Sistahs with Blistahs

Gearing up for life, part 2

2011-06-16T13:57:00.002-06:00

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!

The best thing about running? It always takes you back.

2011-03-03T21:25:00.003-07:00

The scene of my first continuous 4-mile run in a long time.

Oh, the humanity

2011-01-02T10:21:00.002-07:00

I have been trying to come up with a succinct way to summarize 2010 without rehashing the "what if's", "why didn'ts", and "if only's" that are part of everyone's vernacular this time of year. The only thing I can come up with is "zeppelin." Not in the rocking, Led Zepplin kind of way. But as in the Hindenburg: full of hot air, destined for disaster, and shaped like a blimp. Hey, what can I say? New Years ain't pretty.

When my college roommate bravely paved the way and had her first baby, she commented the post-partum shape of her famously awesome abs was like a deflated basketball. Oh, what I'd give for the deflated basketball, rather than the not-entirely-deflated airship that I'm toting around these days. No less than four times, one as recently as two weeks ago, I have been asked how far along I am. The first three times, I felt worse for the person who asked. The fourth time? Not so much. In my mind (hopefully only in mind), my ab issues grow exponentially every night because of the relationship between stress and belly fat. At this rate, I'm a walking case study.

The good news? I can't possibly look any worse in running clothes, so there you have it. With fresh snow on the ground on New Years Day, I got myself and my 10-year-old dog-turned-puppy-in-the-snow out for a full 30-minute (yes, all in a row) trot. Fresh from that victory, after being defeated by the DVD player so I couldn't do my planned core workout, today I grabbed Emma, in the hopes that she couldn't run and roll her eyes at me at the same time, and we went for a "run" together, on the condition she didn't spend the whole time complaining. She didn't complain once. I let her pick the pace and when we ran and walked. It was unexpectedly great, and perfect for stretching out from yesterday, as my body was in complete shock. There is even talk of a race in June -- a girls race, with girl friends. Out of town. With actual friends. It bears repeating.

During our annual "friends plus too much wine" Holiday After-party last week, my Ironman triathlete friend (what can I say? I live in Colorado - they are like a dime a dozen ) insisted, rather passionately despite my excuses otherwise, that I am a long distance runner. Part of his argument? I am built like a long distance runner. I'm sure he didn't mean at this exact moment, but still, that's what he saw. His other point? I've done it. I can do it. I will do it again. And he corrected every comment of mine that led with "I was thinking of..." and insisted I shift it to "I am running...". I stood a little taller. And you know what? Stretched a bit, the zepplin starts to look a little more like Angelina Jolie. Not really; that's just the buildup of egg nog resin talking. Or maybe I'm just wacky on the Helium. In any case, it doesn't really matter. It's nice to look over and see my shoes laying by the door.

Green is the color of awkward

2010-12-28T21:53:00.006-07:00

Out of the mouths of babes.

Abby, who is very pleased with her new stuffed Christmas turtle, was explaining how much she loved the color awkward. I so enjoyed the thought of a color "awkward" that I refrained from correcting her with the more precise "aqua" and decided that she, in her infinite 5-year-old wisdom, hit the nail on the head.

Green isn't just the color of Christmas turtles. Green is the color of money, of greed, of envy. Green is in the eye of the monster that overrides reason and calm and disregards kindness for revenge and personal gain. The adjective green is used as an excuse for people who are too novice to know better. Green is the color of the grass on the other side.

If there were ever a color that drove some awkward behavior, this would be it.

A dear friend did that great thing that dear friends do so deftly: after a night of w(h)ine where I lamented my stress, my confusion, my frustration, my loss of spirit, she turned the tables right back at me. Yes, it's hard and stressful and frustrating, but really, staying in that spot is a choice, and -- you know this is coming -- a bit of a cop out. If I'm in it for the money, to prove myself, to put some stake in the ego-sodden ground around me, all of which I so vociferously deny, well, then, stop bitching (okay, she's too kind to go that far, but she inferred it.). If I'm not, and it's not working, well, then, make a change. The problem is: I don't know on which side of the fence I fall.

It's not easy being green.

It's not like I've not been here before; please reference just how not very far I've come. I know I've missed the point completely. The good news is that I've decided I was designed to be in my 40s. I think that's why I've always aligned my running goals with being 45; I just felt in my gut that's where I needed to be to get my shit together. It's not together at all mind you, in fact, it smells worse than ever. I'm home on vacation from work while the world's greatest nanny takes an extended break in the snowfield that was Maine. Day by day, it degenerates, but for one small glimmer of hope -- the utter disappointment that is a dry, brown Christmas in Colorado has made way to playing outside with the girls every day while my son works through a post-Christmas Nintendo marathon and my husband hides from his psychotic wife. What seems like simple fun has been plyometrics on the playground.

It seems the only way not to strangle myself trying to pull myself up by my boot straps is to not focus on the job as the root of all stress and to live the life that I need to live to breathe and be happy. The rest has a way of shaking itself out. Perhaps it's time to find some green running clothes.

Ignoring a few weird tweaks, week 1 a go

2010-06-13T21:28:00.004-06:00

Despite some strange pings in my lower back and my feet feeling a little flattened, week 1 of "worst time to start a training plan ever" went well. Personally, I'm struggling with some work-related issues (which now comes out to those around me as "blah blah blah blah"), but running has helped me feel a little grounded again. I forgot how much I missed having something else to focus on. It's an added bonus that that something else is me and the growing wee one, who is likely relieved to get away from meetings or her sister yelling "Hello baby!" through my navel.

My goal was to get out every other day; I managed 3 good "runs", none this weekend thanks to persistent rain and persistent parenting requirements, but am heading out before work tomorrow to see if I can find some zen before she who is forced to go everywhere with me is subjected to another bath of stress. The only thing that didn't feel good was the treadmell; it wasn't nearly as smooth as the trail, so that's where I'm headed.

The Perfect Mile, Redefined

2010-06-09T21:42:00.005-06:00

One nice side effect of pregnancy is that you step back and savor the small things. One big cup of coffee that lasts all morning instead of the four absent-mindedly sucked down. A few sips of Diet Coke instead of a steady flow. Half a glass of chilled pinot instead of, well, never mind. Naps. Ankles. And the enjoyment of a nice, slow jog.

Fresh off my triumphant continuous 3/4-miler on Sunday, I hit the one-mile lake loop on the way to work yesterday. It was cloudy and cool and the universe acknowledged me by planting on the trail a friend I had just recently reached out to after a several year absence, but had yet to meet up with.

After a one-lap warm-up, I did an easy mile. It was exactly right. And just enough to feel a little less stressed yesterday (which really came in handy later) and a little sore today. Ahhh...

And then there are the days it all comes together

2010-06-07T16:56:00.006-06:00

While this would be a lot more fun if I posted about the chapter in Run Like a Mother where they discuss managing taking a dump while running, I do understand that many readers enjoy the cameraderie of the Dimity and Sarah blogs and articles, so I will let it go. But c'mon, really? anecdotes about intestinal events?

To say it's been a struggle to kick start my "running" would indicate I've actually been trying. Save a few trots around the track and 1 bike ride, it's been a non-event.

But it turns out that I'm actually learning a few things from my ridiculous work schedule, also known as the great exercise in un-training: it never feels like the right time, it usually feels really uncomfortable, and the longer you sit and think about it, the more the opportunities race by.

So, the universe put a perfect storm in front of me:

Colorado summer.

The Bolder Boulder.

Colleen DeRueck.

And finally, my own offspring, who I watched play two brutal lacrosse games in the 90 degree sun, taking a break between which to throw himself around a set of bouncy slides and obstacle courses, before taking off for hockey practice, after which I was informed, by his somewhat critical but loving dad, was his best practice ever. I had workout envy toward my 7 year old.

So my less-than-fabulous self found myself leaving dog, kids, and husband (how familiar!) and heading out the door. After several long door-step conversations about how long I would be gone, when would I be back, and would I be gone for a long time, I left. To go running, as it were.

In my neighborhood is one of those women you just know you like. I saw her four boys at the track before I saw her. I was planning run a lap, walk a lap, repeat to try to get at least 4 quarters in. After my first lap, I was pleased with my heart rate (perhaps leaving dog and kids at home is important part of fitness routine these days). During my walk, she fell in with me and did a lap of walking. With the distraction of a partner and the sheer joy of running with someone, I strung my next one lap into three. We chatted about running at 5:30 am, why no one mentions that 4-year-olds can be worse than newborns when it comes to sleep, and the guilty indulgence of having a housecleaner (and the universal agreement that it is cheaper than marriage counseling).

After a walking lap, I ran the half mile home, letting my heart rate float up a bit as I rounded the last corner. The result was almost an hour of cardio, a good solid bit of running, and a serious sweat thanks to the aforementioned early summer. It was amazing. I followed it with lots of stretches, a couple of lunges (yes, I did say "a couple of"), and five whole knee pushups.

It did the trick.

The stress was gone. The humor was back. All was right with the world.

The epilogue is that I then proceeded to stay up to 4 am to complete a project. The stress didn't come back, but I felt a loss. I can't push both ends and running is so important to me. I've let it sit for too long and everyone is suffering for it, even, ironically, work.

So, here's the commit to myself:

1. Pick two races next year. I wanted to run a fast marathon before I'm 45; I'm adjusting my expectation to commit to train, and train well, to complete one, as a birthday present to myself. And in the spirit of getting back to the fun of running, I want to run one half-marathon on a trail.

2. Get new shoes. In the long string of indignities that come with the miracle of birth, my feet have grown a half size per kid. With the "up a shoe size" rule of running shoes, I'm officially at the max. Size 11. I'm 5'6"! Add to that the cushioning and padding of the shoes I've worn that past few years and I feel like I'm running with wrapped two-by-fours attached to my feet. Somewhere out there is a shoe I can feel good in.

3. Use now as the habit base-building. There is a rule of thumb that if you do something for 6 weeks, it becomes a habit. I've wrestled with the creating-of-habit while ratcheting-up-training at the same time. It just doesn't work. I have ten weeks to just work on the habit and not focus on the training. This week I'm starting with every other morning, even if it's just for 20 minutes before work. If I can get myself to yoga once a week to view my cankles close up, I'll consider it a triumph.

Musings from a 9-hour flight, part 2: My first book review

2010-05-14T21:41:00.004-06:00

I really wanted to like Run Like A Mother. It was a gift from Mike, a token that I took to believe meant that he hasn't given up on me as a runner either. I was conscious that I was biased against it. I opened my mind. I enjoyed the first few chapters. Then I got a little annoyed. Then I got bored. I skipped a bunch of chapters in the middle about shoes, skirts, and the woman Dimity sees who doesn't wear a proper support bra. I wanted to like it, for the sheer fact that I want to connect with other moms who run. I just didn't.

I could justify my reaction by saying that I didn't like it for the reasons I loved Annie Lamott's book Operating Instructions, about her first year with her baby (she didn't gloss over the parts that really suck). I didn't like it for the reasons I read Marathon Mama's blog that doesn't sensor the frustration, the sometime futility, and the more than occasional f-bomb. I didn't like it for the same reason I didn't like the article in Runner's World that spawned the book: I don't really think these two women actually like each other that much, which creates a sense of forced friendship, without the intimacy, candor, and mutual respect that comes out of the true bonds of knowing in your gut that no matter how different you are, your running friends are the ones that get it, without saying a word.

All that is true, but glosses over the real reason I didn't like it: I don't want to take running advice from a woman who is in the same place I am. I want to hear from the Dara Torres, the Paula Radcliffes, the Constantina Tomescus: the unabashedly competitive, kick ass, "I'm an athlete who just happens to be a mom" moms. The anecdotes from the women they interviewed for the book were far more clever, honest and engaging then the pages of advice on everything from shoes to core exercises. It was too easy, too neat. I cry bullshit. I don't want to get speed work advice from a 4-hour marathoner. I know how to be a 4-hour marathoner. I want someone to make me believe I can be a 3-hour marathoner. I want a glimpse into that. How do you do that on 4 hours of sleep?

Perhaps it's just a simple matter that the book hits too close to home, so it's just not that interesting. We know the Dimitys: self-conscious, worried about being slow. We know the Sarahs: desperate to be fast, to catalog the next PR. We either look at them in the mirror or we run around the neighborhood with them in the morning.

My fundamental disappointment in this book is this: they took the title Run like a Mother. They took the first, highest profile opportunity to describe running from the perspective of a mother and made it an un-engaging, tactical how-to, most of which could have been picked up in any issue of Runner's World. Don't they read their own magazine? It's been done -- covered, refreshed and reprinted again. For all that Dara Torres skipped over in her book, she hit the core of why we all picked it up. She kicks ass. She's the athlete we secretly -- or not so secretly -- dream to be.

Dimity and Sarah played it safe. It was too neat. Too condescending. Too silly. We may never get more than a tenth of the way Dara Torres got, but her story is inspiring enough to get us out of bed, put on our shoes, and try. She is passionate, dedicated, unintimidated by age. It's not about her husband or how great it is that he supports her or her ability to find ideal support in her running bra.

The athlete moms we love dare to go for it. Isn't that the essence of running -- swimming, biking -- like a mother? It's about her incredible belief in herself. It's about hope. Isn't that the essence of mothering -- hope, passion, belief for our kids, our marriages, and ourselves -- like a runner?

Musings from a 9-hour flight, part 1: The journey continues

2010-05-14T21:13:00.005-06:00

With the fantastically organized perspective of the teenage girl, I, like many, once viewed my life in nice, neat chapters. Married by 22 (to Sting, but that's beside the point). Fabulous career. Have family. Raise family. For some reason, it always faded from there, but you get the point. As I grew older, subsections squeezed in: run a marathon, qualify for Boston before I'm 40. The order of things started moving around. Then I dwelled way too long in one place and jammed up everything behind it. My nice neat chapters blurred into one big complicated story line. Goals for 40 became goals for 45.

And now, one day into 44, I find myself sitting on a flight back from London, 3 months or so from starting all over again with a new baby. I can't even wrap my ahead around what to expect, except I know we're about to be really tired and really stressed. I feel lucky and moderately terrified. I had fantasies about how if I ever got pregnant again, I'd run right through it. Instead, I've got a belly that already looks like I swallowed a VW, ankles that are just a little too similar to my 83-year-old mother's (just in time for summer), and a body that seems to have given up early. I'm torn between trying to start something, anything, and just riding out the next few months on Chik-filet chocolate shakes and stinky cheese.

The journey of late -- coming to terms that I love my job and don't want to leave it, coming to terms with an unexpected pregnancy and a very surprised spouse, coming to terms with what the kids needs (at least for now) and addressing that on their terms, not mine -- has been immensely personal and not something I'm even tempted to try to chronicle. Suffice to say, it has been and continues to be humbling and many (by that I mean most) days I want to just crawl back in bed and sleep it all off. I seem to recall things like prenatal yoga and swimming and napping during my pregnancy with Jake. This time around, I am sitting with my feet up in the air on a plane trying to recover from wearing heels on the cobblestone streets of Stockholm, tired from trying to keep up with work back in the states and preparing to face some really uncomfortable issues at the office next week, and hoping to god that volcanic ash doesn't keep me from Em's first ballet recital. Perhaps most unexpectedly to me, I like this version. I feel more complete, more prepared, and more engaged with being a mom than ever.

For the two of you that read this blog back in the early days, the seminal point of its inception came from a letter to the editor in Runner's World that disparaged an article about Ceci St. Germaine (running mother of 6!) because she had help. The fact she had help somehow negated her achievement. It's taken me a long time to ask for help. But I get it now. And I got some help. It feels decadent, but it is also a reflection of my, and Mike's, acknowledgment and willingness to invest in where I am right now. I'm 44. Time for the kids is worth investing in. Time to talk to Mike about hockey and soccer instead of cleaning the bathrooms is worth investing in. My job is worth investing in. Next investment is all me: I still have a goal to run a 2:45 marathon some day. I still want to quality for Boston. I want to run hard to the point where there is nothing left. I want my ankles back. I carry no small amount of pride that I am at a point where I am making that investment -- it's scary. All my life I wanted someone to fix it for me, to buy it for me. At 44, my best gift is that I can do it for myself.

So, this is the absolutely most ridiculous time I can think of to start running. But maybe it's the perfect time. My days are an impenetrable wall of shit to get done. I can't get far enough away from anything to think straight. It's time. It's not going to be pretty. And it's not likely even going to be actual running. But I don't want to wait until the pregnancy chapter ends before the chapter where I get a finger-hold back on running starts because I know that's the part of the story that reminds me I might be able to pull all this off.

2010: off and running

2010-01-17T22:05:00.003-07:00

First, I'd like to lead with the following statement: I have been running. Not a lot. But enough. During the holiday break, I managed an every-other day ease-back-in set of runs. Back at work for two weeks, I've not managed any weekday anything, but the weekends have been consistent and it's enough to remember to keep coming back. Ahhh.

My goal for this year is to remember who I am. All of who I am. And to believe that embracing all of who I am will guide me through the right choices, not the easy and comfortable ones, but the right ones. And in there, down deep and lost a little under my mess of a core, is an athlete dying to get out. I'm committed to respecting her this year. She's pretty fucking tired of waiting at the back of the line.

It all sounds noble, but I've gotten a pretty big shove -- a double whammy from the universe, which I infinitely trust only for the fact that it's in the cuves that life has thrown me, the unexpected leaps into the unknown, that I have found the greatest reward. Here we go.

The first is that the opportunity that I knew better than to count on, but nonetheless allowed myself to aspire to, along the way leaving my guts, my heart, my energy, my running, my friends, and most significantly my family exposed was suddenly pulled away, rather unceremoniously and still without a lot of clarity or resolution. Disappointed? very. Relieved? Also very. I've not blogged too openly about this -- although I allude to it constantly and it is the main culprit in my choice to sideline my running. However, ironically, I was so afraid of showing weakness (because that's what start-up technology execs and venture capitalists do: they troll the running blogs of recreational running moms) that I was afraid to share openly the depth of the challenge this has brought me this past year.

Interestingly, fear drove it on all fronts: fear of being seen as someone who couldn't handle it, fear that maybe I couldn't handle it, fear of losing the opportunity and the promise of finanical independence it might bring (now that we are being really truthful), fear of failure (other women figure this out, don't they?), fear of waking up at 45 in the same place I find myself at 43: running shoes unde the bed, kids still looking for someone to help them tie a shoe, read a book, or to explain why I have to leave again. I see in this loss the opportunity to really understand what I need to do and what I can do for myself and my family. While this issue hasn't fully resolved and part of me is screaming to delete this post less I sabotage it further, I think I know my answer here, and someone how sharing it makes it a commit to myself not to chicken out.

The second whammy I'm not quite ready to share, but it's driving some personal clarity on what matters, interestingly timed with the above. It's also driving me to run. I feel like it's the most important thing I can do right now. Like everything this past year, my overwhelming first response was disappointment: why haven't I been running, saving, taking better care of myself? Thankfully, my second response was to just start. Funny, my first two weeks of the new year seem a microcosm of the past 20. Maybe that's the lesson of the last decade, the gift that comes with being 43: it's never too late. It's about adjustments and not being afraid to change course and not getting so caught up in regret we can't embrace where we are and continue to move forward.

Making a list. A very long list.

2009-12-31T10:18:00.003-07:00

During the frenzy that is birthdays and holidays at the Saunders's house, Emma received Fab Girl Barbie -- the tagline on the box said "Intern by day, fashionista by night." Among other things, she comes with "coffee" and fake eyelashes. What else does an intern need? My only hope that by the time intern Barbie needs to get a real job, Mattel has the good sense to design "Stay at home Ken."

As it is the end of a very long year, I've struggled with the right tone for this posting. A year in review? A lyrical synopsis of fits and starts and the overall failure to kick start my running again juxtaposed against the challenges and successes at work and the fact that I needed 2 days of vacation not to enjoy the holidays with my family but to wade through 2 months of laundry? Nope. That's too 2009.

A look ahead to 2010 with vows to make time for myself and my running? Commitments to run harder and faster with consistency and passion? A vow to reclaim my abs? Also too 2009. Besides, look where it got me.

So, as I make a list of resolutions (and, according to the Wall Street Journal, you are more likely to effect behavior change if you actually state a resolution), I have a fairly standard list (dig out from the 3,714 emails in my inbox and take control of my organization, stop using the laundry sink as a recycle bin, drink more water) and a list that points to something harder (be more present with my family, be kinder to my aging mother, stay connected with my friends). That thing harkens back to my aha moment of 2009: it came from an honest and inspirational blog posting by Iron Matron back in November.

I've spent a lot of time pretending I don't care about my age. But I do. And what got me most about this posting, and some of the complementary posts by Marathon Mama and others, is that I'm 43, not almost 40. I'm still constructing a life that seems to be hurdling by. When they write about kicking the asses of their younger selves, they are talking about literally kicking the asses of their younger selves in competition. I want to kick the ass of my younger self for wasting so much time in my late 20s and 30s. I am so lucky to be where I'm at and I get and appreciate that, but I'm faced with a trifecta of choices that are gated by age. If I step back from this career opportunity to be more present with my family, will I get it again? If I don't figure out how to fit training into my life this year, will I miss the opportunity to ever be competitive? I want to have another child, and for that, between health and financial concerns that I just don't have time on my side for, it seems like the opportunity has already passed.

All of this conjures up a lot of sadness for me as I look ahead to a new year. For someone who thrives on hope, it mostly sucks, but it is forcing some serious thought around where I want to be when I'm looking back from 53.

So, my underlying resolution is to face this. To be willing just to be where I am. To enjoy my family and my life and worry less about the things that at some point will just be things along the way that brought me something meaningful, but ultimately passing. To be brave enough to let go. To trust that fear is not the right driver. Hope and faith and belief are. To remember that it's okay to dream big and small. Those are the things I want to share with my kids, and to do that, I have to be present. And honest. And brave. Piece of cake.

Here's to a new year!

Stupid Endorphins

2009-11-01T21:18:00.004-07:00

First, a word about age. It's not helping my mental state with regard to running to realize that in the running world, 43 is geriatric. Thankfully, it appears that this is more skewed toward men, as evidenced in the coverage of the NY Marathon today.

“A lot of people were writing him off, saying he was too old,” said Ryan Hall... “But if there was one other guy who I wanted to see win this race, it was Meb. He’s like an older brother to me.” MUCH older. Dude, he's 34, not 97.

Meanwhile, Derartu Tulu, a 37-year-old mother of two, had the kick of her life for the last half mile to beat the women's field. Nobody mentioned her age or the fact that she can throw out a half-mile kick out of nowhere despite her maternal status. Suck it up, boys.

But back to the blog. I have bigger worries than my advancing age. What is it about running? I mean really, I should just quit. It's now just embarrassing. I was thinking I should try something new -- like a triathlon. Because I have done such a good job at focusing on one sport, why not try three at once? I was thinking Sprint. A quick start. Something to invoke other muscles that I am sure used to exist in my body somewhere. Not an Ironman. A small one. The two hottest moms I've met recently do tris. One does big ones, one does small ones. Both hot. I am vain and desperate enough to divert my running fantasies back to my abs and only my abs.

Alas, the idea is not sticking. I don't know if it's my complete inability to focus on more than one thing at a time or if it's my complete inability to give up on running a kick ass marathon some time in the next few years (or category three, my idea of an awesome bike has flowers and a basket on it), but I'm skeptical. I miss running. I love running. I love running far. I love running away. I love running back. I miss my nasty toes. I miss my running coach.

And I really miss the endorphins. I've thrown everything at work, but I'm starting to numb. I realized yesterday that this is the longest span in my life I've gone without exercise, the absurdity of participating in the marathon a few weeks ago aside. My brain needs a break. This afternoon, I went out for a short trot in the fabulously bright sun that is Colorado. Something about the pavement knocks everything back into place. Even when I'm not running, I'm a runner.

Respect. And other things I learned from the back of the pack.

2009-10-20T22:43:00.004-06:00

Assuming I didn't in fact inflict long-term damage on my very surprised shins and knees, showing up and participating in Sunday's Nike Women's Marathon with exactly one training run under my belt may have done what years of stops and starts and mental battles over running versus working versus parenting versus aging could not.

The irony is that at each of my previous marathons, I arrived at the starting line wracked with insecurity. I believed I had no business being there. I hadn't trained properly. I shouldn't participate until I proved I was serious. I didn't want to just be part of the pack. I wanted to race. To count. I wanted in the club of serious runners.

Running has been my singular metric for assessing my ability to achieve the holy grail of womanhood. I want the joyous, fulfilled family life; the challenging, satisfying career that includes insulation from present and future financial worries; and I want to achieve a personal milestone the cements a place that is just for me (and cements my abs in the process). I wanted it to be so seamless, so seemingly effortless (while acknowledging it was not the least bit effortless), that the doubters would stand back and marvel at my fortitude.

I have shared with much candor that it has been neither effortless nor entirely successful. Work has been terrifying and thrilling, as has motherhood for that matter. I couldn't do it all and I had to pick and I picked work. Work. Not work/life balance. Just work. Not a popular sentiment. But true. It was with spousal buy-in (mostly), but still, pretty ballsy move for me and my guilt-savaged ego. Both my Abs and my abs have paid the price. I am in a place that seemed extremely distant six months ago, when I was setting myself up for the 180 degree opposite pick.

Through work, I have had to admit that I don't always know where to start, although I generally know where I need to go. I have checked my ego at the door (and subsequently lost it completely) and worked twice as hard; hired smart, experienced people; and asked for lots of help. I stopped worrying about whether I can do it and have just done what I can as fast as possible without thinking about it too much. I assume if I'm on the wrong path, someone will hit me over the head. I realized that even if I fail, I will learn a ton. I stopped asking myself and anyone else who would listen whether I had any right to be in my job. Funny thing is, that's a great setup for walking on to a marathon course.

I am not going to run a 2:45 marathon before I am 45. But I will someday. I see where I need to go and I can't imagine how I'm going to get there. But I will. I completed the Nike Women's Marathon in over 6 hours and was met by the guy who has taken over school lunch preparation, preschool drop-offs, and the morning searches for the right tights. He told me he was proud of me. And he meant it. It was very humbling.

For the first time, after chasing times and running marathons with the desperation of wanting to quality for Boston and the disappointment of missing, I started this race with the sole intent of finishing. My head in such a different place that I picked up a 6:00 - 7:29 pace band assuming that 6:00 meant 6 hours. And for the first time, i walked off the course completely satisfied. I knocked my goal out of the park. I also knocked some respect back into my head for those around me.

As I was not solely focused on my time, I actually spent a lot of time looking around. I was amazed by the sea of purple shirts, covered with names and pictures and filled with supporters, grievers, and survivors. I was humbled by the folks who strap on their shoes and take off from the starting line knowing they are undertaking an effort that will take 6, 7, 8, or more hours; for the kids and the dads that waited patiently for hours to provide two minutes of hugs and cheers; for the ability of women to take an event that involves 20,000 strangers from all over the place driven by a variety of reasons and tackling a variety of goals and ambitions and make it an immensely personal, emotional, touching, and humbling experience. I was reminded that 26.2 miles is really freaking far.

I don't need to take this approach to a marathon ever again. Life lesson #8,891,233 is officially checked off the list. Assuming I can someday get my running shoes back on, I'd like to actually train for the race and try it again. I even kept the pace band. Just in case.

Race Report: Family Style

2009-06-14T21:34:00.005-06:00

I long for the days when everyone was afraid of porta-potties. This afternoon at the pool, I listened to a woman in the next stall over "decorate" the toilet seat for her daughter. As they agreed with each other over the need to cover every inch of germs, I looked down at my little blond princess -- a race porta-potty veteran for whom a rec center bathroom brings the refreshing presence of something that actually flushes -- and wondered if this was yet another area where I am sorely maternally deficient. Then I remembered that I, much loved offspring of public health nurse, didn't actually use a public restroom until I was like 18 and drunk in public for the first time. I once again decided everything can be fixed with a bleach shower and decided it was okay not to instill a total fear of the rec center bathroom. At least not yet.

However, Emma's new found willingness this year to actually use the race porta potties has made it a little challenging to convince her it's not actually a required part of the event. I realize this is coming from the woman who missed the cannon start of her first marathon because she was in the porta potty. But we actually almost made it to the start of last weekend's Sunrise Stampede without any mention of such side trips, and then there they were, yards from the start. And there we were. Back in line. It does please me to know that someday Em will be very impressed with the fact that Mike and I had deluxe porta-potties at our wedding. I'm holding that one in my back pocket until she accuses me of being really lame.

The best thing about the Sunrise Stampede? It's run by the rotary club and sponsored by McDonald's, and it gets these amazing runners. Abby, who made it 10 feet into her first stroller-free race, and I were finishing our track lap for the 2 miler when the 10K winners started coming in. Incredible. Only around here can you pay $10 for a race and see some of the best runners around.

Most significant, it was our first all-family running event. Five bibs. Five runners (at least for 5 minutes, then it was 4 runners and one with a sweet ride on mom's back. Take that Rosie Ruiz!). A big part of my shift of focus in my running these days is my attempt to fold it more into our lives, so it's not something I just cram in on the side. I did the easy part -- whether or not they like the running, the kids get there are usually bagels and ice cream at the end. The harder part is coming up, but with 18 weeks until Nike, I'm getting ready to make the leap.

Can't you relate just a little?

2009-06-03T21:28:00.006-06:00

I am taking exception with yet another Runner's World reader. The issue that arrived today had a letter from someone who "applaud[s]the focus and determination of elite runners" but wished "the Kara Goucher story was more encouraging for those of us who have kids, spouses, and jobs as we carve time out of life to run and be fit." Her point is that it was hard to relate.

I found the article about Kara extremely motivating, even if I couldn't "relate" to her. The sheer magnitude of her training schedule is amazing. I can't wait for the day I can put on a weight vest for the last few miles of my long run, just to make it that much harder. She isn't shying away from the work it takes to be the best in the world. It hasn't been perfect. She's exposed her weakness and made some mistakes. But she continues to attack her goal. She kicks ass.

I don't know what it's like to train and run at that level. But I know what it's like to want to step out front. I work like crazy, ignore my family, and apply a singular focus that results in no clean Dora underwear, missed birthday party RSVPs, and a loss of connection to friends because they neither live in my house or in my cube. I get rewarded for this complete lack of balance with appreciation for my dedication and, then, more work.

Why do us moms feel like we need to subjugate our running because we have kids and spouses and other things in our lives? Because running is personal. It doesn't pay the mortgage; carving out time for the personal versus professional goes from noble to selfish in the time it takes to elevate your heart rate. The RW reader couldn't relate to Kara because running is her job. That makes it easier, I guess. I buy that; it's a hell of a lot easier for me to say I am going to be late tonight because of my meeting than it is to say I'm going to be late tonight because I want to stop for a run on the way home. Net result to the neglected family is the same. Net result to the neglected self is much, much different. Maybe we just need to define what our real jobs are, and if it's pursuing our deepest goals, maybe we can all relate after all.

Back in the saddle. Again. At least near the saddle.

2009-06-01T07:57:00.006-06:00

When I found myself signed up for some races that were scheduled to occur way ahead of any chance of actually training, I hoped it would be a kick start. As someone who feels full of excuses not to run most the time, it was also a test of my ability to be honest about where I'm at.

And while I had a few moments of "if only" and "I could have" when I saw my BolderBoulder times compared with everyone else I knew running the race and then compared with everyone else in my age group and then everyone else in my gender category (c'mon, you do that post-race scouring, too), the net result has been what I wanted and I was reminded that sometimes it's okay not to wait until everything feels lined up right.

In addition to the 10K monday, last week I got in a great 5.5 miler, a couple of outings at the track for some pickups, a few core workouts (I can almost do half of the 20-minute workout, baby!), an awesome 6-miler in search of a big hill to run up and down, and my new favorite workout: "let the 6-year-old pick the way home from the track." At the risk of sounding as old as I actually am, I felt like the Family Circus cartoon that shows the dotted lines where the kids wander in an attempt to get from point A to point B. Yes, I did just reference a Family Circus cartoon. I didn't say it was funny. Or recent. Hold on, I need to find my teeth...

Okay, there goes that excuse

2009-05-25T20:59:00.003-06:00

So, before I launch into my retraction of my last blog, I wanted to provide a quick race report from my first BolderBoulder since 1999. What's not to love about a race that has a bacon, watermelon, and beer station? With exactly two weeks of training under my belt, I just wanted to run it in an hour. I ignored my watch, just ran what felt manageable and made it in 56:27 (9:06). By far the best part was that Mike and the kids made it into the stadium to see me finish.

On Mike's advice, I just treated it like a training run and had a good workout yesterday with pickups and some good core work. Tonight I feel sore and tired in that good way. It's hard not to feel a little frustrated looking at the times of other friends and colleagues, but it still feels satisfying to get out and do it even though I hadn't trained the way I would have liked. I could have just stayed home. Besides, you can't beat watching yourself on the jumbotron.

On to my retraction. It would much easier to think that if I just had any easier job or less kids or more time or better shoes or bigger boobs (had to throw that in there. For those of us without, it seems like the answer to everying), I'd be training 24 x 7 and crushing my goals. I blame my job for losing track of my friends, my running, my kids, myself. However, as challenging as it is, it's not an appropriate excuse.

As soon as I hit "publish", I realized that many of the accomplished athletes I respect and admire work. A lot. Sometimes at multiple jobs. If they aren't working out of the house, they are working inside -- balancing kids and running at night to find a place for running in their lives.

Here is the rub. For all the talk about wanting balance, I'm really afraid of what is going to happen when I push to make room for training again. It could be fine. Or it could really not work. There could be consequences. I might have to pick. I'm not a picker. I just pile more on try to make it work. It has taken me a long time to realize that I've been talking and writing about training because then I don't have to pick. I have time to work like I've been and talk about training. I don't have time to work like I've been and actually train.

With two years to go, maybe it's time for a different kind of strength training.

There is a reason elite runners work at Home Depot

2009-05-23T22:09:00.010-06:00

On November 10 of last year, at approximately 10 am, I walked into my boss's office and told him that I had been struggling with fitting running into my life -- that Mike had been traveling and I just couldn't find the time to wedge running in between rushing to work and rushing to the kids. He expressed his confidence in my ability to get my work done when and as needed and gave me his blessing to slip out regularly at the decadent hour of 4:30 pm.

With my aforementioned mother's memory working in overdrive, I trotted out of his office, full of myself for being so demanding, so protective of my needs, so downright committed to running. And then my boss got laid off. And then I got his job. And that, my friends, was all she wrote for the running ramp up.

Thus the backdrop for today's kitchen conversation. Mike continues to express his confidence that I can crank up some serious marathon speed, just as soon as I make it a priority and treat it the same way I treat the other things I manage to find the time for. To which my response was a haughty "well, I don't do anything else but work" and waited for the "that's right, never mind" (actually, I was waiting for the "that's right you poor, beautiful, under-appreciated, incredibly smart, amazing runner, but that's beside the point. mostly). Instead there was a moment of silence while he let me figure it out.

So now this is a scary thought. To commit to the running goal not as something I try to slip in with minimal disruption to my job, but as something I prioritize my life around. What if I didn't stay up late night after night so I can be rested and recovered? What if I held to a schedule, not rigidly because I know things will always come in sideways, but loosely -- so I know what I need to get done, can tick off workouts, and can know I'm heading in the right direction.

It's more than a little terrifying. This is the woman who, when she finally makes it out of the house early to run, is torn over the fact that if she made it out of the house so early, wouldn't it be great to get in there and get some work done?

I feel like when I look away, 15 more things pile up. I took a day off and promised Jake an afternoon alone and spent 30 minutes in REI talking to a client, and then the evening tracking down follow ups and action items. It will not stop; it's the nature of the job and I get that. But if I don't force in my training, I'm not going to get there. It sounds ridiculously obvious, but it's taken me a while to get here. I've been waiting to catch up. It's not going to happen.

Today, a roly-poly; tomorrow, a 14-year-old named "Todd"

2009-05-16T21:48:00.006-06:00

I found Emma weeping in the driveway this afternoon. She and Jake had been collecting roly-poly's and hers kept "running away." Her brother's explanation, of course, was that they didn't like her. She was so sad. She told me her heart was broken. I looked at this heap of devastation in the driveway and immediately fast-forwarded to the broken hearts over unrequited love, mean girls on the playground, and the rest of the veritable sea of disappointments that will come at her in big and small waves over the coming years.

My first instinct was to tell her the roly poly was just a bug, not worthy of her affection. But it didn't matter. And she didn't care if it was worthy of her or not. It didn't want her, and that's all that mattered.

So, if you will kindly indulge my skipping over the implication that I am apparently raising a child with potential rejection issues that may or may not have anything to do with my 80-hour work weeks and insane travel schedule of late, I would like to wrap this right back around to running.

I want Emma to be strong and brave and with a strong sense of self that shores her up against the hard things and people she is going to meet in her life. Guess what? I want that for me, too.

I can't count how many times I've woken up over the past few months and wondered how I would get through the day. I have made a ton of mistakes, been embarrassed, and have more than a few regrets. But I've had some victories, too - some public, but mostly private. It was important that I didn't quit, even when I wanted to run screaming from the building.

While my laziness and lack of creatively has driven my inability to update my blog format to something new and fun, I've purposely not changed my profile. Why the hell would a woman whose biggest accomplishment of late is running a slightly longer than 9k have the audacity to claim a 2:45 in 2 years? It could be the sleep (8 hours last night!), or the Spring running season, or hanging around races again, or getting pissed off that marathonmama ran into a book agent who apparently has Entertainment Tonight confused with ESPN. I think it's mostly that I turned 43 on Wednesday. 43. I spent it in a conference room in San Diego eating pizza and prepping for a huge meeting.

I don't think I've ever been so nervous about a meeting, but the thought I kept coming back to was that whatever happened with that meeting, or with work overall, I will be far more disappointed with myself if I hit 45 without even trying to hit my running goal. And trying means training.

I'm embarrassed at how many times I've blogged my re-starts, which is probably odd coming from a woman who has posted pictures of her laundry. But I ain't going to get to 2:45 if I don't start. Because I take all my life lessons from the Title9 sports catalog, I appreciated the Winston Churchill quote they put inside the front cover last month: "Success is moving from failure to failure enthusiastically." I feel like the poster child for that statement. It has been a crazy few months. And it is going to be really hard to find the time to train. Impossible, really. But I feel like I've done a lot of things I thought I couldn't do in the past few months, so why stop now?

Where did I put Jason's number?

Putting the mother back in Mother's Day

2009-05-10T22:46:00.006-06:00

Oh yeah, it's good to be back. Following are two Mother's Day reports. First actually involves running, my cool new hydration pouch, and the discovery that there is a massage tent behind the giant line for the bouncy castle at the Title 9k race (who knew?). Second involves sharing the moment of hygiene-related horror that has finally replaced the memory of 18-month-old Emma licking the trashcan at Logan Airport. Your choice. Happy Mother's Day.

Title9k+ Race Report
I kept wondering what the + in the Title9k meant and assumed it was the continued insidious creep of Nike+ Ipodization. Et tu, Title9 Sports?

The answer was no; the + meant longer than 9K, which would have been great to know before coming up on and then passing of the 9K-mark with no festive balloon arches to mark the occasion. I still don't entirely know how much plus + is.

Mike and kids had planned to come cheer me on, but we woke up to cool, misty weather - great for running, terrible for being the dad trying to entertain three kids, two of whom are obsessed with porta-potties (and no, this isn't the hygiene story) while mom runs the race.

The weather posed a question to my HydraPouch debut. I wanted to wear my new cool jacket, but it covers my waist band, which I feared would impede my ability to hang my HydraPouch on my waistband. The jacket is long and very fitted (why, it's a Nike+ jacket!). So first, I decided to wait until a nice day when I didn't have to wear my jacket to try it. But that seemed silly, since the pouch is not positioned as a "nice day when your waistband is free and clear" hydration system. So, I decided I'd just figure it out while I ran and put it in my pocket to worry about later. And it fit in there great. Problem solved. The material is so pliable it just slipped right in. It's not how it's designed to be used, but it allowed me to use it without the belt clip and without, well, taking off my awesome new jacket.

I pulled it out for the first aid station about 20 yards ahead and was really pleased with how it felt in my hand. Between the shape and the material, I barely had to hold it. I filled it from a cup quickly and was able to drop the cup right in the trashcan and then sip away.

So, now is the time I should mention the lovely stomach "issue" my kids shared for Mother's Day. I was a little nervous about putting anything in my system, and a little nervous about not putting anything in my system. So at the first station I filled it with Gatorade and was pleasantly surprised at how nice it was to be able to drink at my own pace. In all honesty, I think the HydraPouch is a great way to reduce waste and hadn't thought too much about it from a hydration standpoint. But it really made a difference in my ability to sip what I wanted. And it was easy to empty out and get ready for next time.

I had to experiment a little. The first time I splashed my nose -- I didn't break stride at all and had filled it pretty full. The top has an opening like a coin purse, which makes it really easy to fill, but as such it doesn't seal tight. It was still way better than a cup and way, way better than lugging a sloshy water bottle. I quickly picked up that if I adjusted my stride while actually drinking and only filled it with what I wanted to drink, it was fine. I also just started laying my index finger over the top of the spout and that held it closed enough for me to run while drinking without splashing. For the first couple of stations, I drank what I needed, emptied it, and just slipped it right back in my pocket. When I warmed up and took of my jacket, I was able to try out the belt clip and had no trouble slipping it on and off.

At the end of the race, they were handing out bottled water. I happily declined and headed to the tent where they had Gatorade and water dispensers set up. I filled the pouch and walked around feeling pretty full of myself from an eco-friendly racing standpoint. What I was most psyched about is that my stomach stayed calm because I didn't feel the need to gulp down cups of water. I really do feel like it made a difference. I'd like to say it's why I bested last year by 18 minutes, but that had more to do with leaving the jogger and kiddos 11 miles away from the start line. I already think of it as a staple. As a follow up note, one little-known phobia of mine is fear of mold (bad CamelBak experience). I hate it when things don't dry all the way. I rinsed out my pouch and turned it upside down in the dishrack and it was completely dry in no time.

It took me an hour to run my 9k+, but it felt great to go out for a steady run and it was kind of a nice transition to run it alone this year. Next year, I'm hoping to get Jake out there with me. We'll see.

As a post race note, I wandered around after the race feeling hydrated but a little lonely, wondering if I should just hurry up and get home to help Mike out. Then I walked by the very long line to the bouncy castle and saw to my wonderment an amazing vision of table after table of massage therapists. And suddenly, my kid-free state turned from one of loneliness to one of unbridled freedom and in 30 seconds I was smack down on a table professing undying love and affection for the person cracking my back. Colorado Massage Therapy Student Working the Table in the Rear Left Corner, I meant every word I said. You can have my car, house, and kids if you'll just do that thing to my middle back again.

Oh the Horror: Mother's Day Report, part 2
This Mother's Day also happens to be the first Sunday I've spent with my family in three weeks. If "spent with my family" can be extrapolated to include spending the morning at a race with my family no where near me. In any case, I did find them, and my beautiful homemade cards, and my to-go mimosa waiting for me in time to go spend the afternoon sitting in the aforementioned cool mist watching 2 hours of Jake's lacrosse clinic. I actually made the comment to Mike, "the girls have gotten really good at entertaining themselves for two hours during this thing," and then noticed that the both of them, who were a good 25 feet away, looked like they were chewing something. I watched them for a few minutes and then realized there was no way they had taken anything with them to snack on and called them over. I didn't get up, mind you, just called them over.

"Emma, what are you guys eating?" I asked, innocently enough. And she holds up a big, pink, wet, chewy piece of gum. Found gum. Gum stuck on a pole that they were playing around. And the kicker follow up statement? "Abby ate hers."

I thought of an immediate trip for a stomach pump, but realized it would be too late for whatever germ trail now existed from mouth to belly. Are these the moments that the hepatitis A vaccine is for?

And so, my friends, Happy Mother's Day.

'Tis the season

2009-05-09T17:12:00.006-06:00

Avoiding running during the Springtime in Colorado is like trying to avoid beer during Oktoberfest. It's everywhere. And you can try to ignore that it's all around you and just say you are there for the polka music, but by the end of the day, you can't help yourself, even if you know you may end up wanting to throw up on your shoes.

I am fresh off a very intense month at work that has included trips to each coast, both sides of Washington State, two visits to St. Louis, and, of course, Minneapolis, because why not go there, too; a diet that has consisted of coffee, cheese-based products, and a trip to Taco Town for something that turned out to be sour cream and cheese wrapped with a piece of lettuce in a tortilla; and an exercise program that mostly includes lugging heavy equipment through airports and elevating my heart rate through massive doses of stress. That, coupled with the reminder from my husband that stress is linked to increased belly fat, which just makes me more stressed, has me in a much different place than I thought I would be when I looked ahead to this Spring from last year.

Nonetheless, with the confidence of having survived almost the full 20-minute cable workout by Jillian Michaels (it's really hard!) not once, but twice (and disregarding the fact that the workouts are meant to be done every day for 30 days), I find myself facing the Spring racing seasons with three races on the calendar. I've gone from horror to actually looking forward to knowing I have three runs in my future -- it's an expensive way to make sure I get out the door, but I'll take it. And race number 3 doesn't actually count because I will be "running" with Emma in our annual 2-mile race where we will attempt to complete the entire race without a stroller standing by.

Tomorrow is the Title9k Mom's day race. I love this race. I was looking forward to running it in shape with no 120-pound jogger, so now I just see it as 5.5 miles of alone time and something to get my metabolism going before my annual mother's day brunch at Dairy Queen. I'm already sad -- with the loss of the 120-pound jogger (well, technically it's still in the garage) I also lose the lost blankets, potty stops, constant stream of questions and conversations, and 18 trips in and out of the stroller to run for 9 feet with me. Sounds kind of lonely all of a sudden.

Next up is the Bolder Boulder. I have only run once in this sea of humanity since I moved here - it was the first year I lived here and I lived three blocks from the start. It is such a tradition and I don't know why I've avoided it since -- it's the weekend before the Steamboat Marathon, so back when I was into that, it was bad timing. Last year, I was the backup for our company team. This year, I was offered a spot, realized it was crazy to try to train for it, gave up my spot, then was asked last week to step in for an injured team member (you need two women and who knew so few women in the office actually ran?). The good news is that only the top 3 scores count, so I was doing it to provide my long history as a female. Then I found out I had to qualify to get in ahead of the open waves (= 45,000 people). Then I found out I had to qualify last night on a treadmill in a store in front of other people (yes, running a 9:30 pace for two miles made me nervous). Then I found out that I still had to pay $50 and didn't even really need to do it (they could have run with one woman). Then I decided to go with the "yay! I'm running on a team for the Bolder Bolder" reaction. And the shirt is cool.

Last up is the Longmont Stampede. Emma and I are shooting for having as great a time as we did last year.

And what makes it all really interesting is that I get to try out the long-awaited better mousetrap. Over the past year, I've watched someone finally solve how to manage getting a decent sip of water during races without having to lug a full bottle with you. It's called HydraPouch and it's going to change racing forever. At the behest of the Marathon Mama, I watched Spirit of the Marathon. The thing that struck me most was the scene of the paper cups lined up for the Chicago Marathon. It's wasteful and they suck, so to speak, to drink from. The pouch is meant to be filled at the hydration table, and then used as you need, emptied, and stuck back on your shorts' elastic until you need it again. They've designed a dispenser (which I'll be begging the folks at the Shambala race to try so they don't make us hydrate from 16 oz. Aquafina bottles again), but it also works when you fill it from a cup. I've not tried it myself in a run, so I'm anxious to check it out tomorrow. I wonder if it works with coffee?

A mind is a terrible thing to waste

2009-04-06T23:15:00.006-06:00

Control is a funny thing. Leaving those circumstances that involve actual physical tethering or malicious emotional torment aside, I find the notion of control -- who's in it, who's out of it, who's lost it -- to be one of the oddest social contracts out there. It's so easy to say we've given up control (or, more passively, we've actually lost it somewhere under the laundry), but if you step back objectively, that's about the worst possible state to be in, so why would we ever, ever go there except for under the aforementioned conditions of physical bondage or emotional duress? (note to self: still scarred from the "cleansing" commentary, I'm worried what kind of comments I'll get having mentioned "bondage.")

Well, I will tell you why. For me, predominately, it's fear. And laziness. But mostly fear. Fear of letting Mike down. Fear that I really won't like where I end up. Fear of what people will say about me. Fear for fear's sake, because sometimes saying you are afraid is a cop out because if you stop there, it's just a handy excuse. It's okay to be afraid. Or embarrassed. Or wrong. It just feels a little shitty.

I have given up control and have let fear tie me to a train track. And in realizing that, and in starting a few simple conversations (safe ones, to be sure), I remembered the control is actually in the back of my closet (with the running shoes, no less). So, over the course of the next few days, I'm going to take the steps to just do the thing that I've been waiting to do. I can anticipate some responses, and I am going to feel exposed, insecure, and definitely slightly idiotic. But that's just my cover. I'm actually going to feel in control. And right now that feels more important than the actual outcome.

Aren't You Funny, Mr. Universe

2009-03-29T21:30:00.002-06:00

By funny, I mean not funny. And just in case you thought I may have found peace, calm, and tranquility in my hiatus from blogging and running and anything else that doesn't not involve trying not to drown in work and yelling at my children, I haven't. Not even close. As an example, right now, I'm actually blogging so I can pretend I'm not about to start working the moment Mike walks out the door for hockey. Lame? Yes. Effective survival tactic? I'm not sure. Something that makes me feel very silly? Absolutely.

Sadly, part of why I shut down my blog was my fear that sharing my struggle would undermine the confidence of those I work with and for, which is only interesting in that I do feel that this constant battle to stay sane and do what needs to be done is part of what makes me good at what I do. It's not so good on the home front necessarily, but it makes for a pretty effective work ethic.

So, I may be a basket case and a workaholic and a fairly unengaged partner and parent right now, but I'm also a runner and thanks to laws of the universe, which hates a vacuum -- and boy did I make one around running, I have not only found my running shoes but I have a race on the calendar. I, and the friend I talked into signing up with me under the assurances we would never actually get in, got into the Nike Women's Marathon through the lottery. October 18. 26.2 miles. Firemen.

And while, yes, I did have to put down my spoon that goes with a bowl of Rocky Road to type this, I am embracing the excuse to stop giving up. I quit and when I did, I quit on a lot more than running.

I don't exactly know how to change. I don't even know how to start. Well, that's not true exactly. I started by running twice this weekend, including one in dress socks so I wouldn't miss the opportunity to fit a run in my 24-hour escape with Mike in Denver. I'm sort of hoping the rest follows from here. I think I have some very hard choices to make and some that may require a leap of faith from someone who does not like leaping on faith at all. I do know I'm tired of watching from the sidelines and I'm tired of being tired. And quite honestly I could use some love from a hot fireman, even if I have to run 26.2 miles to get it.

Uncle!

2009-02-10T21:49:00.005-07:00

I'm cooked. Done. I've hung myself on the proverbial bootstrap and the boot itself is logged permanently in my forehead. I give. I fold. I'm toast.

We missed beloved hockey practice last night, the highpoint of the week for Jake, because I was on a call that I had mis-scheduled a half-hour late and then ran 90 minutes long. Jake screamed at me for 15 minutes, not understanding why I couldn't just tell my boss I had to leave. Emma screamed at me because we were going to do her homework during hockey practice and now it was going to be late again. Abby just started crying because I didn't send her to school with the right coat. This was after I walked into school one minute before closing, through the school staff meeting. 45 minutes later I found myself climbing up the disturbingly greasy McDonald's Playland tunnels to fetch Abby, who had collapsed in an exhausted heap of despair because her guilt-ridden mother took her to playland at 7pm on a Monday.

Jake was up all night with what turned out to be a nasty ear infection, the kind that made the nurse wince when I took him to the doctor after sending him to school, where he survived all of an hour before bursting into tears. It was nice to explain how we sent him to school last week with a sore throat and temperature (thank you Motrin). Oh, and he has impetigo on his face. By tonight, his ear was actually bleeding.

On the way to the doctor, my face started to twitch. Not just the eye flitters, but a fairly persistent entire-left-side of my face twitch. It hasn't really stopped. Last week I noticed I cracked another filling off grinding my teeth. No stress here!

I'm pretty tired. I try not to think about it, but it's not many nights that I sleep for more than a few hours at a time. I'm doing a poor job managing myself and the kids are paying the price. I can't really think about running. As much as I know it's the key to mental salvation, I don't have it in me right now. I'm too tired to be disappointed. Maybe this is all me; that I should be doing more to set limits, demand my needs are met, take what I need. It just doesn't seem that simple.

Something has to change, and I need to back away a little to figure out what and how to start. I've never quite been here before, so I'm not exactly sure quite what to do. Except sort of be for a while and see where I end up.

So, I'm backing away from the running goals and plans, and of course, the blog. I don't even feel like talking about running. It's been too long since I had any substance behind those discussions that it feels hollow and uninteresting, even to me.

So, happy running and I hope to be back soon.

The Crushing Reality of, well, Reality

2009-02-08T21:17:00.005-07:00

So, the leaping of joy in my endorphin-laced heart has been replaced with the stress and anxiety of, well, just about everything. Getting a little bit of running and a little bit of sleep has actually made me more crabby. My beloved would use a different word, but I'm sticking with crabby.

The good news is that I'm understanding it truly is all in my head. Just when I'm about to run screaming to God knows where, since now everyone knows to look for me in San Diego, I sit down and do a few things -- write a couple of work emails, jot down something on a list, pack someone's school bag -- and I calm a bit. In someways it's depressing. The message I'm getting is "Just keep going! You'll feel better!" I wish the message was "Stop! The only cure is a 90-minute yoga class in the middle of the day! You will die if you don't do the child's pose in the next 3 hours!" I miss yoga.

I am trusting that it lets up some day. I believe strongly in giving my all to the moment, even if the moment is particularly sucky, unless I am running a marathon, but I'm working on that. I am hedging my bets that this particularly challenging moment in my life will pass and I'll come out the other side with a different perspective, some hope, and some sand between my toes.

And because the universe continues to speak to me through the mainstream media, I wanted to share my experience with Time magazine this week (which has been showing up unannounced and somewhat sporadically, just to add to the profundity of it all).

As sport, Mike points me to articles that he knows will send me off on some kind of kitchen tirade, so this time it was the broohaha around the French finance minister going back to work for a meeting 5 days after giving birth. In doing so, she has apparently single-handedly ruined it for everyone. Please note there was no indication that she went back to an 80-hour work week leaving her newborn in the care of someone she only recently met on the street. And only in the very last sentence did the author note that maybe she went back because she really likes her job.

And while THAT has nothing to do with running except to give me a slightly elevated heart rate, the article I noticed as I was crunching up the magazine to throw at Mike was about detox diets and cleansing programs actually not working or being at all effective.

So, me and my toxic self are heading back to work tomorrow to join the ranks of crabby, heartless moms, with a gallon of coffee and PopTart in tow. Mike is heading out for the week, so we'll see how the running momentum carries me through. To set myself up for success, I'm contemplating throwing out the rest of the wine. Wait, did I say throw out? I'm sure I can come up with a better way to get rid of it....

Ah, sea level

2009-02-06T22:01:00.002-07:00

It seems only fitting that I found my running groove in San Diego. I ran up the harbor and down the harbor. I ran with others, and I ran alone. I ran with oxygen and humidity in the air. I ran hungover. I ran and then stood on a trade show floor for hours giving demos, and then did it again the next day. I ran! And I never once stopped to look at studio apartments.

I feel fairly toxic and am contemplating a detox or cleansing diet, which I've never done before. I don't actually even know what it means, but it seems like a good idea. I want to detox myself from the past few months of eating and drinking and otherwise generally unhealthy behavior. Anyone have any ideas?

When 3pm meets 3am

2009-02-01T23:00:00.006-07:00

I stand by my conviction that the CIA should forget trying to justify waterboarding and just borrow Abby to elicit secrets from terrorists across the globe. Get them tired, perhaps by sending them out for a nice long run; put a clock with a large, glowing digital face on it in direct eyesight; allow them to drift into a deep, relaxed sleep; and then immediately jolt them awake with "Mommy!" -- to enhance jarring, the shriek must sound more like someone calling a lazy waitress out back smoking and less like a child in actual distress. After terrorist realizes it's only been 11 minutes since they went to bed, force him or her to get up to lull child back to some semblance of restfulness before they wake the rest of the cell; allow the terrorist to fall back into a deep, although somewhat less relaxed, sleep; and repeat 11 minutes later. This cycle should be continued for the rest of the night. By day three, I guarantee we will know the whereabouts of Osama Bin Laden, the Ark of the Lost Covenant, and Jimmy Hoffa.

It's getting worse, not better, and I've been trying to figure out if she's overtired, undernourished, undermothered, or suffering from night terrors. Mostly, I think she's three and has my number.

Today, my sleeplessness, worse-time-of-day-to-run, and desperation for a workout intersected in the space between a pool party for a 6-year-old and the Super Bowl. I hate running in the midafternoon on the weekends. My body still claims it's nap time, despite the fact that no one actually naps or is interested in napping but me and Mike. It took all of my will to run out the door and leave behind my bed and a big bowl of homemade queso.

When I've run these past few months, I've been running pretty short, mostly just to get something in. The problem is, it takes me a while to sort through the things rolling around in my brain. If I run for 30 minutes, I get some clarity around the thing most present -- usually work -- but that's it. Which feels like a rip-off, since this is supposed to be my escape.

Today I managed a nice hour, so for the first 30 minutes, I fumed about an incident with work and then let it go somewhere by the prairie dog field. Then I suddenly realized I was running! Whoo! Achy and a little extra jiggly, maybe, but running. And my brain started to focus on that. How I felt, what I wanted to do, how silly it seemed not be able to find an hour each day to run, stretch, and breathe.

I leave for four days in San Diego tomorrow. This isn't the oft-threatened move to an apartment by the beach without notice or forwarding address (although, come to think of it, it wouldn't hurt to just cruise the studio apartment listings once, for kicks), but rather a trip for a large trade show that promises to be interesting and a ton of work. The first thing I packed was my shoes. Mike suggested I save my new Runner's World to read on the trip, which I did. It all feels so decadent. And disturbingly and refreshingly (if those two can ever be used together) optimistic. Enough so that I did make sure to book a return flight. At least I think I did. For sure I meant to. Mostly.

Nurturing The Six-Minute Mile

2009-01-27T21:55:00.003-07:00

I'm not entirely sure where to start with this post and given my propensity to create tomes instead of pithy posts providing updates, insights, and witty anecdotes from my road to running greatness, I'm a little reluctant to go beyond "nope, still not running and still drowning in work. laundry, and small children."

Well, as they say, if you can't beat it, join it. And I've decided to fully embrace the past few months as part of my training. I have to believe that as I practice the leap of faith, courage, and willingness to tolerate being exposed, uncomfortable, and physically stretched to my limits that are required for me to step up to the commitments I have made to everyone around me, it seems only fair I get something out of that's just for me.

I keep going back to the article about change, and not just because Marion Kramer Jacobs posted a comment on my blog post, which was very exciting for me, but because I see it in work every day. Every day. Why waste this notion of leaping then looking on work, for Pete's sake!

So, welcome to Patti's 2009 "Fearless Running Under Intense Training--Less Evangelizing, Stepped-up Sprinting" plan, otherwise known as FRUITLESS. And while the bulk of my cardio training for the past few months as been coping with an elevated heart rate as I will myself not to run screaming from the office, training is training. Bring it on, Sistah.

While there is much to ramble on about from the past two months, none of it is really pertinent to my running would-be career, save one key mental shift, which is the decision not to round out the Saunders tribe with the addition of any future Saunderlings. And, while yes, honey, we did talk about this two years ago and you thought it was closed, you'd be surprised how these things linger. To the outside observer, I see that it sounds ludicrous, but it is what it is and I love my kiddos. Why wouldn't I want more?

So the extremely sucky part of adulthood, in addition to having to make yourself go to the dentist, is the distinction between could and should. My husband's theory is that we want four, are qualified for two, and should be happy with three. My problem is that I'm forced to reconcile with something for the first time: my age. If I were five years younger and could wait a bit while we catch up on all fronts, we probably would have a fourth. It's a complicated conversation that has more to do with where me and my all-important parental collaborator differ than facts.

But the gist of it is that I didn't realize how much I was counting on it. And in the process of letting go, I'm turning forward a little bit. It's a little scary. I've been defined by toddlers and pull-ups and nap schedules for a very long time. Now it's time to be defined by, well, me. It's scarier than it sounds.

And what I don't want, more than anything, is let age stop me from anything else. I believe I can run a 2:43 marathon. If I wait much longer, I fear my ability to do that will be compromised by my age. That fear is highly motivating, motivating enough that I see that it may be more important to me than some of the other choices I've been making, including the donut yesterday and the untenable work pace.

So, first step is the Title9k on Mother's Day. I can't think of a more fitting race for me to run alone, no triple jogger to justify coming in 18th from last. My goal is to run it at sub 7:30s, which may sound pokey against a 2:43 marathon pace, but would represent a key milestone on a lot of fronts. The bigger step is finally letting myself move forward to a place where I'm stepping out from the pack of delightful, but extremely needy, people around me to nurture my running self. It sounds silly, but I'm treating my 2:43 marathon as my fourth child, with probably just as much sleep-deprivation, guilt, and strange bodily functions, but hopefully less screaming.

I'm sure this represents some major issues that will come out in therapy later, but for now, bring on FRUITLESS!

Why we should all be more like Niel Diamond

2009-01-04T09:35:00.004-07:00

Alex Williams had a great article in last Thursday's New York Times about our collective generally poor track record with regard to keeping New Years resolutions. His premise was less about New Years and more about our general inability to effect substantive life changes -- more accurately, it's not that we don't have the ability to change, it's that we rarely do.

In the article, he quotes psychologist Marion Kramer Jacobs, who believes "Many resolutions fail because people assume they have to be ready for a change before they make it. In reality, the only thing that convinces the brain it's okay to change is to see it change. " To paraphrase an example from the article, the only way you will convince yourself that you will not die of stage-fright is to step up to the stage and see yourself not actually die of stage-fright.

"Don't listen to your feelings," the article states bluntly. "Feelings lie."

Admittedly, no big surprise, for me this has a whole lot less to do with running than it does with my preparing myself to get out of bed and go to work tomorrow. But running, work, parenting...they are all variations on a theme for me and what applies to one seems to bleed over to the others.

This blog entry took many shapes over the past month. It started about disruption at work that poised me to stretch far beyond my comfort zone with no extra time, resources, or energy to enhance my pliability and what that might mean to my running. I went from running like crazy to just being crazy, without the running. Then it was going to be about my two-week vacation where I was going to get organized, become an expert in my field, and generally retrench for the opportunity that lay ahead. That turned into an entry about the panic, despair, and frantic searching for an easy out that came with the evaporation of my two-week vacation into time with family and a bug that flattened me for 10 full days, abruptly ending the day after New years, just in time to send my visiting elderly mother, an accidental recipient of our nasty bug, to the ER in an ambulance (she's going to be okay, but it was scary and uncovered a few other things to worry about). Then it was going to be a blog about the end of the blog. How in the hell can I expect to run around the block, never mind a full marathon, and one at breakneck speed at that?

But, here we are on day 4 of our New Year. I am about as exposed as I have ever felt. I have a lot of feelings bubbling around the surface: I feel like I may walk into work tomorrow and get fired immediately because I didn't spend two weeks getting completely up to speed and prepared for my new job. I feel like I should announce that this running goal was all a silly joke and I plan to establish a new 3-year-plan around Wii bowling. I feel panicked that I'm not ready for anything -- the rooms I was going to organize are still a mess, Jake is still behind on his homework, thank you notes from our birthdays before Christmas are still not written, and I still haven't figured out how to hem 5 pairs of brand new pants for Jake that have been sitting on my floor for 1 to 4 months, depending on the pair.

But feelings lie. It may not really matter that I didn't get any work done. I'm still qualified for the job or I wouldn't have it and know that once I'm in the confines of the office, my focus and ability to crank through work will return. I have wobbled around my running for one full year and know that giving up would have far worse consequences than dealing with stiff legs when I do get out and run. Besides, I am no less capable of running and training than I was last year. I just need to give myself a chance to adapt to a fairly big change and then fit it back in. And, well, the rest will get chipped away at. Somehow. At the end of the day, isn't life just one big leap of faith anyway?

And that belief brings us back to Niel Diamond. The day before Christmas I head Niel on the radio belting out a Christmas carol...I can't even remember which one...but he was belting it out with the passion and complete lack of self-consciousness that is Neil Diamond. Love him or hate him, just try to ignore him when he is singing his heart out. The guy takes himself seriously, whether or not there are people out there who make fun of him for his passion and seriousness and willingness to squeeze himself into sequined white jumpsuits.

I understand that my tolerance for exposure to ridicule or failure is the key. There is no way to exceed in a big way within the boundaries of my comfort zone. I was thinking about Barack Obama today. No, I'm not comparing myself to our next President, but I am curious if on the plane to Washington today, the day before he enrolls the girls in their new school and thus begins the next phase of their life, he's not a little uncomfortable, maybe even a little panicked, about whether he can do the job. But he'll show up the first day. And the day after that. And after a while, his brain will get it.

I am master of the mystery. I have a clear picture of where I want to be, both personally and for my family, but I've never really been able to picture that steps to get there, but I operate with the belief that if I keep moving, I'll arrive some day. When I used to teach more, there was always this sickening feeling the night before -- there was no way I was going to pull it off. Who was I to think I could teach technical material to technical experts? I am an English major for Pete's sake. But I always did it. Sometimes I brought in help. Sometimes I had no idea the question, never mind the answer to the question, but I am a great trainer. My classes are engaging and informative and I managed myself through some pretty harrowing blow-ups.

As I was lying in bed last night mulling the old year and the new year and, well, mostly stressing about Monday, I realized that when I stop and look I have landed in a place that was unimaginable 7 years ago. I have three amazing kids, an incredible spouse, an awesome husband, and a really challenging work opportunity.... all of which materialized because I didn't stop believing that if I just kept going through the laundry, the stress, the questioning, the guilt we would come out the other side okay. There is no reason to stop believing that now, just because it feels harder and scarier. And by the way, those accomplishments? They transcend anything that may happen on a given day at a particular job in a particular moment in time.

So, I'm not making any New Years Resolutions expect one: buy a sequined jump suit.

Here we go

2008-11-30T21:14:00.003-07:00

I was full of clever blog content over the past few days, but somewhere between shopping for Legos at 6 am Friday and folding 800 loads of laundry (done!), I can't remember anything. I have been off work for 5 days and have discovered that the secret to this alleged balance I hear spoken of so often is a 2-day work week. Over the course of five days, I actually calmed down, got a good run in, played with my kids, and cleaned two bathrooms. I can't remember exactly what I do for a living, but I know it's waiting for me and I can feel my stress level creep back just thinking about it.

So I'll stop and share that I have deemed myself ready to train. I am still building my base back up and have a ways to go, but I feel a lot stronger and I think the stops and starts eased me in a bit (how's that for justifying inconsistency). I just feel ready to start training. Some of it comes from accomplishing the basics of getting out consistently 4 or 5 times a week for a few weeks in a row. Some of it is the confidence of knowing I can get in consistent running. Some of it is the extra workouts -- core work and faster runs, you know, actually working out. And a lot of it has been the realization of just how much I've skewed my priorities and have put at risk the things that are most important to me. I've never felt quite so stressed and stretched as I have these past few weeks and months. Teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown may sound like an odd way to get ready for training, but it has helped me focus and organize my head a little. And the last little nudge came while I was making a pie for Thanksgiving. Of course.

My mom is a fabulous pie make so I feel it is my duty to carry the torch each year (and mostly prevent my mother-in-law from purchasing a store-bought pie. Gasp!). For the first time ever, I was tracking to be done during normal waking hours. Everything was going to plan. I made the crust and was cavalier enough to actually leave and go to a movie. Later in the evening, after getting the kids to bed at a leisurely pace, I returned to kitchen to finish the pie. I didn't have enough dough. I threw together another batch that didn't turn out right, mushed it with the one that had been overworked in my attempt to make it fit dammit, and started peeling and cutting lots and lots of apples. Put pie together. Didn't have enough apples. Dug up more apples and threw them in. Put pie in oven at 11:45. At 11:55, turned on light to peek at pie to examine masterpiece. Instead of turning off light, turned off oven. Left room. Came back at 12:10, swore a lot, turned oven back on, ate a bowl of ice cream. Guessed at finish time. Went to bed.

The pie came out great.

I feel like almost nothing goes as planned anymore. There are way too many variables, including my own spasticness, to expect things to go as planned. I think that awareness is what makes me think I'm finally ready to train.

So, at Jason's encouragement, I'm aiming for a 5-miler in January. I am afraid of 5 milers. They require both speed and strength, which makes it a perfect first race for 2009. I am starting to own up to my desire to tackle the Title9k this year without the 120-pounds of jogger to see what I can do without the physcial and metaphorical baggage. The January run will be a great first step and give me a benchmark to measure against. Plus then I can justify some running toys for Christmas. It's all coming together....

What was your deal, Walt?

2008-11-23T21:46:00.006-07:00

Em got some short Princess board books for her birthday and their plot lines consist of the following: silly princess goes shopping and then comes to her senses and decides to buy something for her husband instead; silly princess is so busy reading she forgets to go watch her dad play with his inventions; silly princess forgot to teach 7 male former roommates basic grooming and household management and must go back to save them from certain doom; silly princess must teach good manners to two rat friends (one who is too hyper and one who eats too much!), and on it goes.

Abby has asked for a prince for her 3rd birthday. I have to give her credit for asking. I mean why wait around wishing and kissing frogs. But come on. Even those princesses, although exceptionally tiny-waisted, have compromised on a lot, like self-worth, independence, and friends that are not small woodland creatures or midgets.

In a conversation with a friend going through his first relationship crisis with a new partner, I realized that part of my maturing is coming to terms with the disappointment that I can't have everything. Unless I really do want to live alone in a bungalow on the beach in San Diego with nothing but the waves to lull me to sleep every night and the cool ocean breeze wafting through my open windows waking me gently for my morning run on the beach.. .wait...no hold on...let's go back to the alone part: unless I really do want to be alone without sixteen tiny completely unmatched little plastic high-heeled shoes that go with various assortments of Snow Whites, Barbies, and Polly Pockets and without the constant fighting, pinching, and whining and without the hockey pucks in my plants...okay, maybe this isn't a good day for this discussion.

My point is that I realized that it has taken me an extremely long time to get over being disappointed that it's not all going to get handed to me and that a whole bunch of stuff is not going to go as planned, or even, in some cases, go at all. There is quite a bit of work involved in having and keeping a house and raising a family and having a job that is rewarding both mentally and financially and having friends and having a relationship. My little dwarfs, Crabby, Cranky, and Under-acknowledged, are about as helpful as the Snow White's dysfunctional man-children. And I don't mean that to sound like I'm expecting my 2, 4, and 5-year-old to stop freeloading and start earning their keep around here. Not yet at least....

I've never expected anyone to save me. I never held out for a prince. But I never really caught up to the work it was going to take to get where I wanted to be. I spent a lot of time visualizing; the runs, the meetings, the house, the kids. I just never visualized the head games, wasted effort, lack of sleep, ridiculous clutter, and constant stream of illness, angst, and occasional misery that framed the picture in the middle. The pictures were just always so pretty and shiny.

The thing is, I still believe the pictures. My new hero Allyson, who runs at 9:30 pm in the dark and the cold in Indiana after her five young children (like, everyone is under 10 young) go to bed, hit the nail that is shoved in my brain on the head: I want my kids to know that anything is possible. It's not a fairy tale and it's decidedly not pretty or motivational and it comes with a lot of swearing. I would like to give up because I'm 42 and I should have done this in my 20s and now it's too late. I would like to give up because I can't afford to lose my job, pay for a coach, buy new shoes, or pay for a nanny so I don't have to cram this all in. But instead I hit the road with 5 minutes notice and no coffee at 7 am this morning and reminded myself that I haven't quit. Not only that, but I am reading the blogs of my fellow runners who are peaking their training as they hit the fall and winter marathon circuit that attracts all the would-be Boston qualifiers and I miss running mile repeats and track workouts and three hours on the road. I am looking forward to the work.

The thing is, I think I can do this.

It ain't over 'til it's over

2008-11-19T14:12:00.001-07:00

Rudolph is alive and well and swimming in his freshly cleaned tank like he didn't just spend two days belly up at the bottom of his tank. My lesson? There can be an upside to living in a household with two parents too busy and overwhelmed to take 30 seconds to flush a goldfish.

As applied to my running aspirations, which should have been flushed long about the time Rudolph went belly up last year, they, too, are flourishing by neglect. I just don't have time to think it all through right now, and because I don't have time to think it through, I'm afraid of getting so far behind that the goal is out of reach. I know it is going to take me three years of hard and consistent training to get where I want to go. I have just lost almost an entire year to stops and starts. So, I have 2 choices: take the small bits of time I do have to talk and plan and muse about running, or run. Back against the wall, I have been opting for the latter and it has been very calming. I trust Jason to guide me when I need it, so right now I just need to concentrate on running -- on the .10-mile track at the gym (it's carpeted, so it's just like running laps around the den without the piles of laundry upstairs!), at the crack of dawn with Kristi, at bed time, wherever. I've given up scheduling beyond a few days at a time.

I don't know which is more satisfying: that I'm running, or that I'm finally running like a mother -- under less than ideal conditions almost all the time, usually feeling a little crappy and sleep deprived, but with the zeal of a desperate woman who has finally realized that no one is going to hand me the time to make this work, I just have to take it.

Et tu, Rudolph?

2008-11-17T08:47:00.002-07:00

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the goldfish that defied all odds, that survived feedings from a 3-year-old and that last year was seconds from a trip down the sewer that would have been nothing like that in Finding Nemo before proving that he, in fact, just floated upside down a lot, has finally sunk. Literally. Based on his past biological freakiness, I am giving 24 hours at the bottom of the tank before pronouncing it official, but it doesn't look good. The punchline? Twas I, the ignorer of laundry and crust on the kitchen floor, the woman with a pile of work to do, a dream to train for, and proud matriarch of a household that includes three neglected children, one neglected dog, four neglected plants (six if you include the two dead begonias that I can't bring myself to throw out), and one seriously neglected husband, that killed him with kindness. As I awoke this yesterday, I was filled with the need to clean Rudolph's tank. And clean it we did. We even took a last minute jaunt to the pet store for new rocks, braving the kitten-induced frenzy that was sure to come. But alas, twas too late for poor Rudolph. Was it the clean tank that killed him? Wouldn't that be an ironic twist. The dog seemed a little nervous last night as I sized him up thinking that it's time for him to get groomed...

The good news is that I think I'm starting to more effectively channel my increasingly consuming frustration, despair, and deep sadness at my apparent inability to function normally into some really good workouts. It's kicking off this cycle of eating a little better and sleeping a little more and drinking less, since the universe seems to be cracking open 8:30 pm as workable workout time these days. I am a little fascinated at just how not very healthy I look, so that's a little motivating as well. It could be the fact that I'm six weeks overdue for a brow waxing and I have hair growing out of my eyelids, or the steady diet of Halloween candy and coffee that preceded this week. Or my new wrinkles! According to my dear friend Carmen, who knows the chaos from which I speak, they are "yelling wrinkles." Nice.

In any case, despite a really low week on a lot of fronts, I got 4 days of good running in. Maybe by "balance", my running peers mean "sanity" because right now that's the only thing keeping me from sinking in the tank myself.

What I learned from a 450-degree oven

2008-11-14T10:42:00.002-07:00

So, if we have determined that I'm too askew to balance, that the things that constrain my time aren't going away any time soon (which is fine because I really need the job and I really love my family), and that I can no longer function on little or no sleep, why not just give in to where am I right now and let go? Why make it so hard? And what's with the homespun birthday extravaganzas on top of everything else?

In a post a while back, I talked about why now, at this time, more than any other, pursuing my running dream is so important to me, so I'm not going to repeat it. I've soliloquized enough. It's time to talk in practical terms. It's about the salmon cornets with red onion creme fraiche.

The amount of time and effort it took to squeak out what totaled to 55 minutes of running over two days in the time Mike was gone was a study in inefficiency. I already detailed the full-day preparation that got me 30 minutes on Monday. Getting in 25 minutes on the treadmill on Tuesday took $39 in investment at Target and the last minute heroism of a whole additional mother to get in a workout that served as a microcosm of my running practice: 7 minutes of joy, 13 minutes of intensified panic over the complete meltdown that is occurring around me, and 5 minutes of acceptance that this is all I will be able to do right now. My conversational pace was redefined to reflect the control it takes to carefully explain to a 2-year-old 14 times that no, I can't find Snow White's other shoe right now.

So, back to the salmon. Mike came home and last night I hopped on the treadmill right after the kids went to bed and had an unexpectedly great workout. As you have probably noticed, I am a stream-of-consciousness kind of gal. The song came on my MP3 player that had inspired the birthday dinner from the French Laundry at home. I didn't start think about cooking for 2 weekends and all the other things that didn't get done, or about chanting expletives while sticking my hand in a 450 degree oven to wrap hot batter around a metal mold, or about eating duck at 10:30 with the world's most expensive and disappointing mushroom sauce, or even about doing dishes for the following 24 hours. I, who tend to be completely overwhelmed by just about anything that involves multitasking while cooking, thought "I made a 4-course tasting menu for Mike's birthday!"

I am blessed with a mother's memory. If I could remember in detail everything that happened the months, weeks, or days before, I probably wouldn't be able to get out of bed in the morning. And as I ran on the treadmill thinking about the salmon cornets, I realized that for the first time I actually ran two out the of three days that Mike was gone. I vaguely remember that panicky dash to get the kids and being really frustrated with the girls running around the basement instead of quietly appreciating my $39 investment in distraction that was supposed to buy me an hour of workout (yeah right). But I got the runs in. And what I'm finally developing is the confidence in myself to know that maybe I am willing to do what it takes.

Stay tuned...I'm about to take a sewing class.

I am a runner! Day one, in review

2008-11-10T23:37:00.004-07:00

8:00 am: Pick up crying toddler, 3 backpacks, purse, lunch bag, laptop case, and coffee; spend 3 minutes pleading with 5-year-old to open door to garage; spend 4 minutes coaxing crying toddler into car seat; remember to run back in to grab bag of running clothes.

8:45 am: Feel guilt meter level rise to yellow as school director responds to blatant fishing for unconditional maternal support with "I just feel that kids should always feel loved at home." Consider immediate move to oft-mentioned studio apartment in San Diego with promises to send presents for Christmas.

10:00 am: Upon reading email from running coach responding to blatant fishing for unconditional running support, walk into boss's office, detail strategy for maintaining sanity and health by leaving work a little early on husband travel days in order to run before getting kids. Leave office with enthusiastic approval.

10:03 am: Upon receipt of managerial approval, stop by three other offices to fish for acknowledgement of my very runner-like demand. Bask in acknowledgement.

10:11 am: Write "4:30: Run" in day planner.

10:12 am: Email two friends to tell them about my plans for running awesomeness.

10:17 am: Look up race Jason mentioned in his email.

10:18 am: Remember 11:00 meeting I am unprepared for.

4:02 pm: Expose plan to non-running, very hard-working colleagues with email response to request for help that includes "Yes, but please be aware I am leaving at 4:30."

4:28 pm: Think to self: "4:30 seems really early."

4:32 pm: Talk self out of staying to finish project by negotiating with self to work in evening if needed.

4:36 pm: Log out of computer. Watch hardware project manager walk in office and sit down. Try to pretend laptop is not off.

4:47 pm: Realize conversation is about future planning and end need for further discussion at this time by promising to schedule meeting.

4:54 pm: Crap! Pack up. It's dark. It's late. Consider just getting the children who are already overtired and miserable. Realize that if they are already overtired and miserable, I should save myself.

4:55 pm: Start to head down hallway to tell colleagues I am leaving so they know I hung in there all the way to 4:55 instead of 4:30. Decide that is too lame an action to even entertain. Go other way.

4:56 pm: Pop head in office of aforementioned acknowledgement disher-outer (and runner) to note I am failing my first test of running fortitude. Am told to just go, run, anything -- short, long, slow, fast, it just must be done.

4:57 pm: Actually make it to car.

5:18 pm: Make it home. It's officially dark, just over an hour from school closing. Think what if I collapse while running and can't make it there by closing! Run upstairs and change (into black, by the way). Grab cell phone. Grab dog who is beside himself with anticipation.

5:31 pm: Run!

5:32 pm: Weep tears of joy.

5:37 pm: Realize that guilt is a fine motivator. Run harder.

5:46 pm: Have brief heart attack and then realize watch is still set to Daylight Savings Time.

6:07 pm: Return home with extremely happy dog and extremely happy self.

6:16 pm: Pick up very tired, miserable children who despite their tired and miserable state express disappointment that I did not run over with the jogging stroller to pick them up. Way to go, kids!

9:30 pm: Pack running bag for tomorrow.

10:45 pm: Finish project, schedule meeting, realize that while one 30-minute run does not a running career make, this particular 30-minute run may have helped make a runner.

Thank you, Thursday Night Football

2008-11-07T09:20:00.002-07:00

The answer to the question of the week re lucky recipient of shaft? Everybody! Genius, no?

Last night the universe delivered a 6pm televised Bronco's game. As me and the kids, fresh from 10 hours of day care/school/work, sat down to eat (in all fairness, to eat the dinner prepared by the husband who is about to get speared), the other parent in the room picked up his plate and headed for the basement. So, to be clear, I fully support this in principle. It's his last vestige of just being a guy who wants to watch some football with a taco on his lap, not a 2-year-old. It was the sheer simplicity of the act that hit me like a bag of hammers. He didn't seem too nonplussed about the whining, the dishes, the upcoming baths, the inevitable fighting, and other features of the not-at-all-Hallmark moments that make up our evening ritual. Let's be honest, of course I was completely annoyed. But I got over it. And it didn't require one drop of alcohol.

So this morning I left him with the whining and the fighting and Chinese water torture that is watching Abby try to dress herself in tights and went for a run. I didn't do it at 5:30. I didn't even it do it at 6:30. I got the res at about 7:15. As I am only running 30-40 minutes at a pop, I still got to work a little after 8, plenty of time to rinse in the pit of nastiness that is our work shower and be at my desk same time as usual.

And there is the rub. As I sat in the driveway this morning, it took all of my will not to turn the truck in the direction of the fastest way to work, not the res. Hey, it's 7:00. Imagine if I could get to work early and work for a couple hours and maybe catch up and, really, in truth, just enjoy the quiet of being at work early. It would have just been an hour. I could easily make up for that by say, not blogging at my desk this morning. And then I realized I am most worried about shafting a bunch of perceptions--of Mike being uncomfortable, of my boss seeing that I don't often come to work early or stay late; I'm not sure how worried I am about the actual tactical impact.

And so that poked at the biggest perception of all: am I really a runner? I am a suburban mother of 3 in my 40s at the mid-point of a career in a very volatile industry and market. I am nothing if not one big identity crisis. My identities as mother and working gal (and, of course, habitual wine drinker) seem to be extraordinarily dominant. I worry that I opened up the closet one day and saw "runner" hanging there and decided to try it on. And then I accessorized it with "super fast marathon runner" just to be racy (no pun intended). If I were really a runner, would I fight harder and louder for it, think and talk less about it, and just, as they say, do it?

But running around the res this morning, I realized I am a runner. How far I can take that has yet to be seen, but I need to stop waiting until I get all the way there to identify myself as a runner today. That right there, my friends, may be the biggest step I've taken in my training to date.

Something is about to get the shaft

2008-11-06T12:51:00.004-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about this notion of balance. It seems to be a common theme among moms who run: they protect their time to run because it gives them balance, time for themselves.

I have the opposite problem. I have this delicate balance going between work and my kids (sorry, honey, you are on your own for a while). To squeeze in anything--putting away laundry, cleaning a bathroom (an Obama guy came by the house the other day and asked to use the bathroom. I was completely mortified)--starts to tip things. I already don't watch t.v., read books, stare at the wall, or sit down to have witty and meaningful conversations with my husband. I haven't a square to spare. To squeeze in something big, like a run, totally knocks everything over. My life feels like a game of Jenga being played on a beachball.

The only way to achieve balance and have bathrooms open to all political persuasions is to outsource. Hire a cleaning person (oh, please god, bring back our cleaners). Rent out Bouncy Town for the Snow White/Dora the Explorer birthday extravaganza. Hire someone to help me at work. But then there's the money thing. Adjusting the day to day imbalance risks throwing off the big picture balance of financial security, career satisfaction, and, oh, I don't know, my marriage. Mike and I have agreed that getting some financial balance and security is most important right now.

So, unlike many of my maternal running peers, I'm trying to get comfortable with imbalance. I'm totally not. I don't mean to make it sound dramatic, but I am so completely sick of just banging my head against my running shoes. I want to actually put them on and run in them rather than have them taunt me from the closet, representing all that is unachievable right now. I would understand if someone was asking me to give up my daily $300 2-hour massage. But running? For Pete's sake, it's just time and shoes.

Time. It sounds so simple. But it's about as fixed a resource as you can get. And I realized I had been undermining myself by taking the approach that I could just make more time. Running at 10:30 pm is okay once in a while, but I can't do it day after day. I'm just too tired. And I did it for so long so miserably that I just can't do it right now.

I have a few ideas, but they all revolve around figuring out what I'm most comfortable not doing. And since we know laundry is already off the list, it's going to be something harder to pick. I'll get to that decision as soon as I remove my running shoe from my forehead.

Sometimes You Just Gotta Believe

2008-11-02T21:38:00.006-07:00

My original plan for this post was something along the lines of the Macroeconomics and Me, and I was going to deftly tie my choice of jobs (working for a startup technology company that just happens to be looking for funding right now), husband (working for a bank), and financial management approach (homemade French Laundry tasting menu for aforementioned husband's birthday, homemade Halloween costume, and upcoming homemade Snow White/Dora the Explorer Birthday party for 9 4-year-olds) with my inability to get any sort of momentum with my running. Oh right, and this:

That's clean laundry, by the way. It just needs to be folded and put away, but there it sits, emitting chaos and frustration and reminding me daily of the absurdity of our days and just how many pairs of Hello Kitty underwear Abby goes through in a given week. And yes, I do have an orange guest room. Don't ask.

But then, I flipped on the New York Marathon today (and I choose not to highlight that all of my children were not at home, it was a perfect Fall day, and rather than grab the chance to go for a trot, I grabbed a cup of coffee and watched people run on TV). It was amazing. I can't even tell you what men were running, but there was Paula running this amazing strong, fast run, with 40-year-old Petrova and then Kara Goucher right behind her. It's just amazing to stop and really look at these runners race. Paula's pace averaged to 5:29. And she crossed the finished, picked up her little girl, and proceeded to deftly wipe her daughter's face with a corner of the British flag, which just made her all the more human.

So, I don't really care about dissecting the past few weeks and the choices I made. I just care about how I'm going to run tomorrow. And then the next day. And then maybe someday I can find my way into the pack.

(Oh yeah, and Joy Johnson, the 80-year-old runner profiled in the Wall Street Journal last week? Yeah, she won her age group with a 6:05. Go Joy!)

Hmmm, maybe there is something to this speed thing

2008-10-21T12:27:00.004-06:00

I, self-confessed slogger and base-building excuse-maker, think I am on to something with the speed thing. I have been focused solely on getting out to run a few miles or 30 or 40 minutes, an occasional hour. I have felt pretty crappy and pretty sore, and feeling much farther back at the beginning than seems warranted.

So Saturday, faced with time for only a 30-minute run on the treadmill, I mixed it up a little and ran the last mile doing some pick-ups: 8 x 100s at 7:30 pace, with 10:00 pace 100s in between for recovery. Something snapped a little. Specifically, I felt pretty strong and awake. I took Sunday off to nurse a sore knee, did a light run last night (2 miles at a 10:00 and 9:30 pace respectively, with a nice slow cool down), and then met my former sprinter office mate for a 6:30 am run this morning. She slows down for me, but it was definitely a tempo run. I'm not sure how far we went, but we went about 30 minutes and I was pretty spent. But, in the happy after glow, my legs feel stronger and my knee, which has been really painful over the last couple of weeks, probably mostly due to my serious lack of muscle strength right now, feels just fine.

I do get the concept that to run faster you actually have to, you know, run faster. But I've been believing I have to get a base under me before picking it up a little, but perhaps they are not, nor should the be, mutually exclusive.

On a completely unrelated note, when we were walking back from the Denver Marathon, we walked past the finish line again and saw the runners who were coming in at about the 5:40 mark. That's a long time to be out running and it was just awesome to watch people who obviously had given it there all finally make it to the finish. I overheard a mom talking to her 8 or 9-year old daughter who was asking why people were clapping. The mom said it was because they were winners. "ALL of them are winning?" asked the daughter. "Yes, all of them are winners," was the response. Obviously skeptical, the daughter looked to reaffirm, "You mean every single one of those runners is winning?". To which the mom said, "Yes" and thus ended the conversation.

The daughter obviously wasn't buying it and because I like to criticize other parents out of context so I can feel better about my obviously inferior mothering skills, I took issue with the need to hide the fact that someone actually won that race. One person came in first. That in no way minimizes the fact that running 26.2 miles is a huge accomplishment. Not being "the" winner doesn't make you a loser. But it's also okay to acknowledge that somebody trained very hard and actually came in first. I will probably change my tune in the coming months as I watch Jake navigate new sports where, at 5, other kids have already been playing for a while and have more confidence and skills. But right now I'm okay taking the approach that he can do it, too, he just may need to work harder. Which is a good reminder that I need to practice what I preach.

Running Voyeurism

2008-10-19T15:46:00.004-06:00

Okay, maybe voyeurism isn't quite the right word, given the fact that I had two of my children with me and it was noon on a street corner in downtown Denver. We headed down to watch our friend Rebecca finish the Denver Marathon. She may have felt like I was some crazy stalker, as I stood screaming at her coming down the block, heading for her last turn into the finish line. The good friend that she is, she at least didn't try to pretend she didn't know me. Of course, she may have been trying to hurry up and get past me and I just didn't notice because she was at mile 26 of a marathon.

I get inexplicably emotional at marathons, whether or not I have any kind of personal connection. So there I was, standing on the corner, a weepy mom with the 5-year-old stuffed in a stroller on top of the blankets that no one could leave the house without and a 2-year-old, smeared from dirt thanks to our lack of respect for the rules of urban hygiene, running in 10-foot circles shrieking her head off. We looked seriously homeless. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

It wasn't actually the runners still on the course that captivated me, Rebecca aside. It was all the people who passed us as they walked away from the race. So many of them had the contented, albeit exhausted, look of someone who knows that just accomplished something special. And they had. All shapes and sizes, some more upright than others.

When Rebecca's running partner suggested I do it next year, I just shrugged and said I didn't know. What I didn't share is that I'm finally settling into this notion of just training to get ready to train right now. I'd like to work on my speed and my strength. I really liked a quote that Half Fast had in his blog last week about respecting, but not fearing, the distance of a marathon. I feel that way about trying to run faster. I have always just assumed that I can't. The same way a whole bunch of people feel about running a marathon. And maybe some day I'll be as surprised as more than a few people may have felt this morning.

Thanks, Bill

2008-10-17T22:03:00.005-06:00

I consider it a small victory that instead of losing an entire week to craziness, I just lost four days. It's all relative.

It feels impossible to segregate the pieces. It always feels like a cop out later, but there are days, especially when Mike is gone, that I just do not have even 20 minutes to myself. My focus now is to rally back as soon as possible, to not let the bad days turn into a bad weeks. It's a small victory, but I'll take it.

I owe the victory in part to a chance hallway conversation with a colleague. Bill's really great: he works more than full time as a talented QA engineer, has two kids, holds all kinds of speed climbing records, is married to a very fast runner, and just ran the Leadville 100. I was sharing (okay, complaining) that it had been so much harder than I expected this year to get into a routine. In that way engineers do, he reminded me that if I want to run a 2:45, figuring out consistency is one of the most important things and then he stood there for a minute, seeming like he was trying to figure it out. He shared what worked for him, admitted it only works for him, and then reassured me that he too has struggled. There was nothing in his tone that said it was a crazy goal; just one that was going to take a lot of work. It was a five-minute conversation, but it was enough to navigate me through all Friday evening temptations and out the door for a run.

The wrong kind of carbo loading

2008-10-15T14:48:00.004-06:00

I have been editing a proposal that seemed so simple for going on three days now. In addition to learning that I work with a guy who actually uses the word "boobies," I am struggling to keep my base-building from taking a hit. Oh, and my husband is traveling so I also get to learn what it's like to try to convince the kids it's sooo cool to be the first ones dropped off at school. In the dark.

Sunday night I threatened to fall back into old patterns and stopped myself mid-chew to realize that in 45 minutes of trying to stay awake, I had eaten:

an apple
1 cup of raisins (yes, 1 cup)
a cookie
a Hershey kiss
a cup of tea
another chocolate chip cookie (to go with the tea)
despite the label's exhortations, only 2 Take5 snack-size chocolate bars
some almonds
another cup of tea

I went to bed when I remembered the ice cream. I got no work done, but minimized the damage by not actually trying to stay up all night.

Monday was a planned day off to rest some tight hamstrings. Tuesday was an unplanned day off. I won't get to do a solo test of Alvin and the Chipmunks tonight thanks to 6 pm soccer practice (for the 3-year-olds! what is UP with that?). However, I am looking forward to a long easy trot on the treadmill, alone, in the quiet, in the basement, did I mention the alone part?, after Mike gets home tonight. I'm counting on you, Southwest!

A quick shout-out to Alvin (and the Chipmunks)

2008-10-12T21:33:00.006-06:00

I'm nothing if not resourceful. And a tiny bit desperate. I have realized that the key to running consistency is finding a way to run at home while Mike is traveling. Just in case, as always happens, work gets crazy while he's gone for the week. So, I am beginning the child-conditioning phase of my training. Armed with snacks, kids suffering from a high-level of exhaustion from running around all day in the cold rain, a mostly cooperative husband, and the movie I swore I would not let in to my home, I tried running in the basement with the kids in the same room. Before you email me about the large numbers of horrible accidents caused by the intersection of kids and treadmills, I am aware this is risky and this was only attempted in a controlled environment under high-alert status. If you happen to be from social services, my name is Jane and I live in Westminster. And I don't know why the leftover margaritas were stored in an apple juice container.

I've tried it before, but never for longer than 20 minutes. And honestly, if I can get in 20 minutes a day while Mike is gone, I can at least keep some momentum going. Plus, nothing is more distracting while you are running on a treadmill than watching your 2-year-old spin on her head and your son prove that he did in fact get your sense of rhythm. And the kids think it's hilarious. While I feel like the spitting image of Deena Kastor, albeit Deena in very slow motion, if Abby's rendition is at all accurate, I apparently look like someone who is frantically trying to wave down the bus.

Anyway, thanks to Alvin, Theodore, and that other one, I had a nice week. 17 or so miles of running and the butt-buster up Sanitas.

Date	Workout
10/5	Sanitas Hike
10/6	Coot Lake loop (1.1mi x 3)
10/7	Treadmill (3mi)
10/8	Treadmill (2mi)
10/9	Boulder Res (4mi)
10/11	Treadmill (5.25mi)

This week is just about getting some momentum going. And doing something about my facial contortions. Thanks for letting me know, kids! I feel much better....

Hydration and My Productivity

2008-10-09T10:35:00.003-06:00

So, focusing on consuming more water throughout the day has brought to light just how chronically dehydrated I am. However, I am suffering with the negative consequences of having to pee every 20 minutes. It was much more convenient when it was once or twice a day.

I really notice the difference in just about every aspect of my being. By aforementioned snuggly 2-year-old peed on me in bed this morning so I think it's even seeping out into my aura. I had to do a demo this morning for a bunch of venture capitalists and I was very, very efficient and to the point. Of course, they were totally distracted by my super-hydrated skin and hair. I think I'm even taller. I definitely feel rounder.

Of course, I am living in the moment and know that a few great days do not a fast runner make. I have never had a problem coming up with a good week here and there. It's the weeks in between that get me. I really, really want to sit down with Jason at the end of the month and report back a successful 30 days of base-building. It has not slipped by me that folks are peaking their training or starting to taper for the big fall marathons and I'm still trying to get out of the gate. However, if there are porta-potties on the other side of the gate, I might just make it this time.

8 Things I Learned This Year

2008-10-06T13:56:00.005-06:00

Thanks to my longstanding love of back to school shopping, Fall has always felt more like a transitional season than any other time. It makes me want to clean house, take stock, and eat candy corn for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

So although I'm not sure this was entirely a conscious thing, or perhaps just fortuitous timing, but I find myself closing out the running year that was and looking ahead to next year.

I knew this year was going to be about figuring it out -- how to find time to run, how to stay consistent, how to stay committed. I'm .5 for 3, but the process has been well worth the journey, and I've taken away some lessons that I plan to incorporate into my approach to running going forward. What follows are the eight things I learned this year about me, about running, and about the challenges of making the two fit.

1. Set myself up to be successful. And I mean this in both big and small ways. While I strongly agree that the only way to train for running is to run, I do think that once in a while it's okay to do something that feels different. When I've had an off few weeks and I know a run is going to feel like drudgery, doing something hard, that feels like a workout, but that isn't running, can help ease me back in the groove. For me, it's a hike up Mount Sanitas, the biggest bang for the workout buck in Boulder County. Just over 2 miles round trip, it take me about 1:15 and it's impossible not to get a good workout in. It is such a steep incline that there is no way to cheat out of a workout on the way up, and there is no way not to want to run on the way down. It's entirely Patti-proofed.

2. Respect sleep. For five years, I prided myself on being up all night with various combinations of kids, going to work, and then trying to run. I tried running at 11 pm and I tried running at 4:30 am. For a few days, it seems like a great solution, but lo and behold, it's tiring. Really tiring. I very quickly degenerate into just trying to get through the workout, rather than trying to get stronger, fitter, faster. It's okay once in a while, but eventually the lack of sleep undermines the quality of the runs, work, and just my overall ability to deal with my day.

There is always something to do and I'm getting better at just leaving it undone and going to bed. The laundry can wait, the dishes can wait, and that extra half hour or hour will go a long way toward the ability to maintain some consistency and regularity to my workouts, even if I have to step over a big pile of toys to do it.

3. Do what works for me. I work with people who run consistently at 5:30 every morning and wonder why I don't just do that. I would like to want do that, but I have a snuggly 2 year old who crawls in bed at 6:05 every morning. I'm sure I could get her used to my being gone, but I don't really want to. It's one of the only times of the day we have alone. I read about other moms who seem to balance running with multiple kids and busy schedules and they say things like "put yourself first" and "treat running like brushing your teeth." I completely agree in principle, but the practice is much harder. I've finally given myself a break: I have no idea what goes on in other people's houses, so rather than wonder what my problem is, I'm focusing on what works for me. I have a job that requires my attention for a certain chunk of the day. I have a kids who need my attention as much as possible during the rest. I have a husband who travels and no nanny to fill in the gaps. And I'm far from alone. I need to focus on a plan that works for today, this week, this month and not feel like a failure if I need to adjust. Even Tera Moody knows to give herself a break when she needs it.

4. Drink a ton of water and then drink some more. Really. Second behind sleep I find that hydration can single-handedly undermine everything else. It's much harder than you think to consume the proper amount of water. And like sleep it's a vicious cycle: the more overtired I am, the easier it is to get dehydrated. Add 4 cups of coffee in there, and I am in trouble. And hydration doesn't just affect running performance. I find it makes a huge difference in how and what I eat, in my digestion, in my skin, and even in my perception of fatigue.

5. Get organized. Remember the schedule? Yeah, that didn't work for me. For details, refer to step 2. It doesn't work for me to schedule my runs two week, even one week out. There is too much that can change day by day. But what I discovered is that if stay organized, I mean really organized, then I can take advantage of shifts, changes, and windows of opportunity. Organization equates to control for me. If I know where everything is, what needs to happen when, and what needs to happen after that, then I'm much more comfortable working in the time for me. It also goes a long way to reducing my stress level; the more physical chaos exists around me, the less competent I feel. At this writing, one of my biggest concerns is that something terrible is going to happen to me and no one will be able to find clean clothes for the kids in my various sorted piles of laundry in the guest room.

6. Allow myself to be coached. At last check, I am a 4-hour marathoner. I can probably get away with reading a good book that has a training schedule in it. Because of my schedule, running groups don't work for me. Until I find the "super last-minute moms on the run" team, I'm on my own. Having a coach changes the game for me. I feel more committed, more serious, more like an athlete. If it weren't for Jason, I'd have packed it up a long time ago. I'm lucky that he has given me the space to figure it out, but now it's time to let him drive this a little.

7. Get real. I want to qualify for Boston. I want to run Pikes Peak. I want to push my kids around in the baby jogger from hell. And more than anything I want to run a fast marathon. Early on, I was very focused on my age, the irony being I want my age to be a non-issue. What I've realized is that I've crammed everything in because of my age. I love being 42. I'm a little unsure about 52. However, I can't control the progression of time and it's time to stop letting my fears around aging get in the way of my focusing on what I know I need to do right now.

8. Believe. At various times over the past 9 months I've been embarrassed, frustrated, inspired, excited, and completely demoralized. When it comes to running, I've realized how many of my choices have been about hiding. I get a lot of attention as studly running mom who pushes triple jogger. I get to be in the Title9 catalog! But if I want to get fast, really fast, I have to believe in myself enough to be honest and put it on the line and try. Stepping out from the middle of the pack means stepping out from behind the job and the jogger. I feel naked just thinking about it. Maybe naked is good.

At the start of the year, I jotted down a couple of things to capture where I wanted to be in 3 years, not just with running, but with life, mostly as a way to stay hopeful and clear on days when I feel beat up by work and the kids and the budget. To my own surprise, I'm on my way. Things that felt crazy 9 months ago are closer and more real. I strongly believe in the power of picturing where you want to be; it used to scare me, because I don't want to do anything that takes more of my attention away from the present. The result has been far from that: it helps me with the day to day choices and decisions. I feel the difference with home and with work. I have to believe I can do the same with my running.

Happy New Year!

The Truth Is Out There

2008-09-30T22:03:00.005-06:00

I am at my most clever and creative when I'm running, so not running over the past couple of weeks has not only led me to postulate such creative blog postings as "Yes, it turns out I am bitter and resentful", "Choking on my bootstrap", and my personal favorite "Crap!", but has also dried up any meaningful content related to running. And while I am full of endless tales of smart energy adoption (good), how to do your child's homework about trees outside in the dark after 12 hours of daycare (not so good), and what happens when you send your child into the rec center pool sans swim diaper for the first time when she has a tummy bug (most decidedly bad), none of these are appropriate for a running blog.

I'd like to share some sage advice on balancing running with life, but I obviously suck at it. I don't know why it's been so hard. I don't know if I make it hard or if it is just that hard. I don't know why I can't treat running like brushing my teeth. I don't know if it's because I'm scared to try and fail, or if I'm scared to try and lose my job. I don't know if I can value my goal more than I value sneaking in a nap on a Saturday after a long week.

But then yesterday I ran. I almost didn't run. But I did run. And at the start of the run, where I was just going to do something, anything, crammed in between leaving the office late and rushing home to dinner and the kids, I looked up. And found myself on a trail by the reservoir, at 6 pm, at the end of a spectacular Colorado fall day, the sun setting in the foothills and the whole place quiet and still and absolutely perfect. And instead of running to do something, I ran to run.

And on that run I decided it was time to tell the truth. The truth is I have no idea why I want to run a 2:45 marathon and if it is even physically possible for me. The truth is that I know I can push 130 pounds of stroller around a trail, but I don't know if I can run consistently and at the level of effort it is going to take to push myself, just me, out to the front of the pack. I talk about my kids and my job and the laundry because that part of me far outweighs the part of me that I identify with a runner. The truth is, these people who say to treat running like brushing your teeth? to make it just part of your day? yeah, I have no idea how they do that.

But the truth is that I treasure my identity as a runner, dormant as it may be at times. In many ways, I hang on to it so desperately because it gives me the strength to face everything else. It's the only thing I completely control; I do it because I want to, for me. It doesn't pay the bills. It doesn't ensure my children feel loved and supported. It's the only thing that is mine. Which makes it hard to offer up explanations of the ups and downs and stops and starts. It's just what it is for me right now.

When the sun sets behind the foothills, the silhouettes are amazing. The mountains seem to roll on forever. It was so peaceful that there was no possible way, and believe me I tried, to focus on feeling disappointed and embarrassed and unacknowledged. It was just a beautiful run.

I am what I am

2008-09-16T22:52:00.003-06:00

Somewhere between the euphoria of marathon fever and my insane belief that of course I can train very hard to run very fast and the crushing deflation of my demanding family and demanding job and demanding school system (who sends homework packets home with 3-year-olds?), none of which seem to be going anywhere no matter how much I continue to ignore them, is my actual day to day life. It's not that pretty. It's actually pretty tiring. I'm getting pretty wrinkly, too, so I think maybe it's also a little dehydrating, but that's the least of my worries.

I sat in a lot of meetings today. I even sat in a meeting about meetings. Not for the first time. I also have a deadline to write about how utility companies can shed their electricity loads during peak demands. My kids were the last ones picked up at school and because of the amount of carbo-loading I had to foist upon them to get them the entire 1.5 miles home without total meltdowns, their dinner mostly consisted of granola bars and Smarties. I think one of them drank some milk. Honestly, I can't believe the dog hasn't run away to check himself into the pound.

I'm not proud of this, and I'm not actually even complaining about it. It's just that I've gotten some very kind emails about how I'm too hard on myself and how I do so much, and I just want to be clear that my key to spiritual fulfillment, to self love and domestic harmony, even to running, is my newfound embrace of mediocracy.

I have not run every day this week. I have not run since I did a nice solid workout on Sunday after running almost every day last week. However, I am not subjecting myself to penance for failing penance (I'm pretty sure at that point I start entering circles of Hell and it just doesn't seem an appropriate response). I do have very clear expectations set with my darling husband that the moment he returns from his trip tomorrow night I am disappearing for a nice, long, maybe a little bit hard run. It's totally okay if that means two hours of taped Dora the Explorer and ScoobyDoo for the home team. Their little brains will recover during the massive amounts of review of left, right, in, and out that we will apparently be doing nightly.

I am getting excited about my as yet unspoken race goal. My reward for getting a solid six weeks of base building under my belt is to throw another race goal at ever-patient Jason. The fact that I'm excited about it rather than overwhelmed by it tells me that the decision to regroup was a smart one and that Jason's plan to help me get a more solid base under me feels right. Perhaps this notion of not fighting so hard against the reality of where I am and what I need and what I can reasonably accomplish is not so silly after all. Perhaps it's time to articulate the need for weekly deep tissue massages and a housecleaner. All in due time, my friends. All in due time.

Lance gets it

2008-09-12T10:58:00.001-06:00

Among his reasons for returning to racing next year, Lance Armstrong has cited the non-issue of age. Specifically, he called age an "old wives tale", which would be a statement I would make fun of except that he went on to reference Dara Torres as an example and that's enough said for me. Go Lance!

And just to provide a quick update, the Penance Phase continues to be just what I needed to shake off the cobwebs and loosen up. I'm always amazed at how bad I feel when I don't run for a few days or a week, and am equally amazed about how amazing I feel after just a couple of days back at it. I grew up being told that it wasn't good to exercise every day, that is actually had a negative effect. It may have just been the jogging culture of the 80s, or just what I wanted to hear. In any case, I think my body does better running more frequently. Granted, my mileage is very light. This week is just 3-4 miles at a pop, although I'm working in some pickups and today I chased my son on his scooter to school.

The other great thing about Penance Phase is that the goal, as I understand it, is just to run everyday. Nothing crazy. Nothing on the other side to worry about. Just every day. So I find myself getting creative. Where there was NO time to run a week ago, there are now quick lunch time runs, night time runs, and runs built in to the quality time with my son. I suspect that this is Jason's point; just stop thinking about it and worrying about it and just do it, however, whenever, and for as long as you can. Up next: the Return of the Abs Ball.

Penance, Day 2: The day after

2008-09-10T22:13:00.003-06:00

Why exactly do my arms hurt after yesterday's six-minutes of abs? I can't answer that. However, it's only day 2, so I'm going with it. I did face up to a 9pm treadmill run tonight. No more going it alone in the basement, however. Runners World had a great photo of the lead pack of runners from the women's Olympic Marathon trials (lead minus Magdelena that is). They look so awesome and so normal all at the same time. These gals are now taped to my treadmill. I'm sure one of them has an Abs Ball in the closet.

Penance Phase: Day 1, The Abs Ball

2008-09-09T21:42:00.006-06:00

Oh yeah. It finally arrived. The long lost, twice-graciously replaced by Gaiam, never viewed but revered with great expectation, instructional DVD that goes with the Abs Ball I purchased in 2006. ish. Tell me this doesn't emit "rock hard abs", which I am not actually shooting for. I'm shooting for anything that looks less like a giant deflated beachball. Rock hard would be a neat suprise.

It helps that for some reason, it reminds me of this:

with handles.

I wanted to include the DVD in the picture because that is the most important part. I stared at the ball for two years (okay, much of that time it was in the closet, but I knew it was there), unable to think of a single thing to do with it. I needed help, support, encouragement. I needed the video.

Well today the wait was over, my sistahs. With the gentle guidance of Jonathan Roche, who had a charming east coast accent and was very, very encouraging, I used my abs ball. I did the whole 12-minute easy workout (which is really only about 6 minutes if you subtract the gentle guidance). The good news is that I think I still do have some ab muscle down in there somewhere. The bad news is that it may take a while to find it.

And, because I listen to Jason who actually has to remind me now and then that the only way to prepare for running is to run, I got my day 1 4-mile run in. And while i was tempted to slog through it at 11-min pace, I actually managed to keep up a sub 10-minute mile pace, which I shouldn't be bragging about in a blog where I am talking about running a very fast marathon some day, but we may as well be honest about what we are working with these days. The good news is that it sucked and felt awesome all at the same time. My legs were tight and stiff and my feet were like bricks, but it felt so good to move and sweat and listen to a little REO Speedwagon. I mean Coldplay.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

2008-09-09T12:55:00.004-06:00

Despite the fact that Colorado screws up my summer vacation clock by starting school in the middle of August, I took a few days off before the Labor Day weekend and pulled off the first annual 48 hours of Patti. It was a sketchy start, complete with some marathon writing sessions to wrap up some work things and a little work creep into the first day, but I did it. In some ways, it almost worked better to only have a couple of days. There was no time for screwing around, and no time for laundry, office reorganizations, or closet sorting. I went for an awesome hike and was reminded of how lucky I am to live 20 minutes from the foothills. I rode my bike to yoga and was reminded that there are enough people in town to fill a 90-minute class that starts at 9:30 am on a Thursday (what is up with that?). I rode my bike to the pool and swam, read, swam, and stopped by a friend's house. I went kayaking on the rez and was reminded how lucky I am to live 20 minutes from one of my college roommates, putting me in arm's reach of someone who has known me for 23 years. 23 years! I went to dinner with good friends, played with a 4 month baby and happily handed her back, and rode bikes with Jake and his friend to school. Stay-cation rocked.

Because the universe doesn't like us to get too caught up in ourselves, the warm and fuzzy feelings brought on by shaking up my routine and realizing how much I have around me were quickly replaced by the less warm and definitely not fuzzy feelings brought on by a sudden and fairly appalling stomach bug. And you thought I was holed up in a state of paralytic self analysis.

So, two weeks later, I'm back. My legs are stiff and dying for some running. My unfailingly supportive husband has helped me sort through where I'm at and my unfailingly supportive coach has helped me reorient my running. Rather than cram in another marathon for the sake of getting another one in this year, and getting the same results, we are breaking things down into phases. And phase one is getting in shape to get in shape. While he doesn't actually call it this, Jason has me entering another penance block, which I actually really liked last time. It's two weeks of running every day, with some variations. We're going to spend 6 weeks rebuilding base, and then look forward. It's not about this Fall, it's about the next three years, and I need to stick with this if I'm going to figure out what is going to click.

And because I've finally learned how closely interwoven all these things are, I feel obligated to share my thoughts about a great article I read in the Wall Street Journal on Saturday. It was about Sarah Palin, but it was really about how she is bucking the trend of women who are backing away from this notion of super mom. I have always balked at references to me trying to be super mom; I don't want to be super mom. I'd be happy with thoughtful, present, supportive, occasionally pretty fun, mediocre mom. At least I think I would be. But until now I looked at the choice between work and parenting as a stark selection between two extremes. And it's clouded by the pride I take in being able to use my career to drive with equal weight my contribution to our lifestyle and totally hideous debt-reduction efforts.

Just last week, before the Wall Street Journal redeemed itself for that ridiculous article about the mom running around Montana, I started a serious of executive coaching sessions because I have reached that point in my career where that is what I'm supposed to do next. The first thing I was asked (by the owner of my company) is what am I passionate about. Funny thing is that it wasn't about being an executive VP that directs strategy and helps people grow, which I'm pretty sure was the answer he was fishing for. It was pretty simple actually. And the answer was sort of freeing because of its simplicity. I want to do my job well and I want to do it in a way that drives a company to deliver the right product to the right audience at the right time. I want to meet, and maybe even exceed, expectations. That's it. No angles. No politics. And if I play my cards right, maybe no nude pantyhose. I want to believe that I do that well, the things I need in return (specifically, satisfaction, challenge, and compensation, with emphasis on the latter) will follow.

I feel like I'm creating my life. And it's about the right time for that. I looked around on Sunday and suddenly I no longer have three little babies that need to be kept alive and nurtured. I have three kids. A kindergartner among them, no less. I have soccer games to get to and homework to find. I have injuries and missing blankets and cold weather layering to attend to. I have a note from school about "inappropriate behavior" on the bus. This parenting thing is just getting started.

So what does all this have to do with running, for Pete's sake? Well, since you asked, everything. Until very recently I felt like I've been cramming these discrete elements into my day, in linear fashion, with something invariably following off the back end. Remember my schedule? Right.

Instead, I'm attempting to weave all of the pieces together. Screw balance. That is an unreasonable expectation. Super mom? I'm not even sure what that means but it seems like it requires a lot of coffee to sustain. It's a little scary. I'm daring to step away from framework that I have measured my success and failure against. I'm trying to rouse the confidence to believe that I have the skills and the network and the belief to step out of my comfort zone. And then run really, really fast.

Baron Baptiste has my (metaphysical) number

2008-08-24T21:45:00.006-06:00

So, I'm in yoga, in the Hip Opener class that follows the sweaty flow class, and I'm thinking about my how my hips don't actually open, which of course brings up seriously traumatic child-delivery memories, which of course brings up feelings of concern over disappointing Mike, which inevitably makes me worry about paying off our debt, which naturally takes me to the place where I am panicking about how exactly I am going to get my user manual done tomorrow, the deadline for which seems to be coinciding with a perfect storm of meetings, new software with which I have to finish the aforementioned manual, and a likely ear infection for Abby. So, yeah, that place, which is I'm sure not at all what the instructor meant when she said we should strive for stillness. I was still for sure, but in that frozen in fear, deer in the headlights kind of way. And verrrrryyyy sweaty.

So, then she says this: "Baron Baptiste [the founder of power yoga] says that breakdowns and breakthroughs are the same." And then she says "don't be afraid of the junk that comes up. It has to come out somehow." Oh yeah. I got junk, and it's coming up and out every pore of my body. And apparently, that's a good thing. Albeit a little damp.

I am sitting here on the same calendar page looking at the same race, California, and I'm wondering if I'm in the same place. And the cool thing is that I'm thinking "nope." Why? Because I've been breaking down all over the place. In big and small ways, pieces and parts have been flying off left and right. But I think I finally get that it's just stuff, and that if I hang in there, it will pass and then I can just pick up and keep running. I am starting to believe that if you can hang in there through the breakdowns and feel the crap and be overwhelmed and just continue to be, that the other side dumps you in a different place, even if you don't really notice it until you have some distance to look back. You are the same person, but you are a little stronger, a little wiser, maybe a little more tired and crabby, and you are definitely not in the same place.

I had a great hour run yesterday (without my heart rate monitor, while Jason is distracted with his new job!) and today I biked to yoga instead of driving (see, the whole total fitness, it's not only about the running thing? I aim to please!). And what I realized today is that I have accomplished one of the goals that is most important to me (see, you guys all thought I was just a bunch of talk): I have made my running a family affair. As I started stretching yesterday, which is akin to pulling out a bag of kiddie catnip, all three kids came out of nowhere to line up next to me to do their versions of downward dog (and I must say, Abby does a pretty awesome plank for 2). They have a lot to say about my running (specifically, things like "you weren't gone very long" and "can't you run faster?", but still). And Mike has been sneaking music onto my MP3 player (and it's not all 80's hair bands!). It turns out this new place is pretty crowded, but it is a nice place to be.

14 weeks, 2 days, and a skirt

2008-08-22T22:13:00.008-06:00

Caught up in the irrational rush that came with the Title9 Sports blowout sale yesterday, I bought myself a running skirt. I had no idea I was interested in purchasing a running skirt, but after the dust had settled, there it was in my bag.

And so last night I tried it on. And the next thing I knew I was doing 15-foot sprints back in forth in the family room, showing off my silky skirtness. I felt like the girl in the fable about the dancing shoes. I put it on and I couldn't sit still.

Which is good. The California Marathon is now officially about 14 weeks away. If I want to run it this year, I am about out of wiggle room. It is also time for Mike and me to have our twice yearly argument about training for fitness versus running. He has long believed that if I focused less on running and more on general fitness, I'd be happier with the results.

This time, he took the right approach and brought up the Hood to Coast Relay that I did right before I got pregnant with Jake. It was my best race experience ever, and it is true that I was also lifting, going to yoga, riding my bike, and even swimming in a bathing suit that I can no longer get up over my legs (what is up with racing suits?). So, this time rather than launch into a philosophical argument about the importance of focusing on running, I'm listening, in part because I need the help. Jason is a great coach and guides me through my running, but I need a home team to help me pay attention to what I eat, how little I sleep, and help me work in my workouts. He has watched me all summer keep trying to pull myself up by my shoelaces and he has a pretty good sense of what doesn't work even though I really want it to or it worked last year. He doesn't run himself, but his help and support is important to me. So, after the trial run in the skirt tomorrow, I'll be digging out the weights in the garage. I think they are somewhere behind my 1995 roller blades...

I train with Constantina Tomescu

2008-08-19T15:38:00.007-06:00

Okay, by "train", I mean "have been passed", and by "with," I mean "by", but it is enough to put a spring in my step and make me leap in to my Asics to know that I run the same roads as Constantina Tomescu, reigning queen of the Olympic Marathon. And with apologies to Romania and taking nothing away from the national pride the country must be feeling to count as its own the fastest marathon mom on the planet, it's totally and completely awesome to know I have eaten her dust along Niwot Road. The sistah lives and trains in the hood.

I have seen her coming at me along the shoulder of Niwot Road, a biker pacing her alongside, and just stopped and watched. Yes, I am a dork, but yes, she is that awesome. And while I cannot form a literary adulation that could compare with that of Kristina Pinto on marathonmama, let me just utter my new favorite sentence: She is not only the oldest Olympic marathon gold medalist ever, she is a mom. And for those of us, by which I mean me, who are trying to be less negatively defined by age and parenting status, I can't help but hope that with her and Dara Torres and Oksana Chusovitina (okay, she's still pretty young, but she is a gymnast for Pete's sake, and she moved countries to get her son the treatment he needed for his lukemia), maybe the stories lead with something other than an athlete's age as a liability. I look forward to the 2012 coverage, which I'm sure will lead with "Of course Paula Radcliffe is expected to bounce back from her disappointing previous two Olympics because, as you know, she is a mother..." And nothing else will need to be said.

Patti's Olympic Obsession: Day 5

2008-08-12T13:21:00.004-06:00

I have Olympic fever. Big time. I feel like it's my duty to watch. These people have worked so hard and now they are competing in the spotlight with their handballs and tennis rackets and water polo mallets and volleyballs and pommel horses. The person who comes in last in the 200 m butterfly finals? Yeah, that's still the eighth best butterfly swimmer in the world. Every pool has a kid who is the fastest. Take all those pools across the world, and from all those kids, you have 8 that end up in the pool for the Olympic finals.

Think you aren't interested in men's gymnastics? Really? Ever thought about trying to hold a really straight plank? in the air? with your arms holding you up from a set of rings that move? and then without moving your shoulders, raise your legs over your head into a headstand? Some guy in China can do that. Perfectly.

And my husband? He is fascinated by the local stories --and in Colorado, believe me, there are a lot of local stories. His favorite? The wrestler who is a dad with three kids and a full-time job. What's not to root for?

What I love best about the Olympics is that they are games. With apologies to Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, the DNC, my brother, and the entire populace of moderate, educated voting Americans, how can you not be amused by your president trying to play beach volleyball? It all just makes you want to play.

And in the local set of games that takes place mostly in my head, I took 1 minute and 52 seconds off my time running to work this morning. And that includes a stop to untangle my headphone cord from my neck. I'm feeling a little calmed down from the past couple of months. And, probably equally important, I've been taking some Heed in my water bottle instead of straight water and now I get why you are supposed to fuel with runs longer than 75 minutes. Note to self. If I am going to ask my brain to shut up, I need to give it something to distract it, like a little infusion of carbs.

I did a short, not quite as easy as usual, 3-mile warm up run on the treadmill last night, with 8 100m pickups at the end. That seems to help the morning longer runs. And, our security system, never enabled since we moved into the house three years ago, started beeping randomly at 5:50 am, so Mike got up and made coffee. The universe is working in mysterious ways these days, but I am so going with it.

I do have something in common with Meg Ryan

2008-08-10T23:15:00.007-06:00

I've been reading Parade magazine again. Not on purpose, and not to read whose birthdays are this month so I can be appalled by all the people I haven't heard of who are turning 20 and all the people I have heard of who are turning 60. It had a cover story on Annette Benning, Meg Ryan, and Eva Mendez, who at 34 said she couldn't wait to get to that point of peace with who she is that the other two older women seem to possess. It left me feeling like I share this secret known only to those on the north side of 40: it's not so bad. Dare I say, it's actually pretty great. Whatever it is, it's fine, so we should just go with it.

The ironic timing of that article was that I had just showed Mike the article in the Post about Dara Torres getting a silver medal in the relay.

me, pointing to the article: "did you see this?"
him: "What is that?"
me: "The article about Dara Torres"
silence, several tense seconds pass
him: "Oh, is that the old swimmer?"

Yes, yes it is.

Recently, I stopped putting my age in my profile. I was afraid that people would think I highlighted it because I had something to prove; that an aggressive running goal, publicly stated in the blogoshpere, was my mid-life equivalent of buying a sports car and having an affair with a 22-year-old blond name Trixie. I had it in there before because I didn't care that I am 42. I like being 42. It has nothing to do with my wanting to run a marathon very fast. Until now, I was completely unprepared to own an aggressive goal. Even if I wanted to run a fast marathon when I was 22, I would have been too drunk or too hungover. I chose to spent my early twenties mastering car bombs (the extremely potent cocktail, not the terrorist act, and yes, it did creep into my early to mid-thirties on occasion). I actually remember standing on a corner in Burlington, VT, on my 22nd birthday, last day of exams, and about 12 hours after my first cocktail of the day at 10 am, thinking that life couldn't possibly get better than that. Seriously. I was happy and on top of the world and completely drunk and what could be better than that?

It feels great to look back with relief that I did not actually peak on top of a pile of quarter drafts. I still feel blessed by amazing friends (and my family) who stuck by me as I tested the outer reaches of idiocy.

So, here we are at 42. I don't know if it's the extra 2 sizes that I've put on my running shoes that have helped me feel some balance at a time when I should feel far from it. At the risk of being totally mystical, I have been having these great yoga classes where my standing poses have been rooted in this great sense of solidity (on the other hand, anything that involves folding forward provides a gentle reminder of the roughly 25,000 calories per gallon of beer I consumed during the aforementioned part of my life that will not be shared with my children in tremendous detail.)

So, this blog really is about running. At times it's been about threatening to run away, but it really is about running ahead, and with increasing speed and focus. I knew that this first half of the year was going to be about stopping and starting. And it has been. But I am officially offering no apologies. I have felt bad for Mike and for Jason and for everyone that has had to readjust to support my roller coaster. But it's important to note I have not given up. I have had really big sidesteps and I'm not where I thought I could be this year, but I have adjusted and I have not given up. Quitting is easy. It's really easy to quit your job, quit your spouse, quit working out. The consequences may suck, a lot, but the quitting part is easy.

I've been thinking about my job, as I often do, the one I was ready to quit a few weeks ago, and realized that I am exactly where I wanted to be. This job comes with the opportunities that I wanted, it's just that that came with a lot of work. We took the kids camping for the first time this weekend. It, too, was a lot of work, but it was really great and also exactly where I wanted to be. I have three amazing, healthy children. Mike and I struggle and this, too, is a lot of work, but I know if we don't quit on each other, everyone will be exponentially better for it. So why shouldn't I feel that way about my running? It just fits.

So, cautiously, with a nice running week behind me and two weeks of watching the Olympics in front of me, I am looking ahead at the next few months and eying a return to California, and not just because it means a weekend of watching surfing movies with Sherry. I am ready to test my resolve a little. I feel strongly that a solid marathon this year is an important anchor for next year. I've given myself a break thus far, and now it's time to get back to work.

Running toward Quietude

2008-08-05T11:12:00.005-06:00

warning to reader: this blog entry was written after a surprisingly nice 11.5 mile run followed by 3 cups of coffee and an unexpectedly quiet morning at work. Right now, it seems completely reasonable that some day I will run a 2:45 marathon.

I am reading Eat, Pray, Love. I bought it on a whim on my way to Houston in the midst of the emotional crisis of summer 2008 (like how I positioned that as so long ago?). I just love it. Not being very spiritual, I can't relate to some of it, but being a woman who often feels lost and out of touch with herself, I can connect with much of it. In part thanks to my van buddy Jennifer who gently reminded me on our run toward enlightenment a few weeks ago that I don't have to react to everything, I can just choose to listen and let things sit, believe it or not, I am actively searching for some silence.

In her book, Elizabeth Gilbert quotes a monk who refers to this as quietude, and he says it can only be found in the heart. And, because the universe likes to reinforce her messages to me, there was an article in the Denver Post yesterday about how olympic athletes learn to silence the distractions. I always thought of distractions in a material sense: the laundry, the workload, oh, look! a bird...those kinds of things. The article was talking about the distraction of negative thought that greets you when the alarm goes off to run: I can't do it, I'm too tired, I'm not ready, I can't find my favorite water bottle...The folks that ignore these distractions and remember what they really value--their health, the camaraderie of their running group, their own commitment to themselves--those are the ones who can learn to silence the negativity.

So, armed with my book, the Post, a couple of yoga classes, and a really calm friend, I am ready to shut up. I have officially uninvited my brain on my runs. It's very important and does a great job orchestrating the things that need to happen, but unless it is yelling "look out for the truck!", I don't want to hear it right now. Gilbert says quietude exists in the heart. So this morning I ran with my heart, which is conveniently located next to my lungs and near the only parts of my body that get a vote in the pace, length, and overall exertion of my runs (those would be legs, feet, and the general area of my gastrointestinal system). I've been letting my brain make all the decisions, and quite honestly, as we all have discovered over these past few weeks and months, it is in no condition to be calling all the shots. Besides, like any good project manager, you need to let the resources doing the work make the call on how hard, fast, and productive they are willing to be. So, rather than battle with my brain for 11.5 miles in a tit for tat over the degree of suckiness -- of the heat, of the hills, of me as a runner, I checked with my heart first. Physically, this also had the side benefit of me taking some gentle deep breaths. Mentally, this had the direct benefit of quieting my brain. I wanted to hear what, if anything, my heart had to say. All it came back with was "Nope, we're good down here. Thanks for checking. And boy, are we all going to be psyched about this later."

Deena Kastor Goes to Bed at 8:30

2008-08-03T21:50:00.007-06:00

I was going to title this "There is no u in me", however I didn't know how far I could carry the clever innuendo without getting on to a track worthy of a blog entirely of its own. Besides, I have vowed to focus on running, so focusing on running I am.

The most recent issue of Runner's World has tips from Olympic runners, as well as a peek into their habits. The only words I saw in that entire magazine? Deena Kastor goes to bed at 8:30. 8:30. I decided that the ultimate act of devotion to myself needed to hit my goal is my new singular focus on getting to bed as early as possible. Starting tomorrow of course.

In other news from the ongoing pursuit of self, I discovered today that the only thing better than Sunday afternoon yoga is Sunday afternoon yoga after a nice week of running. We survived Mike's unexpected mid-week travel and got in a steady set of runs -- not quite meeting my goal of every day, but almost. I'll take almost. Between the runs and my new favorite recovery drink

we all hung in there just fine. (See, they make a white for mac and cheese night and the red goes very nicely with both pasta with red sauce that has been picked off it or hot dogs.) I did some very short runs during the week--30 minutes a pop, except for the jogging stroller commute, which was longer but involved a lot of stops for various adjustments of blankets (yes, it was 100 degrees) and delivery of refreshments (yes, it is only a mile and a half.) Jason had wanted me to try a longer run (of the longer than 10 mile variety), which I wasn't quite up for, so I got in a good 7 and it boosted my confidence enough to feel ready to tackle a run to work this week. "What day?" did I hear you ask? Hold on, let me check the calendar.

Oh, I see it's Tuesday (in pencil, pending Jason's option to override). This is the first week that I am trying a schedule with Mike. Remember the mantra for phase 2: it might need to suck a little bit for everyone.

I also had two interesting universal interventions this weekend. One was in a conversation with a colleague from work during which I shared that I had decided not to run the Pikes Peak Marathon for reasons that seemed totally appropriate a few weeks ago. He nodded and then mentioned that when he ran it a few years back there was a woman who had given birth a few months prior to the race who ran with a...wait for it...breast pump! Breast pump! She ran up and down a 14,000+ ft. mountain, stopping to manually pump along the way. That's just awesome. I think it might be my favorite race story every. I wish to find this woman.

The second was visiting with a friend who has been struggling with a yet to be fully diagnosed illness that has sapped her strength and brought on a huge array of symptoms from just annoying to very scary. Best guess is some autoimmune disease, but she has struggled with it since the start of the year. This is a vibrant, active, healthy woman with three young children. Doctors informed her that her body no longer stores energy at the "cellular level." Just hearing that made me tired. She knows it could be worse, but she is just tired and frustrated and mostly mad at her body for betraying her so badly.

We spend so much time trying to manage our lives, we forget how much is out of our control. I guess my acquiescence to this is writing my calendar in pencil. What you can't see in that picture is that I used Avery labels to cover up marker where I wrote in the race in a few weeks and my vacation this week. I look forward to getting back the confidence to pick up my color-coded markers this Fall. Or maybe I should just switch to colored pencils.

Achieving "Didable"

2008-07-30T23:58:00.004-06:00

Kathryn Bertine isn't going to China. She is the triathlete turned cyclist turned St. Kitts-Nevis resident that ESPN teed up to see if an average athlete had a shot of making the Olympics. She didn't. But I came across her last installment and found in her reflection of the two-year experience something that stirred a little hope into my own slightly less ambitious but still just as far-fetched goals. What I realized is that I am more interested in discovering what happens if I apply the greatest dedication, training, and focus that I have within me than I am with the actual timestamp on the outcome. And, big shock, it's not all about the running. To take leaps forward we have to be willing to lay it on the line. Period.

Her saga is worth reading, but I wanted to share the punchlines:

"Though some will say I failed, I would rather look at my Olympic journey from Thomas Edison's perspective: "I did not fail. I successfully found 10,000 ways that did not work." I'm not disappointed. Just the opposite. I am even more motivated to find out what, in life, will work...

"I see that I truly achieved the one thing I set out to do: to find the boundaries of "doable" and render it "didable."...Colby Pearce (track cycling coach at the USOC center in Colorado Springs) was the first to listen to my Olympic dream and utter the word "doable" while looking me in the eye. I believed him. "Doable." Not "maybe," not "possibly," not "perhaps." Those words leave a lot to chance. "Doable," with its amazing ability to promise nothing and everything all at once, still left me in charge...

"If you think about it, odds don't really exist. They're just guesses. Odds are the dark side of maybe. Being frightened of "maybe" seems a terrible waste of time. The only true fear I had was of leaving some stone unturned, of leaving some "doable" left "untried"...

"There is a great saying: Half of life is just showing up. Well, I just found out the most wonderful news! So is the other half. That is all we're supposed to do, show up. Showing up is hardly passive; it's the sly first cousin of initiative. We're supposed to go places and see what happens when we get there. We're supposed to try things and see what happens when we do. Above all else, we owe it to ourselves to show up for our own dreams. Showing up is doable, even if the dream isn't."

I kind of think that says it all, don't you?

What I learned from Kiehl's Advanced Hydration Formula

2008-07-29T21:55:00.005-06:00

I realized the other day that I haven't replaced my favorite lip stuff that I found melted in my diaper bag back in the Summer of 2006. Or my favorite face cream that was confiscated by airport security in the Spring of 07 (shouldn't the guidelines refer to the amount of content in the container not the size of the container itself?). Anyway, replacing these items required trips to stores that are neither Target or King Soopers, so it's been chapstick and baby lotion. Fancy. And not very effective.

In hindsight, it sounds absolutely absurd to say that I have not had a chance to replace my lip stuff or my face cream in the time that followed. Isn't every parenting book or magazine required to have a section on making time for yourself? And I'm pretty sure they mean soothing aromatherapy massages and long walks on the beach, not "drive to mall and spend $5 at Body Shop." Well, as absolutely ridiculous as it sounds, I have not. And it wasn't a time issue. It was an in-the-moment prioritization issue. Being at the mall, with escaping toddler, child who refuses to walk, and child who has a bladder the size of a thimble while pushing double-stroller, carrying bags, and keeping away from merchandise the kids who are covered in chocolate from the cookies you bought to bribe them into acquiescence while attempting to perform transactions, does not equal "browse Body Shop". If it was not handed to me in the middle of Baby Gap while checking out, it didn't get acquired. And there was the money thing. I waste plenty of money. So does Mike. But for some reason, I froze myself out of making small decisions. Like $5 for lip stuff or $30 for face cream (it is AWESOME face cream).

So, I finally picked up the face cream. And my face looks so much better. Seriously. I could be an ad for Kiehl's. It may be all in my head, but I have the skin of a sun-damaged 42-year old again, instead of the splotchy, little-bit-gray visage that I've been staring at for the past year and change. I feel exponentially better, not only with my skin but because I am doing something to tend to myself. Score one for mommy.

Running poses the same dilemma. I have the time, but I live in the moment by moment decisions, which while highly self-preservative are more geared toward "how do I get some sleep" and "how do I get through this deadline today." The irony is that the exponential benefits of the workout always, always outweigh whatever short-term relief I got from skipping them. It's very easy to skip them. I have soooo many reasons to skip them, but I feel ridiculous looking back on the summer and trying to remember why my training has slipped so badly. It's not that I didn't have reasons; it just means that whatever those reasons were superseded my commitment to my goal. I say it's important to me, but I sure as hell don't act that way.

So, welcome to the second half of 2008, phase 2 of the quest, which I have affectionately dubbed "this might have to suck a little for everyone else, too." Freshly armed with the knowledge that if I can leave the house for 24 hours, I can leave the house for yoga, I did just that on Sunday afternoon. Sunday afternoon! That's laundry time! It's also a great time to chill a little and stop for a bit before starting the week all over.

And, realizing that if the kids can survive a late pickup when I have to work, they can survive a late pickup while I run, I did that, too -- yesterday. Oh, and I ran this morning, because...because...no reason! Because running in the morning works for me and so let's all get up so mommy can run in the morning! This is why God invented coffee anyway!

These are small victories, but right now I'm only listening to Jason. Small runs. Every day. Get back in the groove. No over-thinking it. I was so calmed after running for 2 days in a row that I hired a contractor sight unseen to finish a project so I can take vacation next week. I know, it's crazy. Welcome to Phase 2.

Someone stole my cheese

2008-07-26T22:22:00.003-06:00

Good Lord. Really. Are you kidding me?

I am starting to feel like there is some parallel universe in my kitchen, or maybe the shower, which would make me feel better about the nastiness around the drain. When I get caught up in all that might be and begin to get giddy with possibilities, I get distracted, fall through the opening, and down the stairs on the other side. This time, lurking in the murkiness, were an insurmountable pile of work, two enormous fights with my husband that left me still questioning where they leave us, and three cases of really nasty conjunctivitis. Top that with a three-day trip to Houston to teach a class while preparing material for a product release (and just to rub salt in the wounds, getting hijacked for dinner at my boss's parents house for Pete's sake), and I got nothing left.

I take pride in my ability to adapt. I've always been the eternally optimistic, "ya just gotta believe" gal, although I don't believe I've ever referred to myself as a gal before. These last two weeks put me at a loss. No light at the end of the tunnel. No motivational speeches in the car on the way to work. Just notes about my sad daughter at school and an email from Jason wondering where I'm at.

My boots have lost their straps.

I know I am lucky. I know other people have it harder than me. The universe is stalking me with amazing moms. The Wall Street Journal -- yes, the mellow, reliable Journal, which really should have plenty to focus on with the economy being what it is -- ran a random story on Kathryn Roche-Wallace, the 46-year-old mother of SIX (of course, one is 27, but still), who just finished the Primal Quest, you know, the 548-mile run, hike, bike, kayak, and otherwise make the rest of us look like a bunch of sissies race around Montana. C'mon. Isn't there a bank collapsing somewhere to write about?

Closer to home, I spent the weekend with a woman whose 10-year-old son went through brain cancer. Oh, and she was hit by a car running, and spent 18 months recovering from her injuries.

Knowing all that is out there just doesn't make it easier. I'd like to be inspired, but I'm tired. I think more tired than I've ever been. But I'm pretty sure I've said that before. It is very hard to work full-time and then try to be present for your kids and your spouse. And I know I've said that before. I've thought about quitting -- work, running, even some of the most intimate parts of my life. And I know I've said that before, too.

So, why I am doing this? Why not give up the goal and just survive the next few years? Because I need this for me. I want to have that experience where all that I have worked for comes down to one moment where it all comes together. Just me, alone with my training and my running shoes, and that stillness and calm that comes with knowing you did your best to prepare and now it's time to trust yourself and be present, just for you. Those are the moments where I think we can learn who we really are. It's my choice. I don't have to. I want to. Why now? Why not wait a few years when the kids are older? Because I need this now. I am 42 and I feel like the core part of me is drowning. Just when I think I've shaken off the boat anchors that are holding me under, someone staples a brick to my head. Or grouts it. Whatever. You get my point. I adore my family, but I need to get a little mommy power going. It is selfish, but I do think we'll all be better for it.

If I am going to pull this off in three years, I figure I better take a look at who I am right now. And so, I would like to acknowledge that I looked at my three pink-eyed children with their eyelids goo-ed shut, picked up and put down the phone to bail out of the Peace run no less than seven times, then grabbed my sleeping bag and left. At the race I learned the path to eternal enlightenment apparently involves extremely high temperatures, not very much oxygen, and a wandering bull moose. It also involves asking for support. In addition to sharing a camper van with two very kind women, I saw my old friend and first real running coach Misty, who is now Tarah (her new Buddhist name) and who is at one time the highest strung and most nurturing person I know. I was totally physically spent after the race and she hugged me hard enough to take my breath away. Before I knew it I was sobbing. Note to self: I am not very stable right now, you know, like how Mary-Kate Olsen might have an issue with cheeseburgers.

I thought about quitting the job, but I think I would just replace it with something else, so I am going to make this work with this job. I have my eye out, but I want to leave for something better, not run away. I have decided to keep the husband and the kids. They seem to be sticking by me and they have definitely grown on me. Objectively, this is not the state in which I should be analyzing my marriage anyway. I trust us, for what it's worth. While I feel like a train wreck of a mother, I believe that we are all going to be okay. And I have these amazing friends, like Sherry, who just seem to pop up when I need them most, with an email or a message.

Look at me! Getting optimistic again. I have lifted the pressure of Pikes Peak and Denver and am looking forward to getting into the groove this week, especially with my intense work period (almost) behind me and a vacation coming up. More on that later.

For now, I am going to avoid getting sucked down the drain and see if I can find some way to bolt the door so I can stay in this place for a while.

And by the way, the goodie bag didn't contain my spiritual salvation, but it did contain a really cool set of prayer flags that are now hung in Jake's room. I'm pretty sure my spiritual salvation is somewhere around here.

Ohhhh...THIS is what the village is for

2008-07-11T21:11:00.006-06:00

So, this whole "it takes a village to raise a child" thing really threw me in the beginning. I mean, there was no village in my living room at 3 am when I was up with Jake while he was barfing formula and not sleeping for, well, ever it seemed. I had CNN, but no one was hopping out of the TV to fetch me burp cloths and rub my feet. And where is the village rallying around my laundry pile to divide and conquer the whites and the darks and the ones with those weird permanent yellow-y stains around the collar. What exactly is in baby spit-up that makes it corrosive? I sense another NASA project, but I digress.

The village people, it seems, were busy collecting their running shoes (and of course their police uniforms and cowboy hats. Wait. Wrong Village People. Sorry, but you can't expect me to just pass right over that one.) In holding my head up high and calmly announcing "Oh my god there is no way in hell I can expect to run up a 14,000-foot mountain in five weeks even if I can squeeze in a long trail run three weeks from next Wednesday," I find myself not quite so alone.

On Wednesday, I did a short track workout with some friends. We did 400s spot on the same pace I did them alone (1:42s), but it was different. It was....fun! On recovery we made fun of people at work and ahhhed at the awesomely fit woman on the edge of the track. I remembered that these are the people that I am running Shambhala with next weekend -- complete with camper van and box of wine! I had been so focused on Pikes that I had totally overlooked my 15k to eternal enlightment. I had also overlooked discussing it with Mike, who took it in stride and I am now counting the days. The track workouts are going to be a weekly thing, and may be prepended to include some core work and appended to include some wine.

My extremely fit office mate (mother of twin 2-year-olds and a 4-year-old who has been known to run on 100 degree days at noon because that's what you do when you have twin 2-year-olds and a 4-year-old) is going to meet me at my halfway point on my run to work to share the run as well as join me (okay, lead me) in a lunch time ab workout one day a week.

And my soon to be rich-from-Oprah spiritual running adviser, playing the role of village chieftain, has me ready to launch into a 14-week marathon plan starting Monday that takes me to Denvah (I do miss Boston this time of year) and he is already talking about next year. And me? I'm just thinking about those teeny, tiny track shorts, which as we know will work out much better in my fantasy image than the actual one, but I'm going with it. I'm so excited I may stop drinking. Mostly.

So, I look forward to sharing my schedule, as well as my effort to get Gaiam to replace my ab ball video just one more time (one guess on what the awesomely fit woman at the track was working out with). I've had the ball for a year and half and keep meaning to watch the video to learn how to use it, but then keep losing the video. Yay Gaiam for believing my paranoia that Mike just keeps throwing it out. For that, Gaiam can outfit the village people in comfortable, organic clothing.

Moving Mountains and Blocking Bright Shiny Objects

2008-07-09T16:28:00.003-06:00

So, with Jason's support, I'm backing out of Pikes. I am not sure what is more disappointing: missing the race itself or acknowledging that for now my days of running for hours on the Mesa Trail before work or taking a day and going for a long hike are over. By choice, mind you. And yes, over for, I don't know, SIX years now, but still, while my life was not exactly a Mountain Dew commercial, I think I'm finally getting enough sleep to realize I miss some of those things.

However, having a clearer view to October and the Denver Marathon has given me a tiny glimmer of hope. Jason is interested in having me focus on 10Ks next year, with the idea that the training is better suited to my schedule. I like it because I hate 10Ks. I think focusing on them will help me build some speed, strength, and confidence. And maybe I will be able to fit into some of those really tiny running shorts. Or not.

Nonetheless, I realize, thanks to the objective insight of my soul Sistah, that I had been holding out hope that my fantasy boss would offer me a fantasy job just in time to help me out of this mess. When it became clear that was not going to be the case, all of a sudden my tiny little toehold on hope slipped and the lights went out.

Since I can't afford the gas money to run away to my studio on the beach in San Diego, I am again committed to figuring it out. And thank god for Jason. Anyone who has questioned the value of a coach, especially for a mid-packer like me, need only count up the times I should have quit running in the past three months to realize the value of a coach in just getting you to the starting line, never mind to the finish. I honestly believe that if we can get me to my 2:45, he will make millions on Oprah and be the salvation of working moms everywhere whose dreams far outpace their capacity.

So, what's next. I am meeting some women at the track for some 400s, and am looking forward to it rather than trying to come up an excuse to get out of it. I am going to abandon my family on Saturday morning for a nice long sweaty run among the bikers getting ready for Boulder peak. And I am going to do the most anti-Patti thing I can think of: I'm going to tightly schedule my days for two weeks -- work, home, kids, errands, sex (just kidding, but you get my point). And I am going to follow the schedule.

I'd also like to acknowledge the kind support and encouragement I've received through this blog. My challenges are by no means unique to me and I feel like a broken record with the ups and downs and starts and stops. I felt self-conscious and a little self-centered starting a blog, but it's been just the opposite: I've tapped into a network of really interesting and very witty folks who are grappling with their own sets of challenges, many of which have nothing to do with laundry or small children. Imagine that.

Dara Torres, Excel spreadsheets, and a schedule of my own

2008-07-06T22:34:00.009-06:00

My son started cheering for Dara Torres after the TV announcer mentioned she was a 40-something mom. I used to cringe a little, wondering why moms got singled out as if overcoming a handicap. Now, I was right there with Jake. I get it! It is awesome. She is awesome. There was a great interview with another swimmer the Post last weekend where she talked about having goggles older than some of her opponents, but she also talked about balance and that having a focus outside of swimming gave her some perspective that she thought was actually an advantage. To me, the trick is finding a way to focus intently when needed, and trusting that the other things will be there waiting when you are ready to shift focus back.

It has been a crazy few weeks, indeed. It look the clear and competent words of a stranger to pull me out of the tornado I was starting to feel existed in my head, car, office, and kitchen. Okay, that's four tornadoes, but it has been crazy. A guest blogger on marathon mama, a 3:01 marathoner with three kids, dog, busy life, and traveling husband, talked about scheduling her running two weeks out. I realized in a moment of clarity, albeit fleeting and somewhat helped along by the four cups of coffee I had just consumed, that because my frenetic job has no boundaries and I have no schedule to manage my life outside of work (except for the 73 item to-do list that includes everything from put away winter hats to paint living room to reevaluate career goals as they relate to meaning of life) and Mike and I are both extremely tired almost all the time, there isn't much opportunity for success.

So, in the spirit of desperation (may as well be honest) and out of respect for someone who seems to know what she is talking about, I have started a schedule. I have also lobbed out my lack of commitment to Pikes Peak to my spiritual running advisor. I thought it would be easier to get to the trails than it has been. I feel like a failure for thinking about giving up, but I just haven't gotten any of the proper training in. I trust Jason's perspective, so I'm waiting to talk with him before I let go or press on.

I'm hoping to use my new schedule as a way to reset some boundaries around my job. I need to trust that I can focus on my job within some reasonable time frames, and then be willing to shift my focus to other important aspects of my life. Maybe there is some new secret formula in Excel 2008 that adds 4 hours to the day? Now that would be a schedule I could make work!

Stopping to Hug a Tree

2008-07-03T13:49:00.002-06:00

Lately, my days have felt like a journey through a dark, tangly forest, with occasional encounters with unexplained moisture and random screams from unidentified sources. To keep my sanity, or what's left of it at least, I try to focus on the big picture: what's on the other side of that forest. While my vision includes financial freedom, a beach house, a satisfying job, a 2:45 marathon, and a 1997 Land Cruiser, at the end of the day it is really about giving me and my family a secure and comfortable life, and maybe one that feels a little less ordinary.

With that backdrop, we just gave up on pretending we were going to take our annual trip to the Cape. My folks were just here and we dallied so long getting tickets that the airfare and rental car alone were going to cost upwards of $3,000. In some ways it's nice. It's such a focus of our summer that we don't explore Colorado too much, so we've planned some camping trips and day trips and I am still taking a week off to hang out with the kids. Last weekend, after a frustrating day and night of trying to work around the kids, we packed up and headed out to the local reservoir. We had a picnic and for two hours, the kids played in the mud as if they were on the whitest sand on the finest beach.

If I look too hard at the present, it's overwhelming. I have chosen to pursue my career, but it's at a level that it's, well, hard and requires time and attention, for which I need childcare, which ups the ante on the job. And because I work hard and have my kids in full-time childcare, I race back and forth between the two. I cram my running in because it's important to me, but it can be hard, too, and there are plenty of days that I just can't make it fit. It's easy to talk priorities and balance, but my salary is part of how we pay our mortgage and how we are getting out of debt. We have looked at other choices, but we love our house and our neighborhood and our schools. In an effort not to completely neglect the kids, I neglect just about everything else, including Mike. And I've stopped complaining about the laundry because it pales in comparison to the state of the bathrooms. We could get a house cleaner again, but that takes away from our ability to get to a different place financially. And on it goes. This morning Em's teacher asked me if I had been traveling a lot because she's been very upset in the morning and then occasionally throughout the day. So now I worry about keeping my job so I can afford therapy for everyone.

Which brings me back to the forest. Some days I don't think I'm going to get to the other side. That I'm going to be stuck, tripping over rocks and dirty sippy cups, and then it will be all done and that will have been it. But then I look down at the trees, playing on the "beach", laughing at the sailboats, and chasing each other with algae. They are pretty sticky sometimes, but the trees can make the forest a pretty nice place to be.

The Weight of Weight

2008-06-28T13:56:00.004-06:00

During a two-hour run, there is ample time to compose witty, insightful musings in my head about running, parenting, being a working mom, but then by the time I get to the end all I can think of to share is "that run sucked." It was a hard run this morning. I didn't feel very motivated to begin with, got a late start, and had an afternoon of work while juggling the kids and really gross bathrooms to look forward to on my return. Usually I can snap out of it mid way through, but this morning it all just felt like a big weight.

And at the risk of coming across as superficial, silly, and someone in need of a good slap in the face with a celery stalk, it all started when I ran upstairs to grab my watch before my run. I don't usually get a glimpse of myself in full running attire and it was not what I was picturing in my head. The main culprit was my water bottle belt, which hits in just the right spot to exacerbate my very-much-not-toned midsection. This is such an issue with me that Mike refuses to discuss it. We can talk about death, taxes, mortgages, and colors of kid's poops, but we can't bring up my midsection. His point is that if I'm that upset about it, I should run less and lift more. And stop eating so much. He worries that training to run long distances does not emphasize fixing the thing that I seem to fret about most. My response is always that I'm not doing all the things that I'm supposed to be doing to run long distances, so how do we know? And so it goes. So we don't discuss it.

My set up for the blow to the belly, no pun intended, was the posting of the SkiPix for the West End 3k last night. I do not look fast. I do not look like I am running hard. It's because I'm not fast and wasn't running as hard as I should have. I look the same. Same as last year and same as five years ago. And that's what I focused on as I ran out the door, redressed in a cotton tshirt, which I would regret when the clouds parted and the late morning Colorado sun bore down. That run sucked.

Caveat

2008-06-27T12:46:00.001-06:00

Proto's pineapple and proscuitto pizza delivered to work on Fridays doesn't count as "pizza."

Team Saunders Tackles the West End

2008-06-27T12:15:00.002-06:00

Team Saunders officially tackled our second annual West End 3k. I ran a 14:27, which put me right in the middle of the pack for my age group (5 out of 10) for the Friends and Family Group. Colleen DeReuck is in my age group for the overall race and I certainly was not in the middle of her pack. One of the great things about running in Boulder is who shows up at these neighborhood races. It's really fun to watch.

I'm looking forward to running more of these shorter distances. I don't know that much about timing and still need to build my confidence to push hard for longer stretches. Some of it was a result of falling off my track work for the last month and some of it is experience and some of it is the oft-mentioned belly. In any case, it was a fun race to participate in. Only in Boulder can you compete against elite runners, small children, and a guy in jeans and tennis shoes all in the same race.

Jake and Emma ran awesome races of their own. Jake ran the whole way; it was an interesting study in motivation. He started hard, slowed down, and then sped up whenever someone cheered or passed him. Emma was a study in quiet and steady determination. Despite my warnings to Mike that he should expect to run with her, he was surprised and very sweaty in his Crocs and button-down at the finish after she ran the whole way, steady pace with a huge smile on her face that stayed there for the rest of the night. It's good to be 3. Sometimes.

Looking the part

2008-06-27T11:53:00.002-06:00

I gave up pizza for a few months. And apparently Good Times vanilla custard. I know what you are thinking: Wow. Her heroic sacrifices for her running dreams never stop! I'd like to say it's narcissistic, but it's sort of opposite of that. I'm simply tired of my belly. It's 97 degrees out and I'm trying to figure out which cotton T sufficiently covers me up. Time to be done with that.

No metaphor intended, but I hate to reveal the superficiality of it all and at some level it is about fitness and running faster with 10 fewer pounds and feeling stronger and more confident. But to be totally honest, it's also just about looking the part. I saw Colleen DeReuck last night at the West End 3k. She was hanging out with her family, including beautiful baby, and, not to take anything away from the substance of her fastness, she looked fast. I take my running seriously, at least more than I once did. I'd like my belly to reflect that. Besides, no pizza exists that will taste as good as the slice I eat after running up and down a a14er. Never mind the beer.

About this heart rate thing

2008-06-24T16:18:00.011-06:00

Not suprisingly, my running efficiency is being negatively impacted by my previous two weeks of un-training. While I take 99% responsibility for it, it's hard to totally rule out the impact of summer running in Colorado, even by 7:30 am, it felt a little like
and my HR still ran high, although not as high as Saturday. Jason has instructed me not to worry about it this week while I get back in the groove, however, my long run these days entails a lot of long, flat stretches. And even though it is at 5000 feet or so above sea level, it is not
At least I won't have to worry about the heat at Pikes Peak. A couple years ago, it snowed enough on race day that they had to close down the access road. Good thing I signed up to run down, too. I wonder where I sign up for the mule?

Ouch

2008-06-21T23:02:00.004-06:00

Earlier this week Jake commented, out of the blue, that my feet looked "much better." Mike quickly responded that it was because I hadn't been running. I knew it would be hard to get runs in with my folks here; I didn't think my running would come to a screeching halt. Most of the time I am in complete denial that my days are so full. I just don't realize how tight my life is until I try to fit something new in; something inevitably falls out the other side. I mean really, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to extrapolate out that if I'm folding laundry at midnight and my daughter is continuing to potty train herself, we might have a problem. If nothing else, it was a good reminder just to throw away the yoga class schedule.

However, I digress. I did in fact get out for a nice 11.5ish mile run this morning. First one in 2 1/2 weeks. I tanked pretty dramatically about 2/3 of the way through, but it felt great overall and I'm enjoying that very tired feeling that comes from a good workout. At one point, I was fairly certain -- certain enough to call Mike while running -- that I had just been passed by Deena Kastor and her coach. I don't know what she would be doing in Boulder and this may be the equivalent of my high school sighting of Sting at the Chestnut Hill Mall (c'mon, it's pausible he needed to pick something up at Bloomies). About 200 yards behind her was another extremely elite-looking runner and her biking companion. It may not have been Deena, but it was close enough to make me realize a few things:

There is a long way to go from suburban mom with sploshing water bottle huffing to Enimen and trying to keep her water bottle holder from riding up to her neck to elite runner zipping past, eyes focused, body relaxed, looking like at any second she could turn it on and blast out of sight.
I want that.

I've been testing Mike's patience with my struggles with my schedule. He doesn't get why I don't just do what I say I am going to do, and looking at that statement as I write it, it does seem so simple. Maybe it is that simple. Sherry has been reminding me that it's all about just taking single steps.

Our COO gave us a pep talk at work on Friday, and in true Boulder fashion used running marathons as a theme. Specifically, how when you are near the end you don't think about how uncomfortable you are and how much pain you are in, you focus on the finish (okay, I tend to focus on how uncomfortable I am, but I'm working on that). What will it feel like after. What will you do first. He did then provide the very anti-climatic finish of a reminder about working next weekend, but I got the point. I didn't mind having an uncomfortable run today. It felt way better than not running and I knew that no matter what went on, I would get 11.5 miles in and be a few steps closer to getting my training back on track.

And about last week. Em picked up a lovely vomiting virus, timed perfectly with the day I needed to get my parents successfully back on an airplane, the only day Mike had to travel for the last few weeks, and the start of the ramp up to product release at work. After dropping my parents off at the airport, the van died. Of course. But the kids and my parents had a great two weeks together. Two weeks that in January I thought would never be possible again. And Friday, as I pulled in to the driveway with my overtired kids, almost an hour late, I noticed an email from Amy with a conference ID. I was four minutes late, but I managed to deposit children, grab a large glass of wine and the phone, and dial in to the first official Friday afternoon happy hour via conference call. Sherry was still at work in California, Tami was on her way from Viriginia to Boston, Amy had just gotten home from her commute from Denver, and I could hear Abby screaming in the kitchen. And for 17 minutes we laughed and drank and scheduled another one for next week.

Maybe my legs are just too tired for me to think about running away, but it seems like there is a method in all the madness and that things are starting to converge in a kind of cool way. Oh, and my blistahs are back. Big time.

The Path to Enlightment is Definitely a Loop

2008-06-12T16:42:00.004-06:00

By yesterday morning my ankles and knees physically hurt and I had officially started losing my will to function, contemplated quitting running...again, and contemplated running away...again. I finally walked out of work early, slapped on my shoes, and got 4 miles in. While I've never in fact experienced an infusion of crack cocaine, I'm guessing this is what it feels like. While I planned on having some missed running days and didn't beat myself up, I forgot how bad it feels. As a result, today I am completely wacky on the junk and am convinced that if we could just get everyone together for one long endorphin-producing run, we would end crime, wars, and general human not-niceities for at least 36 hours. My mood may also be from the fact that I am about to go out to dinner alone with my husband for the first time in 13 months. Either way, I'm going with it.

In my blissful state, I signed up with some friends for a trail race in July, the Shambhala Peace Day Trail Race. It's a 15K run led by Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche. The race goodies includes an "unusual" gift for participants. I'm thinking eternal enlightment. That or a really cool visor.

About that...

2008-06-08T22:35:00.007-06:00

It probably won't come as a shock to anyone but, say, me to notice that the more time I spend straying off my training calendar, the more time I spend picking apart those who are out there running. So, we'll address that in a second, but for now thanks to my new British pal who is preparing to run 95 miles up many, many hills for reminding me (very politely, I might add) that one should be careful in assuming that dads have any less of a challenge, metaphorical or otherwise, in sharing the load behind the jogger. It will always be a mystery to me why I can't seem to wrestle a finger free to push on the dishwasher when I'm alone with the kids, but when Mike has everyone he manages to rearrange his office, mop the kitchen floors, and alphabetize the 900 boxes of cereal (okay, I'm exaggerating on that last one: It's only 11. And I'm pretty sure they aren't alphabetized. But they are very neatly stacked. Anyway, you get my point). However, none of this provides any excuse to take anything away from the trials, tribulations, and all around roller coaster ride that Dads everywhere get to enjoy. Especially this close to Father's Day (Honey, if you are reading this, does public acknowledgement count as a card?)

So, with that cleared up, Parade lobbed me a softball this morning...the Olsen twins turned 21...but I'm not going to bite. I've had a few people ask me about my goal so I thought I'd actually talk a little about running.

First, it's not a typo. I shared with a colleague that someone asked me that and his reponse was "Patti, everyone who reads that is going to think it's a typo." Right. So, let's clarify. I really believe that with a lot of work and some luck and some really great socks, I can run a 2:45 in 3 years. While I believe there is a caliber of truly gifted, amazing elite runners in the world (okay, I'll say it: the 25-year-olds in Runner's World. sigh), I think there are more than a few really great runners who are just working their butts off. Understanding that in the Trials with Deena Kastor were a bunch of 40-somethings with jobs and kids and who knows what else just flipped a switch in my already endorphin-skewed brain.

I don't have specific race goals for that time; I'm looking at it in blocks. This year, obviously, is about getting my act together. I'm a mess but I'm well intentioned, so we'll see how far that gets me. I also have all the right pieces: supportive husband, a commute that is exactly the perfect distance for a mid-length run, and an awesome coach who is both very smart and very supportive. My first foray back into marathons last fall got me a 4:03 in California, so this year I'm looking to knock my first chunk off and hit a sub 3:30 for October at the Denver Marathon. Because I'm very worried about my schedule affording me time for enough hill work, I signed up for the Pikes Peak Marathon, with the thinking that if all hell breaks loose this summer and I do nothing else, I will get one very, very intense hill work out in.

Okay, I'm actually training for Pikes Peak, but I'm looking past it a bit, too. If I can hit my 3:30ish marathon in October, I will feel set up for round two of knocking another chunk off next year. My goal is that by the end of next year, my goal is simply crazy, as opposed to absurd.

Prepare the collective gasp: I think I'm having a bit of a mid-life crisis. I just don't quite understand how I'm supposed to feel about being 42, with aging parents, small children, and a job that expects me to deliver on years of experience. It's just so middle-aged. However, I contend that my running goal is not about proving I can run with 25 year olds; it's about doing something I put off for a very long time for all the wrong reasons. It took me a while to get my groove and get what it means to find a soulmate, have these kids, and settle into my skin. I don't want to believe it's too late to try for the package. My guess, and probably the guess of a few others, is that it's not going to be my 42-year-old bod that gets in the way, it's going to be me and my ability to want it enough to annoy my husband, neglect my kids, and skip a meeting here and there. I'm still working on that part.

As for the Olsen twins, I hope they are having a fabulous birthday. I'd stay up and party with them, but I have to go to bed so I can get back on track this week.

Stampede!

2008-06-07T21:37:00.003-06:00

I forgot my camera to record the event therefore I feel compelled to provide the play-by-play that ends with my 3-year-old covering 2 miles on foot...running for about the first half and then walking for the rest. And lest I come across as sending out some horribly competitive preschool running juju, her 83-year-old grandpa was right behind us at the ready with the triple jogger (and lest I come across as sending out some horribly competitive elder running juju, I will clarify it only contained Abby, 4 water bottles, 3 sweatshirts, and a stuffed lamb) ready to provide respite, but despite professing feeling tired from running, she trucked on. It was very awesome. And I will be forever indebted to the lone volunteer at mile 1.9 that cheered her on, evoking a big smile and a final burst. We entered the finish with the winning 10K runner and all was right with the world. We did deny grandpa the big finish as the stroller is too wide for the finishing chutes and it seemed best to ditch it just ahead of the end. Emma passed through, though, and got her ribbon. Jake finished in just over a half hour, also running and walking the whole way with his buddy Nicolas.

I love the Stampede. It is the quintessential local run, held at the high school and put on by the rotary club, and it is completely family friendly. I watched a guy run a double stroller in to finish the 10K in 42 minutes (he only had one kid in there, but still!) and a 9-year-old blaze in not much later. Because of the proximity to Boulder (and much more appealing housing prices), Longmont harbors some great talent and the race is great to watch (which I just discovered this year because the past two years we came in so late in the 10K they were breaking down barricades and done with the events by the time we arrived).

The guy with the stroller reminded me of a short article I saw in the Runner's World that arrived yesterday. Michael Wardian ran a 2:42 ish marathon in May 2007 pushing a baby jogger. I wanted to be impressed. But I couldn't embrace it fully, because, well, he's the dad. That means 79% fewer requests for bottles and a much lower probability of stopping for diaper changes, blanket repositioning, and sun shade adjustments. And well, he probably did it because it seemed like a cool thing to try, not something that evolved because he was going to go insane if he didn't get a run in, so "Let's go: everyone in the stroller!" Wait, that's me. But still. I know a few of you moms out there are nodding your head. It's just different. Something about having mommy within 300 yards, never mind within sight-line, changes the dynamic of everything.

In the same issue of RW was the article about Marathon Moms, which I also wanted to connect with better than I did. However, slipped in among the narration of their experience with the Nike Women's Marathon was sharing the post-run experience of no stretching and showering with 1-3 kids who are not entirely interested in the same therapeutic experience you are. A tip list that includes setting expectations that runs don't stop at the door? Now that speaks to me.

So, yes, I'm sexist. I'm also ageist, because I couldn't stand to read the RW article about running marriages that appeared a while back (may as well get this all off my chest). I'm sorry: it's just not that compelling to read about 25-year-old couples who can spend their days running and supporting each other and making fresh, whole-grain pasta with just a sprinkle of flax seed oil. You are definitely amazing runners; you'll just be more interesting when you can throw in some stories about, well, how you lost your running shoe under 6 loads of laundry, can't identify what is crusted to your water bottle, and are pretty sure that there was nothing in your wedding vows about THIS particular stage of your life.

Of course, there probably isn't much of a market for Suburban Longmont Mother of 3 Trying to Achieve Athletic Dreams That Far Out-pace Her Financial, Mental, and Phsycial Capacity World. However, it is Saturday. Which means tomorrow is Sunday. Which means Parade... I'll be sure to update you on who else is older than me and what is new in reality tv. Stay tuned!

Tagged

2008-06-03T11:57:00.007-06:00

I was tagged by Phil Robertson, who I have never met but now understand to be about to undertake a 95-mile run in Scotland and am now very impressed with. So, while it is with some horror I acknowledge that people other than my dad and Sherry are reading my blog, I think it's a great opportunity to connect a little with the extremely vast running community that exists in the blogosphere.

Here are the rules and my reply is just below.

Tagging is easy. Just copy the following onto your post. The rules of the game are posted at the start of your blog post. In this case, I'm asking you 5 questions about running. Each player answers the 5 questions on their own blog. At the end of your post you tag 5 other people and post their names. Go to their blogs and leave a comment on their blogs telling them they've been tagged and to look at your blog for details. When they've answered the questions on their own blog, they come back to yours to tell you. Got that?

I know, it sounds like chain mail, although thus far there are no associated threats of certain death by breaking the chain, but it also sounds fun, so here goes.

1. How would you describe your running 10 years ago?

I was running for all the wrong reasons. I ran my first marathon 12 years ago because the woman that my boyfriend at the time had a crush on was running it (no issues there). I commuted 3 hours a day, so I literally only had time to do one run a week, a long run on a tow path (very flat, out and back). I had no fitness to speak of, but learned endurance. And I did complete the marathon. It took me a long time to understand that running wasn't just about slogging through miles.

2. What is your best and worst run/race experience?

Best was the 2001 Hood-to-Coast Relay. I was the slowest runner on the team by far, but it was the first time I had been included in a team that included highly competitive, accomplished women. I was in such a different place that I didn't even realize until we got there they were actually running to win. It was an amazing experience to be with them. I ran my ass off, ran PRs all over the place, and felt really proud to be part of such a focused team. It was a turning point for me in terms of how I looked at my running.

Worst was the 1998 Cape Cod Marathon, which is hard for me to say because how can you not love a race sponsored by Dunkin Donuts. It's actually my marathon PR (3:49), but it was a disappointing experience for me personally and left me a bit of a wreck. I was trying to qualify for Boston (3:40) and just kind of gave up. I was so overwhelmed and frustrated and ill-prepared. It instilled a mile-16 panic that reared up in subsequent marathons. Thanks to the approach my coach has taken, I've worked through it finally, but that marathon sucked. A lot.

3. Why do you run?

Running makes me stronger, calmer, and more confident. I have a very intense home life with three small children and a full-time job, so the harder workouts I've been doing have been an incredible stress relief. But I mostly run because I'm a runner. I want to see how fast, how strong, and how brave I can be as a runner.

4. What is the best or worst piece of advice you've been given about running?

The best piece has been to focus on level of effort, using my heart rate rather than pace. Timing my pace all the time was making me a basket case.

The worst piece went along the lines of "if you can run half a marathon, you can run a whole one." Who perpetuated that line of reasoning?

5. Tell us something surprising about yourself that not many people would know.

Right now I'm listening to the support engineer in the office next to me talk to his dog on the phone.

On a broader note, despite the craziness that fill my days, I think I'm one of the happiest and luckiest people I know.

Tag, you're it:
Jason
Kristina
Nicole
Vanilla
Jules

Kim Alexis is 6 years older than me!

2008-06-01T22:25:00.004-06:00

Thanks to this morning's Parade magazine, which is the only part of the paper I can read in the 30 seconds I have to read the paper so I skip right to the inside cover, I learned Angelina Jolie is not. Neither is Anna Kournikova, but my husband finally admitted, sad as it was for both of us for him to say out loud, that it's too skeevy for him to think that women that young attractive. Way to go honey!

Kim Alexis is hosting a new model-search reality show, this time looking for models over 35. The tag line is something about the power years being beautiful. I, obviously embracing my role as target audience, felt very powerful. The irony of that statement being that it comes after an afternoon that included conversations with Mike that escalated as follows:

Where are the bathing suits?
If I put sunscreen on everyone 5 hours ago but we never actually made it outside to the park, does it still count or do I have to spend the next 45 minutes reapplying before we go to the pool (loaded question hoping to sway the father with minivan keys in hand to tell me what I want to hear)?
What exactly is crusted in to the downstairs bathroom sink?
Where is Abby?
How can I stop spending all weekend yelling at my kids, who are awesome, but who are making me crazy because they fight nonstop and yell at each other, and yes I see the problem here but, honestly, you try to keep your cool when it starts at 6:05 am in your ear in bed and doesn't end until bed time?
What is the best way to deal with the emotions of having my 81-year-old mother, who was in a hospital the last time I saw her 3 months ago recovering from as near a death experience as I think is allowed, come visit me for two weeks when I am already a basket case?
How am I going to get my runs in, deal with a rapidly escalating workload, and spend time with my parents?
How early is too early for a glass of wine?
What is the probability of our economy causing some horrible mutation of our civilization that results in marauding gangs wielding machetes and how am I supposed to protect my children from that?!? (I tossed that one at Mike as he was heading out the door for hockey. It was a testament to my mental state that he stopped to calmly discuss it with me. I felt better, even though the answer involved quickly moving and assault weapons.)

After getting all that off my chest and into Mike's capable hands, I am back to avoiding the laundry and wondering what exactly is keeping Emma's fish, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, alive.

For those on the edge of their seats, the 8-mile track workout was great. Really great. Of course I had an extra two days of recovery between it and the 12-mile run, so that helped. I went out Saturday morning and it was me and a guy in a tracksuit that looked like it was made of Hefty bags. I lapped a pep-stepper (okay, she was actually walking backwards, but I still passed her. Twice.)

In all seriousness, the combination of workouts that Jason has put together for me is amazing. I did this track workout and realized that while I was working my butt off, I wasn't running as fast as I could until I couldn't do it anymore. I was actually running the workout. I still have a lot of work to do. I missed my long run this weekend and have to juggle my runs, my parents, my busier job, and my issues with my kiddos for the next three weeks. But workouts like that make me want to figure it out. I know I'm a broken record, but I'm okay admitting that I'm a long way from the discipline I need to get where I want to go. But I also believe I have time to figure it out. Part of the message of my goal is that I don't think it's too late to start. And starting means starting. I'm at the beginning of something I know is going to take a while. It's not an excuse for missing runs (I don't know the correct bibliographic entry for referencing an earlier post, but trust me, I've been through this), but rather it is a reason not to give up.

My job is about to get a little hairy. My kids are a wreck and I haven't had a conversation alone in a room with Mike in about a month. Running isn't my escape, my private time. Some times it's a chore and pain in the ass. I'm happy to get it done once I do it, but believe me, I need some quiet alone time that doesn't involve my feet. I just honestly believe that we will all get through this particular flavor of craziness and that even 6 months from now, we'll be in a different place. Of course, as I type this, I'm listening to my neighbor scream at her 12-year-old. It may be a different place, but it could be the same old story. Now that's motivation not to give up.

It all started with a place for the towels

2008-05-29T22:40:00.007-06:00

Emma has been reading the Pottery Barn Kids catalog in her car seat on the way to and from school for the last couple of days. It started as a way to distract her: she was making up stories about the kids in the catalog and reading them to Abby. Very cute. Now she is picking out bedding.

The problem with the catalog is that there is no place to order the house that you need to go with the really great Roman-shade curtains that go perfectly on the French doors that open onto your wraparound porch overlooking the ocean. Or to order the three smiling children with brushed hair AND teeth who are extremely, and consistently, happy in their clam diggers and very floppy hats while they play croquet on the very green lawn, never once realizing the mallet also makes a great whacking stick with which to attack one's sister. Tonight I seriously considered what it would take to knock down the walls between the bathrooms upstairs so that I could create one giant beach-themed bathroom with three pedestal sinks, cubbies for our perfectly stacked monogrammed towel sets, and a clawfoot tub with awning-striped cloth curtain that never, ever molds. Just once, in the room shoot of the perfectly organized playroom with alphabetized books and individual reading spaces, I would like to see a small pile of very dirty clothes.

My ongoing saga with the laundry has, sadly, become my metaphor for life. It's always there, in little piles behind doors, in every hallway, in the dryer, in the washer, everywhere. There is no escaping it. I let days go by, then finally suck it up and take a day and attack it and get everything washed and put away, but by the end of the night, there is a new pile, like some not-so-spooky Steven King plot. If I don't attack it everyday, I start to feel like my only option is to move out. But it will just follow me. Pathetic, yes. But like everything these days, I take it as a message. At the risk of highlighting the fact that I've devolved to the point that I think the laundry is trying to tell me something, bear with me.

My days are full. Overwhelmingly full. I suck at everything right now -- parenting, work, wifery (which I think is actually a dirty word, but I can't think of another gerund that means being a wife), and training. But I can't walk away from any of it, because I don't want to. My kids are amazing despite me, my husband is awesome (and well, the Poison concert is right around the corner), I really like my job, and my running is improving. I guess it's about chipping away at it and not giving up just because it feels like you are facing a never ending pile that smells like pee. Wait, that's the laundry.

Scared straight into a plank

2008-05-27T21:54:00.004-06:00

This morning I did my first hill "tempo" on the treadmill, using the term tempo loosely as usually it implies some nice skippy level of speed. In this case, I did it at a 10% incline, and while I did maintain forward motion, I would not consider it "skippy". Now I get the emphasis on core. Once I peeled myself off the treadmill, I rolled straight into the core work that Jason has been politely suggesting I do for, oh, about 6 months.

Speaking of whom, the blog party is over. In a good way. Part of sharing the goal out loud, and all of the feelings that come with that exposure, is to put some skin in the game. It's been fun to lament the workouts I missed or find reasons why folding laundry at 3 am has the same cardio benefit as an easy recovery run or wonder if I have the wherewithall to actually train very hard for a very long period of time. However, with Jason peeking in now and then, in order to maintain some semblance of respect for my goals and his time, as well as the necessary ongoing support and encouragement, I must now do the proverbial "put up or shut up". I'm sure the 40 miles in 5 days I have in front of me is in no way a reminder from him to shut up and start working out, and definitely not the 8-mile, yes, 8 MILE, track workout that doesn't even fit on one sticky note, but still, I hereby vow to do my abs. Mostly.

The nice thing about the incline slog this morning is that it totally drowned out the sounds from the kitchen that were decidely not akin to "go mommy." And note to self, double check that "clash day" at school applies to all classrooms, not just oldest son's, so that daughter's first day in new class is not carried out in extremely distracting attire. Good thing I didn't follow through on my fantasy plan to tell the kids that "clash day" was intended to make them more comfortable with confrontation by encouraging them to fight with their classmates and teachers over everything all day. Now that seems more useful.

Ah, the uncertainty unleashed by 2 Sam Adams

2008-05-24T22:20:00.005-06:00

It's hard to admit how afraid I am that I'm just too old to start talking such nonsense out loud. If a friend like Sherry shared a similar dream, I wouldn't stop for a second and wonder if she is too old. I just don't believe it. So, maybe it's not about age after all. Maybe it's about wondering that I might be wrong. That if in fact I do the training, the ab work, make the sacrifices on the home front--and asking Mike and the kids to make the sacrifices on the home front--that it could all be for nothing. I don't doubt I can knock more time off my marathon, but serious time? I don't know. I am starting to gain the confidence that physically I can do it, but mentally? I don't know. It's going to be really hard. I don't have a strong track record for following through on things that are really hard. And I am disappointed with myself for choosing now to attempt to get my act together.

And in my ongoing search for inspiration, I was noticing the silence in the ESPN online articles about Kathryn Bertine, the cyclist turned Nevis citizen, turned triathlete that is the subject of a series of articles exploring whether making the Olympics requires a lifetime of training and dedication or if an "average" person with an athletic background could have a shot.

It's a fun read, but it's not a very encouraging storyline. And it does include her foreboding observation that ESPN told her if she doesn't start winning, she was going to lose readers. And it's been pretty quiet since early March, so it's either not going well or going very, very well.

In any case, Kathryn's issues are hers and my year is underway. I've decided to look at my goal in three parts. This year is about working out the training. Getting into the groove. Getting Mike and the kids into the groove (it's less groovalicious for them, but thanks to Mike's strong genetic input, they do all thrive on consistency.) I'm relaxed about Pike's -- it's going to be very hard, but it's mostly about finishing on my feet without getting struck by lightning, causing long-term physical damage, or bonking at mile 2. All real concerns at this point. I have no times, goals to compare it to. October will be the hard one. If I can get close to 3:30, then I will have accomplished my goal for this year, and have built the confidence to look ahead to knocking off another chunk of time next year.

My first Saturday long run was great. I finally just did my long loop, rather than go part way out and back. It's a little over 12.5 miles, and I did it in just about 2 hours. It felt really good, actually. I don't know if my times are coming down much -- about 9:30 pace for my heart rate (going up a bit at the end), but I feel different, stronger. And I was pleased to feel so good after the 12-mile from hell on Tuesday and the track workout on Thursday. But it's never a question of knocking out some good runs here and there; for me, it's the day after day, week after week consistency that is not part of my framework. I'm afraid enough of Pikes' that I'm hoping it keeps me focused on the next 12 weeks. That is one race I don't want to be at the starting line regretting what I did or didn't do.

The science of breakfast

2008-05-22T22:11:00.007-06:00

If NASA is still concerned about panels falling off the space shuttle during exit and entrance of orbit, they should try securing them with dried breakfast cereal. I realize I'm about to bust myself for actually regularly feeding my children the Lucky Charms and various other assorted treats that try to pass as cereal that I complain about Mike filling the pantry with (and yes, we have even unleashed Cookie Crisp. Remember that? At least it doesn't try to pretend it is anything but a big box of tiny cookies sprayed with vitamins).

As an experiment, take a half-eaten bowl of cereal, let it sit for two hours, then sprinkle the mush along the tops, bottom, and sides of the counter; smear lightly in the fine hair of a two-year-old; and leave several small chunks stuck to the bowl. Leave the house for nine hours. Return and attempt to clean up from breakfast with a damp sponge. Then try a butter knife. Then try soaking. Then look closely at just how that cocoa crisp has adhered to the countertop. Then wonder what exactly it is doing to the gastrointestinal system of your children. Then vow that everyone is getting homemade steel cut oatmeal for breakfast. Then wake up with 20 minutes to get everyone out the door and realize the only chance of getting something in them that passes as food-like lies in those boxes and then try to justify it by providing a banana chaser, which, by the way, when slightly chewed and then deposited on aforementioned countertop, is the only known substance with stronger adhesive power than dried breakfast cereal.

Lucky Charms are actually a good tool for behavioral analysis. Jake picks out all the marshmallows into a neat pile next to his bowl, adds the milk to the cereal, and then neatly places all the marshmallows back on top. Abby waits for the milk to be added, then picks out each milky marshmallow, asks what it is, eats it, rubs her sticky blue finger through her hair, repeats until all the marshmallows are gone, and then asks for Cheerios. Emma likes to look at the box of Lucky Charms while eating a bowl of mini wheats. I think she's just biding her time until she's old enough for a cup of coffee and the paper.

As for me, I'm pleased to report that the speedwork on the track went way better than expected, meaning, I did it! Just about spot on for the 400m repeats and 6 seconds too slow for the 800. I definitely liked it better than the treadmill; it just feels like you have more power and can dig into the stride a little. It was a good milestone to move the speedwork out to the track; I was really concerned about my ability to feel out the right pace. And it helped a ton to run it at 6 pm instead of trying it at 10:30 pm so I am eternally grateful to my hero Carmen. It was pretty wild to think that the pace of my workout today extrapolated over a marathon would only get me to 3 hours. The coolest thing about watching the Trials was watching how hard these women were running. I'm just dipping my toe into speed and it feels pretty amazing to run hard. I can't wait to build up to doing it over distance.

My only sadness today is that in my one-week hiatus, my feet started to look a little normal again. After Tuesday, that's already gone. And today, my cute new sandals showed up -- very toe-baring. And since I'm trying to address the issues my kids have with owies, specifically that all things--hangnail, amputation without anesthesia, and a newly discovered freckle--evoke the same response, I'm trying not to hide the grossness with Band-aids to support the new "no Band-aids without gushing blood" rule. It's just more motivation to train. I don't think I'll mind being the mom with gross feet if I'm also the mom that can run really, really fast.

It's good to be back

2008-05-21T21:54:00.002-06:00

Now that I can hold solid foods again, I am actually looking forward to my track workout tomorrow. Mostly, I'm curious to see what sucks more: treadmill speed workouts that include fear of death from flying off because my legs can't keep up or the track, where I am not buoyed by the earth graciously moving out from underneath me. Mostly, I am proud of myself for actually taking my very awesome friend Carmen up on watching my three kids for an hour, giving her five kids and one dog to wrangle at the absolutely fabulous time of 5:30 pm, when everyone is wilted and exhausted and needs the heavy and constant input of carbohydrates to remain standing. It certainly does strengthen the appeal of a track workout.

I have a very simple, 5- to 10-minute set of core exercises Jason wants me to do every day. I am going to do them in the morning, as soon as i get up, every day for a week and see how it goes. It doesn't seem to work to tie them to a run (queue not-so-distant memory of end of 12-mile run where I was met on the lawn with screaming toddler and rather than stretch or do anything resembling core work, I immediately went in, gave three kids baths, wondered if I perhaps did long-term damage to my gastrointestinal system, and them promptly crawled into bed, sweaty ponytail and all.) Yes: My life is as glamorous as it sounds.

Once the shock of the run wore off this morning, I had a few waves of endorphin-induced euphoria, one of which resulted in me writing a love letter to Title9. That little 5.5 mile race has been one of the most galvanizing things for my running. I can't explain it, except that it brings everything I love together in one place for an hour and 18 minutes.

I am cautiously optimistic that the new approach to my schedule will work better for me. Sundays off. Long runs during the week. Consistent core in small doses. I even adjusted my race plans so I can focus on the right stuff. Jake and I are going to do the Sunrise Stampede 2-mile together and, yes, I am not doing the Vail Hill Climb so I can participate in a great act of love: I am going with Mike to Poison at the Greeley Stampede. In all honesty, while I mock his love of 80s hair bands, I am the loser who walked up to the ticket counter and, seeing a poster tacked to the wall, thought "Oh my god! ABBA is coming to Red Rocks!"

I've scoped out some good mid-week trail and hill runs around Boulder and am looking forward to focusing on getting ready for Pikes. Such a big hill. So little oxygen.

I believe you Al Gore!

2008-05-21T08:54:00.008-06:00

It's May. An entire month away from summer. And as I headed out of the office at 5:20 last night, I felt like I was running across the desert in the middle of the day. Then I remembered I technically do live in the high desert, but still. It's May, people. It was hot. That on top of a pre-run diet that included a chorizo breakfast burrito and a potato with bean chili on it...well, you get the idea.

However, I am pleased to report that day 3 of official retirement from running went pretty well. It was a sloggy run, and, contrary to the assessment of a colleague who noted that given the fact that Longmont is 500 feet lower in altitude than Boulder, technically the run was "all downhill", it was pretty tough, mostly on the mental front. I was out there with the scores of Ironman-wannabes biking in giant packs (by the way, just because I can jump out of the way of cyclists riding 4-across on the shoulder doesn't mean I should have to) but didn't see a single runner, so while that most likely meant everyone else was smart enough to run at 6 am, not 6 pm, I took it as a badge of honor. Sherry said all the right things yesterday and I felt relaxed, albeit crappy and relaxed, and my legs finally got a good stretch.

On the approach to the biggest hill on the run, I got to the end of my playlist and suddenly was running to the Rocky theme; apparently Mike had put it in there as he was setting up my new MP3 player that he gave me for Mother's Day. My playlist is one of my favorite secrets. I am finally over my fear of getting busted for questionable musical taste by getting hit by a car while Reo Speedwagon is cranking through my headphones (no offense Steve Perry! That band would have been nothing without you!). Anyway, I trucked up the hill with Rocky Balboa and my awesome hubby on my mind.

And this morning I got an email from Jason, freshly back from winning the Law Day 10K in Santa Barbara - Go Jason! I keep waiting for him to tell me that I'm uncommitted, wasting his time, and crazy to think that I can find the discipline and fortitude to take my running to a competitive level. Instead he is consistently encouraging, coming up with ways to fold what I need to do into my life. In today's email about schedules and workouts he referred to me as an "athlete" and that drifted above everything else he was saying.

So, it appears that I'm not out of the race yet.

Quitting

2008-05-20T09:30:00.005-06:00

I quit running last week. Actually, I didn't formally quit until this weekend, but I hadn't run since Tuesday, so I made it retroactive. Saturday was going to be the day I made up the speed workout, but we were hosting the end of year soccer party for Jake's team and I had to be around to vacuum five times and at least pretend to try to clean the house, which mostly involved picking toys up, watching Abby take them back out, and repeating, while attempting to come up with ways to hide the bathrooms entirely. I did have the presence of mind not to spend anytime cleaning the kids rooms ahead of the tornado of kids that came in to wreak devastation. It was fun, but there went weekend workout number one.

Weekend workout number two evaporated in the very simple decision that it was Sunday morning and rather than spend two hours working out, I wanted to go to the park with the kids. The romantic version of this has us skipping happily down the path; the Nanny 911 version would have filmed us spending an hour biking and triking a half mile to the park, arriving just as it hit the heat of the morning. We proceeded to spend an hour on the playground surrounded by pavement, oh, and the only mud puddle that existed in the entire Front Range area. We then had to be daddy-vac'd out as I gave up trying to balance an extremely heavy tricycle on the little single stroller while I held Abby's hand and tried to coax Emma to walk home. Hence the end of workout number two.

Well, why not run later in the day you ask? On the way back from the park, we rescued a dresser that was left as free to a good home. That single act galvanized four weeks of domestic inertia. I was suddenly motivated to do laundry, rearrange bedrooms, and organize toys. Of course, the fit of activity hit at 5:00, an hour before Mike was leaving for hockey, so I had to marry my Martha Stewart urges with the need to feed kids and get them to bed. The ensuing chaos some how ended up with me folding laundry at 11 pm over a couple of glasses of wine. Nothing actually ended up in the new dresser.

I didn't run last night, because I decided that I would go to bed "early" so I could get up to run to work this morning to make up for the lost weekend and take advantage of the one day Mike isn't traveling this week. Of course, both girls were up at 1:00 and while Emma crashed on my side of the bed, I spent the next 3 hours and 40 minutes with Abby. I crawled back into bed at 4:40 vowing that I wouldn't let it stop me, but it did. Big time. I swear, if they are trying to get terrorists to crack, forget water boarding. Let them doze off and then sporadically wake them at random intervals with a screaming child, occasionally tossing in a second one. A few nights of that in a row, and they will be babbling idiots spilling state secrets at 3 am just for the chance to go back to sleep for a few more hours.

I know. I talk a big game. But I'm weak. There, I said it. I have built my strength and confidence to tackle any workout Jason wants to throw at me right now. It kills me that I can't deal with the day to day. I know it will get easier, but I'm frustrated that I make it so hard.

And then I saw the email this morning from Title 9 with the race results. And there we were: our picture front and center in a little collage from the race. And in that 30 seconds of pride, the week of mental torture evaporated. It's all in my head, I know that. Maybe I can continue to look for a schedule that works, something I can stick with that will insulate me against the day to day a little more.

I don't want to quit. My goal means a lot to me. Just me. It has side benefits in lessons for the kids, blah blah blah, but mostly, it's just for me. I want this. And maybe just making it about that simplifies it enough to quiet the head games, stop thinking, and just plow ahead.

Mike offered to drive me to work this morning and it took me a second to realize that he was suggesting that since I didn't run in, I could just run home. Which means he has to pick up the kids and deal with dinner as it will take me a couple hours to get home. It seems so simple. And I appreciate the implicit support. So, I guess I'll hold off on quitting until at least after my run tonight.

Reality Check, part 2

2008-05-13T13:17:00.005-06:00

Whether or not I completely agree with the move, I turn 42 today. It's kind of a neat age...sort of nestled between milestones, a no-pressure kind of birthday. It does mark an important point for me: kicking off my 3-year journey toward a 2:45 marathon. Of course, my hips, back, and arms still can't straighten out from the race on Sunday, but I'm sure I'll recover eventually.

Jason offered a day off for my birthday, but after my humbling experience on Sunday and my mixed feelings about slacking off last week, I kicked off the day with an easy 5-mile run and a more-attentive-than usual core workout. To scare myself into taking it seriously, I did it with my shirt off. Yikes. At last check, it appeared that Deena Kastor could see straight down to her feet. Coincidentally, over the baby monitor, I could hear the kids talking in the kitchen. A few weeks ago, after two years, the kids finally figured out what the treadmill was for and that often when I go "running," I am really still in the house. Em had just come down to check on me and was reporting back to Jake that I was done running and was stretching, at which point they both started chanting "go mommy." It was actually kind of inspiring.

And got me thinking, per usual, about my goal and why it is important to me. I love Kristina Pinto's blog, but in a profile I read about her, she talked about exposing her son to running to try to instill in him that running is fun--not competitive--and that if he doesn't turn out to be great at sports, he'll have running to turn to. While I agree it's very personal, I think it's okay to embrace the competitive side of it as well. Realizing I am projecting my issues on another woman's relationship with her 4-year old, I do not think that learning about wanting to win, dealing with losing, and trying again is a bad thing. I feel the same way about work. I don't get paid to show up at work. I get paid well to show up and do great at work. I have good days and bad days, but at the end, I want to be the best in my field and I think it shows in how I approach my job (most days, maybe not today, as I sit here blogging from work....). I may not run a 2:45 or ever win anything, but my attempt is bringing a measure of discipline and courage to my running that I've not had before.

So, happy birthday to me.

Reality Check, part 1

2008-05-12T10:31:00.004-06:00

So, I did some quick math this morning, maybe a little late in the game, and I estimate that the stroller with kids in it is about 135 pounds. And that's probably a bit low. However, I share that not to make an excuse (refer to previous post), but to maybe try to catch a feeling of accomplishment to counter how very humbled I feel right now.

We completed the Title9k: 74 out of 83 in the baby jogger run category at a time of 1:18:34 -- yes, the winning time in the division was 41:40. You go, girl, whoever crazy fast mom you are! There was a moment when we were surrounded by people who were still running, but the extended potty break (dealing with an independent 3-year-old who has to poop and a porta-potty on a race day is another blog in and of itself) sealed our fate. And the backtrack 5 minutes later to the same porta potty to retrieve a lost blanket (totally worth the lost time) didn't help.

The race almost didn't even start for us. We lost Jake, my 5 year old, for about 25 minutes. I stood at the starting area with no son, no stroller, and an increasing level of panic as the crowd started fill up and my chances of spotting him diminished. Five minutes before start time, my superhero husband parted the crowds with the stroller, with Jake in it (he had followed a friend and been hanging out in their car), and we were off.

I was positioned in the back with the walkers again and vowing not to do that again this year, I scoffed at an acquaintance who asked if I was walking with the kids and then jostled for position at the back of the running with joggers category. I would, of course, be passed by and then pass the aforementioned acquaintance at least four more times.

135 pounds is heavy. I ran up the hills at the start. Of course, the people next to me were walking and I had to make myself smile at the women who were offering to help push when in fact I was offended that I looked like I needed help. With about 400 yards to go, everyone wanted out of the stroller and I thought they deserved to run across the finish (the race had considerably thinned, so I figured they wouldn't get in the way). With about 399 yards to go, everyone wanted back in the stroller, so Team Jogger from Hell ran across the finish line, a whole five minutes faster than last year.

And so in the twisted logic that infiltrates the mother's brain, I can think of no better way to spend Mother's Day (save someone offering me an all-expense paid weekend at a Sonnevista spa, just to be totally clear). We spent the morning together, Mike got to read the Sunday paper and drink his coffee in the solitude of the minivan, and the girls and I danced to Wendy Woo and ate melty ice cream while Mike and Jake waited for 30 minutes for the 30-second trip through the bouncy tunnel. The kids didn't notice that we came in 9th from last in our division.

I had the regrets I always have: shouldn't have skipped the taper, shouldn't have missed the training runs with the stroller, should have worked on my core. I can't help feeling a tiny bit of loss that I'm losing this time with the kids. I have these incredible, joyful kids and being able to do something with them that I love is really special. I'm trying to let go of pushing it to be something more than that. However, I can't help but wonder what we can do with some more training and a double jogger next year...

Um, yeah, about that...

2008-05-09T09:54:00.002-06:00

So remember that thing I said about the little things getting in the way? Well, I haven't run since Tuesday, although it was a run (okay, really me trying to keep up) with the tall, blond former sprinter at work and definitely did not qualify as the scheduled "easy" day, and now I have proposed to a friend that we kick off Mother's Day early with some wine in her backyard after "Muffins for Mom" at school. How come no one ever thinks that maybe mom would prefer a margarita?

I am officially considering this to be appropriate tapering for the Title9k on Sunday. I picked up my race packet at the store yesterday and there was a big poster with the little picture of me and kids from last year. And, yes, I pathetically stood right next to the poster hoping someone would acknowledge me. It's been fun to have our picture in the catalog. While not quite the same as being an actual model in the catalog holding a surfboard with my washboard abs, I take a lot of pride in being able to push 120 pounds of kid and stroller (and blankets and sippy cups and toys) around the reservoir for 5 miles. In all honesty, I have to admit that I have seriously considered talking Mike into another baby just so we don't have to retire that thing (we have tried running with two kids and doll, but it just looked a little, well, sad).

Jason has encouraged me to "run" the race (I never should have told him about coming in 20th from last in 2007). I am in better running shape than I was at this time last year, so we'll see. It's mostly about doing it as a family and making sure Abby doesn't get trampled in her debut race (those rag-a-muffins can be pretty pushy).

Well excccuuuussse me! (actually, please don't)

2008-05-03T13:55:00.016-06:00

I forgot how very awkward and a little self-absorbed it feels to write a blog, so I tried to remember why I was inspired last Fall to do this in the first place. And then I saw the post I wrote about the guy in Salt Lake who had written Runner's World to complain about a cover story of Ceci St. Geme, a 44-year-old master’s champion who is also a mother of six. Six! The article talked about her involvement with running, her kids, the laundry (no one is immune!), working part-time, and what she does to get fabulous abs (lots of the plank in the park!). In the article, she acknowledged lots of help, including a nanny.

In a subsequent issue, there was a letter to the editor from some guy in Salt Lake. He said, and I quote, "...you should not imply that Mrs. St. Geme is a wonder woman raising six children, while working-time, and running 45 miles a week - she can afford (and has) a lot of help." Okay, so raising six children is amazing in and of itself, but I digress from my main point of issue with Mr. DePasquale, which is: what the hell? Why, why, why do we insist that women have to be martyrs? Why does asking for help (or, heaven forbid, demanding it) belittle the work, the effort, the struggle to be more, be it at work, at home, on a surfboard, or out on the track? At the end of the day, she's still the mom and probably struggles like the rest of us to reconcile the choices we make to support ourselves, while being there for our kids, husbands, and jobs. Mr. DePasquale should try it some time. I don't care how much help you have, it's pretty damn hard and provides a lot of handy excuses to do nothing more than will yourself not to pack up and move to a nice, one-bedroom apartment by the beach somewhere, never mind pursue any kind of training. She stepped up and did it anyway.

And so did a lot of other women. Because I am a total dork, I read the profiles of all the athletes in the Olympic Marathon trials a few weeks back. There were a lot of moms, women with jobs, and women over 40 (woo!). I dare Mr. DePasquale to tell those who had help that they got off easy.

And so, no, the purpose of this blog is not to sit on my high horse in my kitchen picking on this poor man to distract attention from the fact that my fasted marathon ever was a 3:49, and my most recent was a 4:03. It's to add to that little fact the knowledge that at 41 51/52, I have decided that it's okay I don't really want to run races for the joy of participating, for the personal satisfaction of just being there. I want to know what it feels like to win. I have made a lot of excuses over the years, but then I started listening to the ones I was making lately, specifically that I am too old and that I'm not like the people who actually compete and win. Then I realized that if my girls had started to mimic my every move in horrifying (and extremely accurate) fashion, quite possibly they were listening to me, too. Realizing that this might be the only time in their lives they actually do that, I decided to shut up.

I don't know if I can run a sub 2:45 marathon. I don't know how it will feel to do the level of work to get there. I don't know if I can get over the little micro-choices that start to add up: staying in a meeting that runs a little late; stopping for a hallway conversation with my boss that blocks my escape for a pre-dinner run; succumbing to the laundry (ah, the laundry, so much laundry!); wilting under the torturous sleep habits of children under 3...I sleep less, eat worse (be honest, on three hours of interrupted sleep, what do you crave: a salad or something warm with a lot of cheese and a brownie chaser?) Never mind that it's impossible to stay hydrated on six cups of coffee a day. So much for staying on the path to running greatness.

Because I struggle to perform the tiny day-to-day things on a consistent basis, the whole notion of believing I can transform my running into something, well, maybe great, is ludicrous. There are a million excuses waiting in the wings, and a whole bunch of them wouldn't raise an eyebrow. And maybe that's what gets me. Excuses aren't reasons. Reasons imply a logical defense; part of the definition of excusing something is to disregard it as being of trivial import. I don't want to trade my goals in for an excuse that made perfect sense at 4 am, but didn't do a thing for me otherwise. And I can't help believing that there is something special about having 3 kids, a husband that I adore but who has a propensity to fill the house with Lucky Charms, a challenging job, and 6,000 tons of dirty laundry that seem to multiply like Tribbles on a daily basis might give me an edge. Which is a pretty nice spin on what otherwise might be some great excuses.

Let us be.......Dangerous Women

2007-09-12T15:04:00.000-06:00

DANGEROUS WOMEN aka Sistah's With Blistahs

Let us be..... Dangerous Women
May we be women who acknowledge our power to change, and grow, and be radically alive.
May we be healers of wounds and righters of wrongs.
May we weep with those who weep and speak for those who cannot speak for themselves.
May we cherish children, embrace the elderly, and empower the poor.
May we pray deeply and teach wisely.
May we be strong and gentle leaders.
May we sing songs of joy and talk down fear.
May we never hesitate to let passion push us, conviction compel us,and righteous anger energize us.
May we strike fear into all that is unjust and evil in the world.
May we dismantle abusive systems and silence lies with truth.
May we shine like stars in a darkened generation.
May we overflow with goodness.
May we run with power and change the world, one step at a time.
Dear God, please make us dangerous women.
Amen.

New at the blogging thing

2007-07-27T12:56:00.001-06:00

I can't even tell you how inspired I get when I read your blogs, Patricia! Puts a smile on my face and reminds me that athletic women are truly still a minority in society & I am so happy to have you all as friends!
I know we are not on covers of magazines, but I do like to feel we can still make a difference. When I was about 21, I remember seeing a woman riding her bike along a back road in Saratoga. She was fit, tan and I thought she looked amazing. (for all I knew she felt like crap and had pms). I never saw her face but decided I wanted to do that someday. Around the same time my ironman boyfriend at the time was watching a commercial that showed a woman riding a mt bike off road. I was mesmerized and then he laughed and said "women DON'T ride bikes like that!". 3 years later I was riding my road AND mt bike on those backroads and offroads of Saratoga! Phewy on mr ironman (who I dumped rather quickly).
I think one of our current Dr. Philish therapy people calls those memories "defining moments" or something like that.
So, you may never know who you will influence by getting out there and taking care or yourself! Okay, now I am justifying why I need to buy that new mountain bike I have been wanting *lol*!

A different perspective

2007-07-27T09:19:00.000-06:00

I was thinking about Tami and how the girls are excited that she "tris." We just had a (very brief) visit from my stepson and I was reminded again how impossible it is to instill values on kids past a certain age. I realize that getting excited about mommy competing in triathalons is not a value, per se, but seeing the willingness to try it (so to speak), the discipline to train, and the sheer enjoyment and satisfaction of pushing yourself to do something that may be outside what feels comfortable -- well, that's what matters. I finally started reading the Quiet Storm, a book about women athletes (and athlete moms) that Tami shared with me quite a while ago. It's amazing to me what these women accomplish and the incredible message it passes along to their kids. It's added to my own drive to embrace some of my own goals as an athlete, in part for my kids, but mostly for me -- I think it completes us in a way that other things can't. Embracing the challenge, the competition...it's not something we are always encouraged to do as women. I spent my 30s worrying I was too late, but I know I get that that kind of thinking is just another excuse to put it off. Maybe this is exactly what being 40 is all about. Okay, 41.

I learned the hard way that you can't convince a 15 year old that it is fun to go ride a bike or go for a run if they think it's punishment, torture, or, worse, just good for them. It starts there, and quickly extends to sitting down and doing homework, cleaning your room, getting (and then going everyday to) a job. It's important to me that my kids get that all of these things are just part of life and that they have a personal responsbility to embrace the parts that are hard, too. There are plenty of days where I don't want to go to work, but I go. For the simple reason that I said I would.

So, back to running. I hate short races. Short races highlight my lack of speed and don't give me a chance to try to outlast anyone with endurance. Last night was the WestEnd 3k. I signed Jake and Emma up for the kids race without actually looking at the length, assuming it was a fun run that maybe covered a couple of blocks. In fact, they stood at the starting line of a 1.5k (yes, 1500 m - almost a mile), complete with timing chips on their shoes. We decided to let them try it, rather than risk sharing the message that just because it was long, they shouldn't do it.

Emma pulled a Rosie Ruiz and got a ride from Mike. She did cross the finish line on her own two feet and was really excited, depsite a few mid-race meltdowns. Jake completely surprised me and ran almost the whole thing. He walked briefly about midway through, but then ran up the hill, hit the turnaround, and ran all the way back. His face was scarlet red and I kept asking him if he wanted to rest, but then someone on the side would cheer and he'd perk up and keep going. It was amazing. He had to run through the finish chute alone because I had a chip on my shoe for a different race and he did it and was so excited! I was so impressed. I couldn't believe some of the kids out there. It really was awesome to see and totally shifted it from a race to a sheer celebration of personal accomplishment.

Then it was my turn. And I started getting tired, but then I thought about those guys and just kept running. My time wasn't great and I did get smoked by an 8 year old, but it felt great to try it and to push a little. Who knows, maybe we'll be back for the Pearl Street Mile!