Gearing up for life, part 2

I have been debating whether to "out" myself and face the humility of a set of aspirations gone unachieved. Rachel Ross, a far more accomplished athlete than I, just shared this on her very awesome blog Run Like a Mother. I figure if she can do it at her level, I can do it at mine. After all, at the end of the day, that's kind of the point of it all -- to be brave enough to state the intent, open enough to share the struggle, humble enough to know that the great majority really doesn't give a shit one way or the other, and aware enough to know that the purpose is in the journey, more so than the outcome. Not that a great outcome won't be sweet.

Three months ago, from the depths of a sleep-deprived, overworked, traumatized by the fifth person in so many weeks to publicly and loudly point to my 8-month post-partum physique and ask how far along I am, chasm of self pity, I reached out to the only coach I could think of that wouldn't tell me I was delusional and asked for help. She did. She laid out a three-month plan to help me get back on my running feet.

It was been a wobbly start but a start nonetheless and the sheer fact of having a coach talking to me as a runner and athlete, as false as that label may feel to me right now, is exactly what I needed.

Two months or so in, on the eve of my 45th birthday, I pulled out a piece of paper from 2007. On it I had written down a statement of where I would be at 45. It was fairly audacious. I was so uncomfortable writing it at the time that I remember doing it. I scratched out having 4 kids and wrote 3 because I was so uncomfortable wanting that. I wrote down the make and year of the car I would be driving. About 4 points in one big long run-on sentence (shocking, I know). All of them were ridiculous at the time. I nailed three out of four.

The big miss; the running goal, which was a total stretch to even think of (2:45 marathon), but frankly not that much more of a stretch than a couple of the others. And the only one fully in my control. And what gets me? I didn't even really try.

Thus sealed the great birthday present of 2011.

For one year, I will get up everyday training to win a race. I may not win one, but I know that the things that go into training to win will require me to eat, sleep, and prioritize differently. It is a thrilling gift. It's not a 2:45 marathon, but it represents the same to me -- a challenge to demonstrate to myself that I am an athlete. I am a mom, a wife, have an intense and exciting job, and I can kick some ass.

Old habits die hard. The temptation, and you know where this is going if you know me, is to write this in the past tense. It was a month ago and I'm still circling the start.

But I've started. In March, I didn't think I could run 3 miles and I'm up to a comfortable 8. I've engaged two of the kids in their own summer running projects that require me to match a level of commitment I've asked from them. I am about to sign up for a half in August, I have a marathon in October and then the winter to focus on "the" race in May. Which, by the way, is on my birthday next year. And, thanks to a technicality pointed about by a dear friend who asked me what time I was born, I will still be 45 in the morning, when the race is held.

I have the support of a coach who gets this, a husband who understands what is at stake for me, and some kids who think it's cool that I'm running with them and pushing them and, most importantly, believing in them.

It's not too late to start. Happy belated birthday to me!