The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (33 page)

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.

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.

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!

Why wasn’t I rich with a crack team of personal shoppers? And how selfish of my sister to move away in January instead of foreseeing that I’d need her sartorial sense in June!

Finally, on Friday night, I resorted to a pair of jeans and simple wrap top. I cursed my laziness and lack of interest in fashion. Why had I left this to the last minute when I’d known for weeks this was in the cards? Why hadn’t I bought new clothes as I’d shrunk? Why didn’t I have a bra that held my boobs up? Why had I eaten all those cakes?

Before Las Vegas, Rhiannon and I had brainstormed How to Look as Skinny as Possible in the wedding photos. Shoulders back but relaxed. Sucked-in tummy. Arms held slightly away from your sides so the flab doesn’t splodge in an unbecoming fashion. Body turned ever so slightly with hip and leg forward. The Vegas photographer barked orders and I moved easily through the poses. The photos turned out great, considering how I was crammed into that frock like haggis into a sheep’s stomach.

I’d naively hoped the
Grazia
photo shoot would be just as brisk, but it took three hours. Firstly because they weren’t a Vegas wedding factory, and secondly because they wanted to try all sorts of poses.

The shoot took place in a posh hotel room, which intimidated me right from the start. Once the hair and makeup were done, I leaned against the couch while they did some test shots. I slyly positioned my body according to my sister’s advice. The photographer started shooting and I grinned or smiled or looked “mysterious” or “knowing” or “flirtatious,” as requested. I doubt my expression actually varied but she said I was doing great.

But then she made me get on the bed.

It was a vast four-poster with a luxurious satin cover. Anyone with a bit of extra flesh knows there is a very limited number of ways you can arrange your body in a flattering light. Standing upright is one. Actually that’s about it. Once you’re seated or prone, you have no control over how your flesh will flip and flop around.

“I’m not sure this will be a flattering angle!” I squeaked.