to impress anyone. I was just chipping away at a long-term personal goal, feeling my body get faster and stronger each week. That was far more sane and satisfying than fretting about the scale.
Not only did it make me feel balanced and wholesome, it got results. I’ve only dropped two and a half pounds in the past six weeks but my body is shrinking. I went jeans shopping today and fitted into size 14s in five different Skinny Shops! I nearly bought all five pairs because of the sheer novelty of having choice, instead of having to settle for the only thing that fit.
From now on I’m focusing on getting fitter and stronger. I don’t loathe my body anymore, I’m intensely proud of it. Over the past four years we’ve progressed from couch potato to Vampire walking to weight lifting to running, and I’m desperate to find out what else we can do. I want to be a woman of action and sweat my way to a slinkier body.
WEEK 232
June 20
Tales from the Scale has been released in the UK!
I hadn’t considered this possibility. I thought I’d get the smug satisfaction of being a published writer without
anyone having to know about my secret fat life, since the book would be safely tucked away on American shelves.
But then I got a call from a publicist from the UK publisher. Not only had the book crossed the Atlantic, Grazia magazine wanted to publish an extract of my chapters.
I’ve been swinging between gleeful and horrified ever since. Part of me loathes the idea of Dietgirl going into print. I’m not ashamed of myself or what I’ve written, but my innermost thoughts are something I’ve preferred to keep to myself. And a thousand kind strangers on the Internet.
But the wannabe writer inside is quite chuffed. It will be the first time I’ve made headlines since my groundbreaking piece as an intern at the local rag: “Pensioners Welcome New Motorized Shopping Carts at Supermarket.”
What’s been most terrifying is the photo shoot. The publicist told me that magazine wanted full-length “After” photos, and I wasn’t allowed to hide behind a pillow or a pony.
I went into denial. A lardy dork like me in a glossy women’s magazine? It would never happen! Surely I’d get bumped by a Paris Hilton scoop or plastic surgery exposé? So when the Picture Desk called last Monday to arrange a shoot for Saturday, I curled up into a ball and howled.
The photographer asked me to wear (a) something I felt comfortable in, (b) something that showed off my figure, and (c) something that wasn’t black. That ruled out approximately 100 percent of my wardrobe.
I paced the streets of Edinburgh in a panic. Everything was too small, too black, or too sleeveless. I tell you, wedding dress shopping has nothing on the trauma of photo shoot shopping. At least if your wedding dress is rubbish you can hide your photos in a drawer, as opposed to displaying them next to a picture of Kate Moss for all the world to see!
