Miracles

Miracle: an extraordinary or unusual event that is considered to be a manifestation of divine or supernatural power. -American Heritage Dictionary

How does that saying go again? It is some quote from somewhere that the miracle was not that one finished what he set out to do. The miracle was that he had the courage to begin or something like that?

I just read our friends' blog about their son, Corey, who was a victim of a drunk driving crash in August. He was not given a good prognosis. They were told he would not survive. But by all accounts, now reading the update blog tonight, I say he is a miracle. He went from ICU on life support to now walking with PT support. Over and over I am reminded how very fragile life is and how we need not overlook any of the miracles in our everyday life. It is a miracle my husband married me. How did he know I needed him? HOw did he know no one else would be able to tolerate my antics? My children are a miracle. Seeing them run on the park fields today in the glorious sun, they are little miracles.

It was a miracle I was able to get out of bed this morning. I was so tired (I still am), yet I dragged my tired body into the gym for a 5 mile treadmil run and lift. I then drove very slowly to the pool for a swim. There, I was met in the lane by another man who just recently survived a boating accident. He was hit by a boat as he emerged from the depths below scuba diving. He almost lost his life, and was lucky to have been spared his limbs. 2 months after that incident, or 3 weeks ago, he endured pins put into his femur after a freakish accident on the bike. Miracle. His life is a living testament to miracles. He is a bionic man and he is still in training. How is this possible?

Last Friday, a friend of a friend's 13 month old son was left alone for 2 minutes too long. It was enough time for him to find the rain water that was in the bottom of a huge plant pot in their back yard. The baby leaned in for a closer look and when mom found the boy, he was blue. He survived because a passing stranger administered CPR after frantic mom flagged someone down on the street. Huge miracle in a tiny package. That baby boy's life is not a mistake. He will go on to do great things.

We are in the season of miracles. They are happening all around us everyday. The miracle is in the colors I saw on the mountains this morning as I drove to the pool. The sun was just peeking over and the color was something I cannot even describe. Miraculous. All of this. We are. Believe it.

Soma Emotions Run High

I did it. I actually completed it. A Half Ironman. Does that mean I am half a man...or woman? I am not sure. But I cried when I crossed the line. That beautiful, blue inflatable FINISH might as well have read: FABULOUS, because that is how I felt. And I still am reveling in that emotion. I wish the high would last forever, but knowing it will not, I will have to sign up for another race before the blues set in.

Soma is the Half Ironman in Tempe, Arizona. Tempe is a cute little town with tons of eateries and bars and endless entertainment. The day before the race in Tempe was hot. Not like Florida hot and humid (we were there days before), but hot and sunny. I was worried. After spending half the day at the Urgent Care in town on Saturday (a long and longer story), I was really worried about race day. I felt nervous and agitated. My patience was short and my mood becoming less jovial into Saturday night. I ate a ton of food that night with Marc and our friends, Susan and Steve, who made the trip, as well. It was a wonderful weekend of hanging and being social, but I had that nagging worry about the swim the next day. I was convinced I might drown. I questioned my motives for even being there at all.

Sunday morning wake up call came with the sound of all the other athletes slamming hotel doors around us, dragging out bikes and trampling down the halls. We met at Starbucks for coffee with Team S and S (Steve and Susan), and headed over to the transition area. It was all so new and exciting for me. All I have really ever done are the little Tri Club races. I loved the idea that the first real deal for me was a Half. How perfect. How seemingly important. How crazy was I?? It was dark at 6 am and the air was temperate. Music playing, athletes talking, taping, eating and dressing. I went over to get marked, 918.

Marc was in the first wave after the pros. I was sad and scared to kiss him goodbye. He looked so confident in his navy cap and sleeveless suit, all sleek and unconcerned. "Just have fun, Pea. Remember, it is for fun." Then he was gone. All of a sudden, I really was all alone in the world. The sunrise was beautiful as I went to line up along Lake Tempe with my fellow white caps. The water looked so nasty the day before, debris floating in the murky water. I tried not to think about what was not living in there. I talked with a few girls in the line. One was from Mission Valley. She commented on my black and blue toe. The color had conveniently now spread to the top of my foot. "It's broken," I explained. "But at least it is just a toe and not my leg."

All of a sudden, we were being moved along like cattle to the bleachers that lead down into the sludge. I was really regretting my decision and wondering if it was too late to back out. I wonder how many people have done that? Backed out of a race at the starting moment? Floating start, we got in and swam over to the green bouy. I felt like a helpless cork in the water. Then suddenly, all too suddenly, we were off as the horn bellowed. Apart from the water tasting like oil, the swim was so much better that I had imagined. I was happy to be in a wetsuit (also something new for me), and simply counted my strokes (a trick a real swimmer taught me) when I felt nervous or stressed. The swim never thinned out. There were bodies everywhere all of the time. I caught up to many caps of different color from earlier heats, which did my confidence good, but I still was being kicked and clawed the whole way. Everytime someone grabbed my leg, I made sure to kick extra hard. I loved the fact that I really felt like I was making some progress and, really, only when I was about 100 yards from the finish, did I feel like I was ready to get out of the water. As good as the swim felt, it was still a slow 40 minutes. I expected nothing more.

On to the bike. I knew it would be pathetic and it was. I am not coordinated enough to eat and ride. I cannot even drink while I ride, so I planned to stop every loop (there were 3 total) to take in fluid and nutrition. It felt so good to eat, I decided to stop twice on each loop. I made friends with the volunteers in the aid stations. They even offered me their pizza they were eating, in addition to bananas and GUs and Gatorade. I declined, knowing I had a run ahead of me. They knew my name by the end of the third loop. Mile48 on the bike was the first time little negative thoughts began to creep in my mind. "What if I do not finish? How will I still run so far?" At least there was still cloud cover, so I pressed on. The course was so beautiful with cactus and red rocks and mountains. For having to do it 3 times on the bike, the loops were scenic and enjoyable the whole way. I saw Marc when he was at mile 50 and I still had 24 miles to go. I yelled at him from the aid station, as I was eating pretzels, but he was too focused to notice. As I came around the bike loop to finish my second, I was able to see him head out on the first loop of the run. He looked somewhat happy, which is a great thing, considering he has not run in months with plantar still plaguing him. I was relieved to know he was off the bike and still moving (read: without a crash incident), after seeing one of his water bottles roadside. I had already witnessed a casualty on the bike in front of me. A man had hit a metal sign that read: Keep Right, directing the traffic. He went down hard, and I heard afterward he had totalled his bike and tore up his leg and side with roadrash. I would have stopped, had he not already had a mob of people around him. 3:20 was my final time. Ridiculous, I know, but I loved having lunch with all those people. It was so low pressure.

The run. I was dreading how it would feel. All of my brick training (which was all of about 4 runs off the bike) felt like I was running on sticks after a ride. I knew it would hurt. Amazingly, I got my bike into transition, took my time getting all I needed, ate some more pretzels and even wandered to the trash can to throw away some garbage. I reapplied sunscreen and lip balm. I grabbed a hat and a few GUs, reserved only for desperate times ahead. It felt so good to walk off the bike. As I ran through to the start of the course, I could not believe how fabulous I felt. Miles 1 through 3 were 7:30 pace. I passed two tri geeks running together and I heard one say, "That chick just made us look like we are standing still." They were truly shuffling along, but I decided to back off my pace a little, knowing it would hurt later. I decided not to look at my watch again until mile 6, and settled into something that felt very confortable.

I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to take a GU at mile 6, though I was dreading it. I came through mile 6 at 50 minutes and felt great. Mile 8, I hit a little wall. I had needed to pee for so long, but did not want to break my stride. Now, feeling tired, I decided to hit the port a potty and was surprised how much lighter I felt afterward. My clothes were soaking wet to pull back on from all the water I had dumped over my head at each aid station. The beauty of this course was the water and food at each mile. The big question for me would be if I took in too much fluid and drenched myself too many times. I hit the ground running after the potty and took the GU, just before water at mile 9. By mile 10, I was still feeling my legs, sipped some Coke and moved forward by what felt like inches at a time. Some woman in the sidelines yelled at me, "You look great! You don't even look like you are working!" Why do they lie like that? I could only muster up a smile. I did not even have the wind to thank her, but I was so determined, I felt like a soldier. I couldn't stop running. I knew if I walked, even for a minute, that would be the beginning of the end. So, I kept going. I thought about how I always tell my 5 year old to never give up. What kind of role model would I be if I quit when it got hard?

The Gu must have kicked in, because by mile 11, I was passing people again, picking them off one at a time. I noticed a few were in my age group, but I didn't even care. I didn't need to pass people to move my way up in the age group. I simply wanted to move my way closer to the finish and it felt like I was doing this at last. This was a part of the course that was a little trail of a dogleg that is added on for the needed mileage and the surface felt fabulous. Marc pointed out that it would not have been so fab if it were a hot day. Lucky for us, the cloud cover hung around and I even got a few sprinkles from one rain cloud. Mile 12, and all I could think was, "How do people do a FULL Ironman? Now that I have done this, I don't think I ever need to go down this road again.." Mile 13 and I passed a man who yelled at me, "Less than one minute of work left. Good job." And that is when it hit me. The whole day had been about counting down the miles to get closer to the goal and now I was really going to finish. I was going to be part of the Club. I really had made it. I crossed the line and cried like a baby. Shameless, I know, but at least I had dark glasses on. I hope it wasn't too obvious. The run was 1:48, which put my finish at 5:58, all that much sweeter that I finished in under 6 hours. Barely.

Things I am glad I did:
Wore a wetsuit for the swim, since I had borrowed it and debated it, feeling like a stuffed sausage. I needed all the help I could get.
Took tons of time in transition to be prepared for the next segment. I even put on extra sunscreen and lip balm for added comfort.
Took even more time at aid stations on the bike for the sake of nutrition. My run after the fact would not have felt as smooth as it did had I not eaten the way I needed to off the bike. Maybe someday I will be pro and be able to eat bananas without going down, but for now, this is the reality of it.
Dumped water over my head at every station. Though the sun was not blazing, it was not a cool day either. I felt better even time I cooled myself to the core.
Talked to people along the way and really enjoyed the time. The support and volunteers were amazing. The other athletes were inspiring. The day was a total success. I care nothing about my time, but I will boast for the others:

Marc finished in 4:41, his fastest yet
Steve finished in 5:04, a PR, too
Susan finished in 5:13, another PR. She is a quick chick.

All blazing fast and awe inspiring. I am so proud of them. Mostly, I have such respect for anyone who attempts the distance, knowing what I know now. It was not easy and I took it "easy". I tried to race smart, but my legs still smart. I felt the pain at the end, and wanted to end it. I loved every minute of it, simply because the minutes did not matter to me. The experience was the ticket. I recommend the journey to anyone. I learned so much about me for the six hours of quiet I had in my head. I think that is what I love most about this sport.

Just What I Needed

5 am wake up call, late for me , but it is Saturday. Met the girls at Starbucks with their plan of running 22 miles to La Jolla Cove and back. I felt nervous, having not run with them since AFC Half Marathon training, and with each of them having a marathon on the horizon, I felt a little anxious to know if I could still hang. I did not need to go that far, so I thought I would just run about 2 hours. Of course we started at the Kenyan pace that defines those women who run 3:30 marathon pace and under, but it actually felt good. Even down the long, rutted, dark stretch of Carmel Valley Road, as we tripped on and jumped over the pot holes, I was happy to be there, happy to be with them, happy to be running.

My groin ache was chewing on me today, with the hamstring talking a little bit, as well. I am not sure where it came from, but I wish it would go away. I first noticed it a few weeks ago after a speed workout at the track and it has not yet subsided. On and on we gabbed until we climbed the mountain of Torrey Pines. Up and up we went, into the darkness and the fog of the morning. The miles flew by and we just moved forward into more stories of kids (new schools) and husbands (mine just got hooked 4 days ago by a fisherman's hook while running on the same beach!), mother-in-laws (challenges Tracy faces) and carpools (swim team, karate, etc). These girls are my lifeline as far as being a female. These are the women who understand what exactly works and does not work in relationships, communication, and the female brain, in general.

I said good bye at the top of La Jolla shores, 1:01 into the run, and reluctant to see them go as I turned around to head back to our cars solo. The time did me well, with so much to think about and reflect on. I often forget how great it is to run solo. It was the perfect combination: friends and chatter on the way out, the quiet of my head on the way back. I am still moved everytime I see the ocean below Torrey Pines cliffs. Where else can one enjoy the scenery of such beautiful trees, mountains and sea? I know the Northern California coast is equally as beautiful, having lived in Santa Cruz for a stint, but something about this particular course is magical. The ocean here is not dark and forboding. It almost seemed enticing, though I know it has gotten cold as of late. I fell into a groove and even wearing an ipod, I was able to hear the rhythym of my feet and the heaving of my chest as I hurled myself down the grade. I felt sorry for the guys on bikes I saw climbing the mountain as I was effortlessly going down. The fishermen were out in force (was the same guy there who is responsible for hubby's battle wound?) on the shore and the groups of Team in Training and others were loading up on their nutrition and strapping on their water belts. I was so happy to bein the home stretch with maybe 2 miles to go, give or take. Back to the car and my watch read 1:55:56. Close enough, I decided, to 2 hours and ready to quit.

There were the other usual suspects at Starbucks: the geeks on their bikes heading out to the coast and the ultra runners' cars who had gathered there a little earlier, as well. I love this community and this circle I call friends. I love that we all understand each other and support each other. We ask about races and we challenge each other to greater things. It used to be running a marathon was an accomplishment. Now that is old news. Now we need to compete in three sports to feel worthy of our morning cup of coffee.

I headed off to the gym and lifted legs and shoulders. My legs were shaking under the weight of squats and lunges. I think I might pay for it tomorrow, but today it was just what I needed.

Second Best

Who decided that first is best? Why is it from a very young age, we decide we need to be first? My kids "race" each other to the top of the stairs and say, "I'm gonna win! I'm first!" Today at the park, 3 year old Dillon tells me ,when my boy was running ahead of us, "I need to be first." He sprinted as fast as his little legs would carry him to catch up. The reward at the "finish" was a pinata at the party we crashed. It didn't matter who was out in the front, since all of the park kids got a turn to hit Scooby Doo and collect the treats that fell from his innards. What have these little boys seen, what have we already taught them, knowingly or silently, about first being superior?

I have been reflecting on Soma like a looming deadline, a dark curse closing in on me. It feels as though a rush judgement was made to sign up for the half Ironman. It feels like a huge final I kind of half studied for, hoping I can simply fake my way through. I am hoping that I know the material, that I have retained the important information to pull off an acceptable result. What is acceptable to me? Well, I know I am not going to be first in anything there, certainly not my age group. Chances are, I may end up last, knowing how little I studied the bike. And, now, the crash course tutorial in swimming. It is kind of humorous, really. My only hope is a decent run with all of the miles I have logged, but I am terrified that my legs just will not carry me through after the workout that will preceed it that day.

First is not all that, I know. But "first" in my mind is working as hard as I possibly can to prepare, and I don't feel like I have really done that. Why have I not been more serious about the time on the bike? Why did I think I could do this with such a poor stroke? Why did I think my love of running would conquer all things Half Ironman? Silly. Oh, well. I will be the first to laugh at myself when it is said and done.

Remedial apple

Plucked like a bad apple out of the batch....I was the bad apple. Me. In the swim workout Monday and told I cannot return to the regular workout because I need to "retrain" my muscle memory, my stroke is so poor. Here I was feeling so good about myself and the swim. I got right in with my head down and did a long warmup. I trailed as caboose (what else is new) in the lane and felt like I actually liked what was on the dry erase board. It was a pyramid of sorts: 100, 200, 300, 400, 300, 200, 100 for warm up and I was hanging. I mean, I had lifted chest and back earlier in the gym and was tired, but I was right in there on the interval.

"How patient are you?" Came the coach's voice from above me. I looked up to see his silhouette against the bright lights on deck. The morning sky was still dark and cold, but the pool felt okay, surprisingly.

"Very patient," I answered, somewhat hesistantly.

He plucked me out of my lane and kicked me down to the sandbox lane! Me, I had to get out of my comfortable 1:40 interval (I even chose to get in with some faster girls that day, so we may have been pushing it a little more than that) and go swim in the remedial lane! I felt like the kid who had to leave the regular reading class to go in the remedial group (of course, I have never actually experienced this, but always felt so sorry for those outcasts...). I actually looked around to see if the coach was pulling anyone else into this "special" workout. Nope. Just me. Then I looked to see if anyone else was watching me. A few. Ouch. So, I swallowed my pride and strutted down to the very slowest end of the pool, as proud as I could pretend to be. I pretended it was a unique Half Ironman prep workout and I was getting all of the attention. Turns out, it kind of was.

I am lame for being so arrogant and above it, because the help was really very useful. My attitude inside was so flippant, though I tried my best to appear gracious. There I was, bitter that I was missing out on all the meters in the pool while everyone else was grinding away, and I had to go practice stupid catchup drills! My hubby tells me all the time my stroke is catchup, so how was this suppose to help me again? Hmmm? It did! It was a triffle challenging, even, and coach told me by the end of the drill, I had already improved my stroke. Seems it was turned upside down. My catch and pull is too slow and my recovery and entry is fast and sloppy. Actually, there are a few more things wrong with it, but that is what we focused on Monday. He made me stop and hold my hand for a count before allowing it to re-enter the water into the catch and pull. Interesting....it really worked. Am I missing out on a few good swims before Soma, or will this really benefit me in 4 weeks? I have to hope for the latter.

I am still a little sad that I will not be in the thick of things at tomorrow's workout. But, in a tri geeky kind of way, I am actually looking forward to the private tutoring I am receiving. Sometimes being a remedial apple is okay, as long as I am not rotten with an attitude, I suppose.

Baby Liam 4/21/06-9/19/06

I have not visited this site for so long, mostly because I have felt so uninspired. Somehow, the days have all meshed together and the workouts were taken for granted. I have been consistent with the schedule, running, tracking, swimming, even cycling here and there. I cannot believe Soma Half Ironman is only weeks away now, as it feels like a bad dream. It sounded like a good idea when we signed up for it months ago. Now, it does not even seem real. The events of this past week have made training feel so superficial, that I care nothing about the pending race.

The call came Monday night. Our friend Doug's voice was shakey and far away. "Liam was put to sleep on his stomach his first day at daycare today, " he said. "He stopped breathing and they are calling it SIDS." He told all of this to my husband at first, who then recounted it to me. I had to hear it for myself. Coming from Marc, it was something out of a dream, a bad joke. I could not even wrap my mind around the words that came out of his mouth.

My mind was racing and I could not even comprehend what he was telling me. SIDS? Do kids really die from SIDS? I thought that was only a statistic and that the medical professionals only advised against putting children on their bellies to sleep as a spazy, precautionary measure. Baby Liam was healthy, despite the rough start he had coming into this world, he was given a clean bill of health. He was a chubby, happy, adorable baby...how can he have suffered from SIDS? I called Doug back. Surely there was some misunderstanding...there had to be.

"Wait, what?" It was all I could say at first, when Doug repeated what he had already shared with Marc. It sounded so lame leaving my mouth.

They were at Childrens Hospital and baby Liam, just shy of 5 months old and not quite rolling over on his own, was on life support. He had no brain activity. He had been without oxygen for too long and the mere fact that the paramedics who had arrived at the scene earlier that day were able to revive his heart was astounding. That, in and of itself, was a miracle, so maybe...

"We need a miracle, " Doug choked through tears. " We need a modern day miracle. It's not good. The doctors are telling us it is not good..." and he broke down.

Baby Liam was taken off of life support 24 hours later, Tuesday night, as his little organs were failing him. How can any of this be real? How can he really be dead? We prayed for him, pleaded for his life. We wanted desperately for him to live. We all clung to the hope that he would make it somehow. It was almost ridiculous, I thought, that we held on to that hope, but what else could we do? What else did we have? If we don't have hope, what do we have?

The service was yesterday. We all needed to hear something to make it all make sense. Nothing about it makes sense. No one can understand this loss. No one understands when a child dies. This was not abuse or neglect. It was a stupid accident that did not belong there on that day. This event should not have happened. No one can bare to think of Doug and Kelly walking by his empty crib, or how they can justify it to their other two children. As a parent, no one wants to suffer the guilt and questions that plague our minds after the fact. "What if Kelly hadn't returned to work that day? What if Liam had still been in the care of his grandparents? What if he had not been fussy and not been put to sleep on his stomach? What if he had not been in that daycare situation? What if they had checked on his 10 minutes earlier?" As parents, we bear the burden of living with every decision that affects our children's lives. We want so much to do right by them, and not unknowingly put them in harms way. If only we could take back the moment.

Now it feels as though we are frozen in time; we can't move forward because the past is so repulsive. We want to relive it the proper way, have the day that should have been. Kelly would drop off her precious bundle, work the day, and then return to her content and happy baby to take him home to the rest of the family. Liam was supposed to be safe and sound in that setting. How can he possibly be d-e-a-d?? We cannot move forward without it feeling as though it is disrespectful to Liam. How can we all possibly go on living where we left off? How can we simply return to our job responsibilities, and school work, and social promises? Do we pretend that his short chapter of a life was just that? Something that was part of the story, but now through it, seemingly forgotten for all the rest of the book that is to come? What can possibly come next and feel okay? He wasn't even my baby to hold, and yet, I am devastated by the loss and in need of more answers.

We implored God for a miracle. Why was God's answer, "No" when we all so desperately needed it to be "Yes"? "Yes, baby Liam is going to be okay. Yes, he will live to see the fall and experience his first Halloween costume. He will cut teeth and he will crawl. He will see his first Thanksgiving maybe even eat some turkey and mashed potatoes. He will drool and giggle and pull himself up. And he will have Christmas and gifts and joy. He will see the lights and experience the love the season has to offer. Yes, he will learn how to walk and talk and be a little boy. " My heart aches to think how little he knew of this world. He was born in Spring, thrived in the summer and then died just before the fall. Why do things in autumn die so quickly? He will never know all four seasons. He will never know so many things. How can this be real? If I am this empty with no words to even describe the loss I feel, his family's grief is unfathomable. I want to scream and be angry and distraught, but I try to be calm and look for peace and gratitude anywhere I can find it. There is no understanding or accepting yet. Perhaps the only thing that brings me comfort is what my 5 year old stated so matter of factly.

"Mom, maybe God just thought it was time for baby Liam to go to Heaven."

Maybe, and I guess we will not know any of the answers that evade us until we get there, too. Heaven is going to be an amazing place. Our hope is in that. Little baby Liam's life and death puts things into perspective fast. Live every day. Love every minute. Cherish those you love.

"You give and take away,
You give and take away,
My heart will choose to say,
Blessed be the name of the Lord."

Sunday Tri, Monday Sick

That's it. Yesterday I was spinning in my garage at 4 am for an hour and then ran 12 miles, followed by a little dip in the ocean at Fletcher Cove. Today, I am laid out with the flu of sorts. I felt a little tired yesterday, but not terrible. We even went to watch our neighbor play polo at the polo fields. The horses are so graceful and beautiful. Really, it is an amazingly aggressive but graceful sport. There certainly was a lot of testosterone on that field.

Today was not as enjoyable since I feel like I have been hit by a bus. I am hoping I get over this flu fast because I cannot stand a day off.My 3 year old has it, too, and it is ugly around these parts.

Brick Friday

"Brick workout". Don't you all just love that term? It sounds so intense and meaningful. I think that is what I did today. Up just before 4:00 am and hit the gym...legs and some uppers...my tukis is killing me right now. Off to met the run group at 5:30 for a 3 mile warm up before the turbo spin from 6-7 and then ran again, 3 more miles to finish by 7:20 ish.

Marc was off work today to get ready and rest his legs before the 50K tomorrow in LA. I opted out of the race, knowing this weekend has to be about our 5 year old and prepping for the big first day of Kindergarten Monday. I know, too, that it is probably not my cup of tea...bush wacking trhough some overgrown trail doesn't really appeal to me as much as it did when I considered it 2 months ago. I am sad to send him off solo, however. He makes me so proud, bringing home the silver last night from the Aquathlon at the beach, second only to pro Jim Vance. My man is one talented man in his sport. I love watching him race like he means it. I knew he was sad Jim showed up, but Marc never gives up. Gotta love that in an athlete.

Finished the day tonight with a little (very little) Cove swim and then another 3 mile run. The water was as clear and as beautiful as it gets and teaming with sea creatures. There were about a million divers out there tonight inspecting all the species. I always feel better when there are lots of bodies around. Someone said he saw a big thresher shark, supposedly more aggressive than the leopards that are always around. Personallly, I am not excited to see anything in the shark family. I try to just put my head down and swim, but when it is crystal clear, it is difficult not to see what is lurking below.

I am exhausted thinking of those boys driving up to Malibu for the night. Cannot wait to fall into bed and sleep like I mean it. Hoping the kids stay quiet so that dream can be a reality tonight.

Athlete: 0, Mom: 1

This is my scorecard for the day. As an athlete, I am tired. I lifted bis and tris and then I ran an easy 5 ish miles at the track workout. My arch is a little achey in my left foot. I got on the trainer tonight, too, upon my hub's encouragement, for about 40 minutes. It wasn't as dreadful as I thought it was going to be.

So, my workouts felt flat and menial, but as a mom, I felt high. My baby, my three-year-old baby boy was a joy to watch. My clumbsy, 2 left footed little guy must have grown overnight developmentally. We were at the park with other kids and he wanted to ride his scooter there. Picture a rickety little red scooter with three wheels. His older sister was tearing around on her razor like a pro. The boy desperately wanted to keep up with her. A few leg strokes and he gave up on the incline to the park. But once we got there, with a little coaxing, he rode it around the basketball courts. He actually looked coordinated for the first time in his short life, though his huge black skater helmet whispered otherwise. He looked so top heavy with that thing on his mellon. But, he wasn't tripping over his feet or falling down. He was riding the scooter and he had the right rhythm even. He ventured up a little incline on the bike path from the hoops and when he realized he was on his way back down the other side, it was too late to stop with the momentum behind him. His little blue eyes were as big as baseballs when he felt the wind in his face. My knee jerk reaction was to run over and rescue him, but I saw the short incline was leveling off just 3 feet in front of him, so I let him go. Amazingly, he totally pulled it off and the look of accomplishment on his face was beyond words. He totally made it and he knew it.

"Wet's do that again, mommy!" Up he went on the loop again, 3 more times and each time he was a little gutsier. He found a little glipse of not just what it means to be brave, but to push himself out of his comfort zone, something he never does. He was so proud and I learned that I need to let him go a little more often. I need to let go a little more often. I still want to push him around in the stroller and cuddle him and caudle him. Really, he wants to ride with the big kids and he showed me just how today.

Malibu, the Beautiful versus America's Finest City

So, last weekend we were in Malibu. The kids were running through my family's vineyard and riding scooters in the circular drive. We threw the football until after dark and played ping pong in the front, as any good trailer trash Malibu family should. It was a fabulous time. I ache to be with them again.

I realized last weekend as I ran along Malibu Beach just how out of touch with reality these locals really are. I think it is kind of funny that my fam has all of these crazy comforts in their home. The huge house equipt with pool and spa, the rolling vineyard overlooking the pacific, the ocean views and Murphy beds all come with the territory, I suppose (though the elevator is a little over the top). I have always taken these things for granted growing up in the hood. Now being out of that element for 10 years and raising a family of my own, I see just how surreal that part of my life was. It was totally normal to babysit for people who had media rooms and bowling allies in their homes. It was a given that these people had huge sprawling properties with verandas and palapas galore. I knew no other way of life outside of indulging beside the pool and beach....enter my life presently.

Here I am, a decade later last weekend, running down Malibu Road reading the signs people hang on their beachfront homes. Signs that read: "Mermaid Crossing". It was 5:45 am and I witnessed what looked like a beautiful painting: one single fisherman standing out on the reef with his fishingpole and tack, enjoying the morning of solitude. Even if he caught nothing, he caught the beautiful sunrise and enjoyed the ocean air. The waves were calm and the sand was smooth, mine were the only footprints moving forward. The wind was quiet and so was my mood. My feet were gliding over the beach. It was almost emotional, really, when I think of it. We really are living in a dream, right? I consider the fact that I am existing on a serious budget in San Diego with a hardworking husband, trying to make the dream a reality. The dream is that of being able to own a home and still have food on the table, plus lead the kind of quality life we want to lead. All of these races are getting expensive!

Today was America's Finest City Half Marathon, and I had to consider the possibility that as much as I love and miss my home town, perhaps San Diego lives up to this claim of being the Finest. It sure felt that way, as we charged down from Cabrillo National Monument. Marc and I were fortunate enough to gain free entry into the race, courtsey of the Tri Club of San Diego. The day began with us boarding the Charter buses from Balboa Park, the race finish. We, unfortunately, got on the bus with the rockin' out driver from hell. I am pretty sure he was convinced he was in the race himself, driving that shuttle. He roared around the turns in Point Loma graded for 30 miles per hour at about 60. All the while, music blaring so loudly we could barely carry on conversation. We made it to the start with an hour to wait. Thankfully the weather was a pleasant 70 degrees and we chatted it up with fellow runners. The music was rolling at the start, Cool and the Gang, "Celebrate Good Times" . Tracy and I joined in. We didn't care that we looked ridiculous. I was still dying laughing about how she talked about passing the cornish game hen she ate for dinner the night before. We runners are disgusting, I know. A few minutes after 7:00 am and we were off.

My plan was to hold 7:30 pace, knowing the danger of going out too fast with the first 4 miles of the race all downhill. I always dread going down, both on bike and on foot, and today was no exception. Mile one was 7:14 pace, followed by another mile even faster, 7:11, then 7:15. I knew I had to back it off if I were to survive the killer uphill finish from mile 10 and on. Mile 4 came and I was sick of the downhill already. We hit the flats at mile 5 and I tried to get into some kind of normal pace. The flat felt akward and simply uncomfortable, really. We ran around Harbor Island, out a little loop. Just before mile 7, I decided to take a GU. Mile 8 came. I felt like I was shutting down. My legs were sore, my head was aching, I really was questioning my reason for wanting to do this race afterall. I thought of my friend, Jen, who I knew would be calling for the race report and I knew I had to do something about my negative attitude. That in conjunction with the GU, I was feeling more alive between mile 9 and 10. I was thinking that my sweet husband was already done and enjoying the fisnish. I was simply happy that I actually had turned the corner on that death feeling and I felt victorious as a result. I still cannot say I was in a rhythm, but I was beginning to pass people who had passed me at mile 8. Maybe it was the gradual uphill that began at mile 10, I was happy to be utilizing different muscles, at last. the race climbed and then at mile 12, it really began to climb into the park finish. I looked up to see a little bald headed baby in a baby carrier, strapped to the woman whose face I recognized as my friend Jen! She didn't call....she showed up at the race finish with her two beautiful boys! It was just the lift I needed to carry me up that long and dreadful last hill, though I was passing people left and right and it felt great. Up the hill, over the bridge and to the finish, I looked at my watch. It read 1:36 and change. I really wanted to be in the 1:37 range, but the finish line was just a little further than I anticipated. 1:38:24 was my finishing time, 7:30 pace exactly. I can live with that.

San Diego is, indeed, a fine city. On days like today, I am blessed and honored to live here and call it my residence. I still think of the Mermaid Sightings often, however. i long for the carefree and fleeting feeling life brings in LA. I think of that lonley fisherman I saw that early morning in Malibu, I think of the ocean up North and wonder if my kids will ever know that lack of reality. I am not even sure that is what I want for them, for my family. Maybe I just crave it myself from time to time.

Tuesday Track

16 x 90 seconds speed, 4 times through. This was the track workout today and it was painful. Jonathan and I decided we needed to clear at least a lap in those 90 seconds, so we basically ran quarters in around 87 seconds, or so. Not super fast, but my legs were tired. My body is tired. I dragged myself through all 16 of them and we congratulated ourselves for finishing. The rest of the group joined in on our second set, we had just started with the earliest group. It was good to be done when most everyone else had to finish the final set of four. By the end, I felt like vomiting within the first few steps of stopping. That is a good workout.

I made it to the turbo spin for a quicky on the bike before I had to get home so hubs could be off to waterpolo. It was a good little sweat. My bike is filthy from the rain. I often wonder if time were not the enemy, how much more could I accomplish in a day? Today seemed to run away from me at 9:00 pm. Tomorrow's 4 am wake up call will come much too soon, and I still have so much to do as I look around the house. I think I am getting in bed.

A Chip off Dad's [Starting] Block

Today was a great day. I woke up at 1:30 am to the sound of pouring rain- again. This is the third morning in a row. Saturday, it was a novelty to have a cooling, yet tropical rain douse us for 15 miles. Sunday was a little less novel as carpel tunnel set in squeezing the brakes as much as I did down the hills on our ride. I tried to pretend I was impressing my riding partner with her view of my triceps as I clenched those brakes. Today, I awoke to the sound of falling rain, looked at the clock, and was relieved to think I had 2 more hours of sleep before getting up. I was hopeful the waterworks would end by the 4 am run. No such luck.

I called my running partner at 3:20 am. "Are we really running in this?" My voice was cranky and, really, just mad.
"Well, I'm running in it. If you are not, I will get on the treadmill in my garage..." was her equally cranky response.
The guilt was enough for me. "I'm walking out the door right now."

Begrudgingly, I got in the car and drove to our meeting spot. Usually a happy commute for me, this morning it seemed counterproductive somehow when I was so bitter about a little rain. Sometimes the dichotomy in my brain is enough to make me unstable. I hate that I love to exercise so much that I am willing to sacrifice sleep and warmth to turn up in the downpour. It turned out that our just shy of 11 mile run was quite beautiful. I love how the rain looks as it falls in front of the streetlamps...it almost looks like snow. Now there is a thought...snow in July in San Diego. It was so delicate and romantic almost. It felt like a photography in black and white in the darkness. It was a great run and I am so glad I dragged my sorry tukis out of bed. My running partner, however, decided she was too tired after the run to swim, so I had to drag myself into the facility alone. It felt like I was walking the plank. I swam 1400 long course and by then it was almost the true time for me to get out. I needed coffee in a bad way.

The highlight of the day, however, was attending our 5 year old's swim team beach banquet and award ceremony. I was not aware of the awards, but I knew enough to bring food for the potluck. After a rainy morning, it turned out to be a hot and beautiful day. The kids played in the surf forever with friends, riding boogey boards and building sandcastles. This is what San Diego dreams are made of. The food was great and then everyone gathered for awards. They actually started with some announcements and then the little kids on pre team, which is our girl. When the coaches announced that our team is number 2 in all of San Diego (second only to a team that has a much nicer pool and 504 more swimmers than we do), it did my heart such good. When my daughter won "Most Improved Swimmer" on that team, my heart was swelling with pride. The awards were so far and few between that I was honestly impressed. When coach Patty began talking about a little girl who started and could barely swim the length of the pool but never gave up, I found myself chanting in my head, "Oh please, God, please God..." I hoped desperately it was my little one, knowing it would be the push of encouragement she would need. Her strokes are so darn pretty, but it breaks my heart when she says, "Mom, I'm always the last one [to the wall]." It just had to be her name they called....and they did. It was actually kind of emotional to know how hard she works and to think she is on her way. She was recognized for having the "heart of a lion". She hugged her coaches and after some cake, we packed up to get ready to leave.
"Good job, " coach Michael said to her. She saw him, dropped her boogey board, and leapt into his arms to hug him. It was a scene from some romantic or heart wrenching movie, where the people are estranged from each other for some period of time, only to have a heart-felt reunion. She was elated.

It is so easy to get lost in the day in and day out of things. We run through our days, follow our schedules, make our plans, check off our lists. Sometimes we just cannot see the forest for the trees. Today, I saw the tree right in front of me. The little one, reaching for the sun, growing in invisible ways to new heights each day. There she was, holding her trophy with her little chest puffed out. All I could think was she is just like her daddy, with his numerous trophies from swimming past. She clutched that plaque and asked me, "Mom, is this real gold??" Some milestones are so obvious. Others are less tangible and cause us to examine a little closer. The joy of being an athlete is never-ending. The joy of being a mom is indescribable. The joy of raising an athlete is ethereal. Her self-esteem just went up about 100 points. I'll swim to that.

Yep, he did it again

He did it again. My hubby won the Aquathlon down at La Jolla Shores. I guess some would argue that this is a small feat, a little race, but I think it is pretty cool. I mean, the Tri Club has thousands of members, though only a few hundred who participate in these races. Probably about 200 competed in this one. It does my heart such good to see my super fit, super cute hubby, racing his heart out. I love when he is motivated and doing something he is good at and enjoys (most of the time).

His swim was great...top 3 or 4 out of the water, I think. He wears not a wetsuit and doesn't bother to don shoes for the 3 mile beach run, so his transition is seconds through the little neon green cones. He was off and running. He caught the first two guys and maintained a healthy lead. When he came around the first loop and turnaround, my heart skipped a beat when I realized Jameson was closer than I think he anticipated and Jameson was on a mission. I knew my boy was running scared, but seemingly so comfortable (easy for me to say on the sidelines, I realize). Hubs cranked the final loop, brought it home and spanked a couple of friends on their tukises for good measure, both who he lapped. It must be nice to be an ultra performance athlete. I must say I miss doing the Aquathlon series this year, but anything I would do is so middle of the pack and unmentionable. It is kind of nice to relax on the sidelines and have a celebrity for a spouse. Our 5 year old expects it now. She runs to the finish and simply asks, "Did you win, daddy?" I think she would be disgusted if he didn't turn up a metal these days. But, really, how could he not?

As for me, I have been sticking to the one workout I really have to coax myself into doing: swimming the La Jolla Cove every Friday. Week in and week out, I dread going, but as soon as I am in the water, I feel so good. Not just refreshed from the heat we are melting in, but good that I can be out in a beautiful place and almost even luxuriate in the water when I get over the initial fear. I am losing my swim partner for the next 2 weeks as he is leaving to get married in Mexico. His wedding plans are really not that convenient for my training schedule, so I am trying to nail down some other girlfriend options for the next 2 Fridays. I actually got on the bike today, too, which is a first in weeks. How is it that I decided this was the weekend-no matter what-that I would ride and it rained on us the whole way? Yesterday we were soaked for our 15 mile run, as well. I will never figure out this weather. It keeps me guessing everyday. I am hoping for a dry 11 mile run tomorrow at 4 am. Let's see about that.

Goals for this week: get on the bike twice during the week (spin or ride) and one weekend ride another ocean swim in addition to my regular workouts in the pool and increase some running mileage.

Courage

Courage (noun): The quality of mind that enables one to face danger with confidence, resolution, and firm control of oneself; bravery. -American Heritage Dictionary

What do we consider a couragous act? Why do we value courage? What exactly is courage and how do we get to the essence of it anyway? How do we define courage within ourselves? I have never viewed myself as a courageous person. I have endured pain and disappointments. I have lost loved ones and moved to new cities alone. I have embraced challenges socially and pushed myself academically beyond what I thought I was capable of. But I have never climbed mountains or scaled steep rocks. I have never been sky diving or deep sea diving. I never enjoyed my dad taking me out in his latest sporty convertible, standing on the gas pedal until the wind blew all the tears from my eyes. I like rollercoasters, but I am always convinced I take my life in my hands when I get on one. No, I am not courageous.

But this sport of triathlon has caused me to consider a deeper definition of the word. Maybe courage doesn't always involve "danger", but rather doubt? I am always full of self doubt entering a race. That is why I continue to go back to the starting line. Time and time again, I find myself at a race start questioning my motive for being there. Saturday was a meager little CLub race at Glorietta Bay. There I stood on the shore of that disgusting water wondering why I had gotten out of bed at 4:45 am to tortue myself with the nagging questions. "Why am I here? I love to workout, why do I feel like I need to race? What if I drown? Or, worse, what if they have to pull me into the kayak and drag me back to shore? What if I get some disgusting communicable disease from this sess pit? What if I crash on the bike?" The list goes on and on.

The race was only a 1500 swim, 40 K bike and 10 K run. 6:30 start was pushed a little late and I was worried about the heat that would ensue in the hours following. The women went 2 minutes behind the men. I met some woman on the shore and we chatted about how much she loved this new-found sport. When I told her I hated the swim and was so terrible in the water, she said she was surprised because I "look like a swimmer". Not sure what that means exactly, but she eased my mood a little bit and then we were off. There was a lot of clawing and kicking for so few of us, maybe 30, at most. I started easy, wanting to conserve some energy and trying to find some air that seemed to be lost among my hyperventelation. The water wasn't cold, it just took my breath away when I realized I was really moving forward with this after all. I found the words to a kids' song in my mind and it clamed me for half a minute. Then the words to an old worship song were echoing in my brain, "Over all the earth, You reign on high, every mountain stream, every sunset sky. But my one request, Lord my only aim, is that You reign in me again...." It sounds corny, but it helped emmensely to know that there is Something bigger than I am....Someone greater than this crazy event who cares for me and loves me. So, I continued on with the lyrics, all the while being pulled at and kicked in the face. I decided I need to pick up the pace and get away from the floundering, splashing pack. And then I was all alone. Far behind the men (though I passed a few), behind the lead women, but strangely out in front of some other women. It was kind of peaceful in an erie way. Normally I am panicked to be all alone, but somehow I was comforted by the beauty of the sunrise on the water (smelly as it was) and the fact that I had mustered up some self-confidence to know that I could go solo and be okay.

The swim went totally smoothly. If one were to trace my route, I think I hugged the bouies perfectly all the way around, a victory in and of itself, considering the fact I swam an extra 200 yards, give or take, last time I did this course. This time I didn't follow anyone else's feet and I made it right around where I needed to be. The bike was harder in the wind and heat. The first loop felt okay, though I was passed by all the men I had passed in the water and then a few women, too. I still cannot drink or eat while riding, so I had to stop any time I wanted water and Gu, 4 times, I think. This is pathetic and I need to practice this, obviously. I was grateful to get off the bike and find my running legs, though by now, the sun was searing through me. I literally got into the transition area, ate a few electrolyte Jelly Bellies (I forgot to take thermolytes) and was off and running.

Those first steps were murder. The sun was so hot and my legs were so tight, I may have stopped if hubby and little people were not there cheering for me. All I could think was, "I don't need this. Why do I care? I don't have to finish this...this sucks. I hate this sport..."but there was the fam and I thought quitting would hurt more than anything that could happen in the next 6. 2 miles. I decided to try to keep the guy in the white hat several paces ahead of me in my sight. I knew I would not be able to catch him, but if I could see him, I would know I was maintaining the pace. I couldn't shake the negativity, however. The thought that continued to plague me was the fact that I would be out running for a minimum of 45 minutes. 45 minutes! That seemed like an eternity. I decided instead to think about the course ahead. I had just run the 15 K down here on the Fourth of July, I knew the course well. It seemed like a long way until the turnaround where the water station was. I was dreaming of the water. "Lord reign in me, reign in Your power, over all my dreams in my darkest hour. You are the Lord, over all I am, so won't you reign in me again."

I made it to the turnaround and saw my friend Tom coming back already. I felt like death. I stopped to pour 3 cups of water over my head and instantly felt better. It cooled me to the core and it was like heaven. I picked up my sorry pace, not even sure what it was, but I knew I was slow. I began to pick people off. The woman in front of me had just taken a Gu and I half expected her to take off like a light, but I could see she was suffering. I offered her an encouraging word as I went by her. Then I passed the man she had been running with on the way out. I passed another man who said, "Hey, slow down..." I smiled and told him to jump on the pace. Then I saw white hat guy with 2 miles to go. I was closing in on him and then I actually passed him. He was as surprised as I was and said, " Hey, where did you come from?" I said, "I've been chasing you this whole time." He shouted after me, "Now it's my turn.." and he picked up the pace. I could hear his breath and feel his pounding feet behind me. I picked it up again, just to mess with him a little bit. He gave up almost immediately and I was off toward home. The thought of the finish was not working for me. It was trying to retrieve the words from the song I knew so long ago that kept my mind busy..."Over every thought, over every word, may my life reflect, the beauty of my Lord, cause you mean more to me, than any earthly thing, won't you reign in me again..."

Then, there were my little people, playing in the fountain in front of the Coronado Community Center. The sun was baking my brain, I felt a little delirious. My boy came running out after me, right in the line of fire, but was snatched up by hubs. I ran by and crossed the finish line and all I wanted was to get back in that nasty water. I am not sure of the times or splits or any of the details. I didn't even wear a watch. I didn't care. I had another "race" I completed. Courage? I have a little. I faced my demons with resolve and self-control. It may not have been dangerous, but it was doubtful for sure. I wanted to quit the whole way, but a little something in me just would not let me. I would like to think it was a teeny spark of courage. I may never throw myself off a cliff, but I found a little something in me that I never knew was there.

Heroism

Last week two things transpired to make me feel like a hero. The first was completing a WHOLE track workout of 16 x 400 @ 1:28 pace. I always feel like giving out autographs when I finish a huge block of a workout like that. The day was so much sweeter knowing I did not quit when I wanted to at 12. I had told my training partners to tell me when we got to 12 since I had lost count, thinking that would be plenty for my first speed workout back. Somehow, 12 turned into 13 and then I felt like I could not quit at an odd number. When I got to 14, I thought, how could I possibly skip out with simply 2 left? Then it was over and I felt like a celebrity (for myself, of course, no one else cared).
The second heroic act I accomplished for myself was swimming the La Jolla Cove. I really hate the ocean swim, especially with a little swell bumping around out there. I was grateful for my husband who pushed me to do it, considering the fact that I was completely in denial about really going. We had talked about the possibility of it at the week's start and I really had no intention of following through. He is so good like that to challenge my fears and push me further than I want to go. I was also hugely grateful to bump into a much faster swimmer friend who graciously offered to swim next to me when he realized my deep-seated fear of open water. We made it to the first bouy, at which point the swell was tossing us around a little more than I preferred. All of a sudden, I felt so exposed out there....all the swimmers we were near missing on the way out were already back and the Cove's cliffs which so comfortingly shelter one from the abiss were suddenly so far away. There we were, no other swimmers or kayakers, far from the shore, and the sky threatening darkness. It was a little more than I wanted for the Friday night, so I begged to come in. Whew! A whole huge swim out to the quarter mile bouy and back. Am I a hero, or what?
Of course, after I am back on dry land, it always feels like a holiday. I convince myself the sting rays and many creatures are not as bad as they seemed and I talk myself into going back again. Let's see if I can pull it off again. God, please do not let me have a panic attack and drown out there.

Tradition

What exactly is a tradition? In our family, it is the Coronado race on the Fourth of July. This year was the first year my hubby didn't run the 15K pushing 2 kids in the jogger (and still beating my time). He ran the 5 K along side our 5 year old, while pushing our 3 year old. It was a beautiful sight to behold. My little toehead, skinny legs that go on forever, trotting along side her dad, with brother asleep in tow.

Of course, I didn't really see the whole race. I was out running the other direction for a few extra miles. The 15K is my favorite race. I normally detest the out and back course, but for some reason, this race is extraordinary. Maybe it is the Star Spangled Banner that is sung at race start (it always brings tears to my eyes), or maybe it is the hundreds of patriotic people in their funny striped shorts sprecked with stars (you people who wore your Union Jacks are totally rude). Maybe it is the smell of BBQ along the course (and tons of smoke, of course) or the people lined up all along the way cheering. I love running on the Base with all the military guys yelling for us. I feel American the whole run.

All I wanted was to better my time of 1:09 last year. I have run this race every year I have been in San Diego, with the exception of one year, I think. I even ran it 8 weeks post partum off a C section against my doctor's advice. I practically planned the birth of my children based on the ability to participate in this event. Why? I am not sure. I just love the tradition of it. It is like a running streak I do not want to break. ridiculous, I know.

This year was fabulous because, in addition to my little people in the race, I had lots of friends running, as well. I love the turn around on the base when one can see her friends on the way back. It is so cool. We even see people we only see once a year at this race. It is special in that way.

I think I went out too slow, despite the first mile being too fast. I had settled into a pace that was a little too comfortable and noodled my way along the course. When I got to mile 5, I knew I needed to pick it up. I did and felt great until about 8 1/2 at which point I started to fade a little. Then, some guys who were introduced to me that day passed me (I had passed them at mile 5) and I tried to hold on. I picked it up, only to finish one second behind them, 1:09:46, or 7:30 pace. So, I a little disappointed I cannot say I bettered my time, but at least it was not worse. I am a little sad I didn't run harder in the beginning, but I enjoyed the view from hanging on to Theresa's shoulder (she finished just behind me). My girl did great. The sweetest part was I got to see her coming in to the finish, since the 5K starts after the 15K. She was a trooper and we are so proud. She even swam for hours after the race and parade, so I am thinking she sandbagged a little?

What can I take away from this experience? That every race day is so different. I felt so prepared for the marathon, only to crumble. This race I was not all in knots about and I went into it with little rest or sleep the days leading up to it, and it was okay. Not fabulous, but I am beginning to wonder if I will ever be totally pleased with any race I do.

I think about my kids, always wanting to climb trees at the park. They are always asking me to hoist them into the pines, scaling the branches, uncertain of their ability, but always wanting to go higher, nonetheless. They are often a little shakey, but they continue to climb, even higher than I can comfortably spot them. Is that how we all are? We want more than we are certain we can achieve. We are reaching for the next highest branch, wanting to spread our wings and explore, terrified of the fall. I think that is how I am, anyway. Wanting the next highest branch, desperate to clutch it in my hands, fearful of what happens if I miss it. The marathon was a miss, entirely. The 15K was a rung back up the tree, hopefully closer to the view at the top.

Balance?

What exactly is balance? I am not sure. This concept was raised again today at track. I try to teach my kids this novel idea of balance and things in moderation. We eat mostly healthy, but we allow ourselves treats, too. We get to purchase fun things, but we are on a budget, too. I want them to understand what it means to do things in moderation, but how can I expect them to follow through when my favorite saying is, "All things in moderation except exercise?" I cannot say no to a workout.

It is not even that I have guilt, so much, if I skip a workout. It is more that I feel as though I want to come out of my skin if I haven't sweat profusely for the day. I feel ancy and irritable and have less patience for things if I have not had my time to exercise in the morning. Yesterday I woke up with swollen lymph nodes and felt achy and generally flu-like. I got up, dragged myself into gym clothes and stood at the door for what felt like an eternity before I gave up on the idea and climbed back into bed. Hubs had already moved into my spot (read:dominated the whole bed), so I elbowed him back to his side and fell into the duvet. I drooled on the pillow, feeling pretty lousy, until almost 7 am! I can't remember the last time I slept that late? Of course, life as a mom doesn't stop for illness, so I still had to get up and take care of kids.

By 3 o'clock, I felt okay, and because the day was so beautiful, I put the kids in the double jogger and ran them to the library, park and back, about 8 1/2 miles total. So, even on a sick day, I could not shake the feeling of wanting to move my body. I needed it. I needed to get out and feel my legs over the pavement. Is this nuts? I didn't think so, until I heard the warning at track this morning.

"You need to rest. There is no reason you should not have run a 3:15 marathon the way you were trained..." Help me on this one. The way I was "trained" I thought prepared me to go fast, yes? But this particular friend of mine brought me to tears when she said again that I could have had a fast marathon had I taken more recovery and more rest, more taper. I felt like I did everything right. I think that is why it brought me to tears. The tears sprang to my eyes with raw emotion, as raw as I felt shortly following the race. It surprised me how sad I still apparently am over the whole thing. I cannot let it go, try as I might. Every one of my friends, all of my track buddies , my husband, too...they all think I am capable of a 3:15 or 3:20 marathon. That is right about where the charts put me, as well, based on my half marathon times. So why can I not pull it off?

"Rest" she says to me. "Balance", she lectures me. I need hobbies and more intellectual things to do apart from just exercising in my free time, according to her. This is coming from a retired pro triathlete. Is she crazy? Is this the kettle calling the pot black? I was completely befuddled and I am sure I looked at her sideways. Are we not all obsessed with this sport? Do we not all think it is totally fun to kill ourselves doing repeats of one kind or another? Yes, call it compulsive, but I love the routine I keep, week in and week out. I love climbing the hills, running the miles, and lifting the weights. I am almost coming to appreaciate a small affection for lap after lap in the pool (until I realized just how many laps translates to a Half Ironman distance swim). How could she tell me I need to rest??? How could she pour salt in the raw wounds of the marathon and insult me like that? How could she, of all obsessive people, lecture me about taking a day off? My mouth was agape, when it was not quivering from crying. I felt like a child in her presence. Was it because maybe I felt she could be on to something? I still do not want to face that possibility. Tonight, I still cannot tolerate that thought. I love the sport and I love to workout in any form. I cannot bear the idea of "time off" from something I crave so much, every single day.

Tonight I am looking at a training program a different friend of mine followed for a Half Ironman program and it seems it is not as much as I am doing even now. The time on the bike is more than I am committed to at the moment, but, in general, I think I have a pretty good base. So, here I am, questioning my whole routine, my whole exercise philosophy, my core being. Am I training too much? Am I not resting enough? Is a 50K a bad idea so closely following a marathon and 8 weeks in front of a Half Iroman, which is 10 weeks in front of another marathon I hope to do? How am I so shaken now? I thought the plan was brilliant and yet words of warning spoken to me this morning have rattled me completely. I want to be smart. I want to be injury free. I want to be a good mom and role model to my kids. I want to be a healthy and giving wife to my hubs. Where exactly is the balance? Am I in the thick of it like I thought, or am I kidding myself? Is balance simply a state of mind and we all have different definitions in our own? How does my place of moderation compare to my next door neighbors? They think we are psycho for what we do. I would like to think we are striving to be better than we once were. Exercise makes me better at everything I do. It motivates me to be better in every arena of my life. I am driven. My workouts are the gauge of this. So, am I obessed? Sure. I know I am. I guess I will have to live with that and know my marathon times will not be what they "should" be until I am willing to alter the program to something I am not ready to sacrifice for just yet.

The Runner's Wave

So, hubs had his first career win....the Tri Club Aquathlon last week on Thursday night. I was so completely impressed with both his run and swim times. More than that, I was thrilled he got to experience his first "first" because I know how hard he is on himself. He subscribes to that school of thought that dictates "second place is the first loser". I don't think I am quite that hard on myself, perhaps because I know I cannot compete anywhere near his class of athletes. The fact remains that he is amazing and I love watching him perform. One little part of me is always jealous and ancy, as I juggle the kids and chase them on the sand. But, the truth is, I am not near the athlete he is, so it is nice for me to let him have the limelight and win!

I have been running extra miles to prepare for the 50K we have settled on. It is kind of a bummer, we discovered, that the race is sandwiched in between Kindergarten orientation and the first day of school for our little girl. The weekend will not be as leisurely for running a death march in the hot sun as we had hoped. Anyway, I ran 9 miles this morning to start with the group and then added 5 more miles on my own. I felt good. Not as good as when I ran Friday morning for 2 hours, or even yesterday, pushing 2 kids in the jogger for 45 minutes. But, I felt reasonably good.

One thing I couldn't help but ponder was the lack of the runner's wave. That is, I was out a little later than my usual 3:30 am wake up call (we started at 6am), so I saw many more people out on the road. There were tons of runners doing the same out and back route I was running and I couldn't help but realize not all of them were particularly friendly. It kind of bothered me. How could such fellow runners not aknowlege each other? Espicially when I would see some of them twice, once out and once back? This observation seemed to hold true consistently with women more than men. One woman running alone seemed the least likely to return a smile. Two women running together seemed a bit more likely to return the sentiment. One man running solo was a little more inclined to say hello. 2 or more men running together were the most friendly. I am not kidding. Try this experiement and see. Overall, however, there was a resounding non-response from the population at large.

It totally befuddle me that so many people would not simply give a nod, a half wave or (gasp) a "Good Morning" when we are out doing the same thing. Cranking or plodding, clipping or crusing, where is the common courtesy? I was amazed. I am used to running without passing people in the dark. It seems a solitary sport at 4 am, no doubt. But in broad daylight at almost 8 am, the lack of gestures seemed unforgivable. I guess it has been far too long since I have been out in civilization with other running strangers. Is the world becoming more and more guarded? Are we all simply too focused, too busy to extend a kind word to others who are in the same beloved sport? It rattled me a little, I must admit, that time after time I raised a hand and a smile, and those gestures were returned by a downward glance or a blank stare. So many people coming my way would quickly look away. Was I running naked? These people were almost embarrased to look my direction. I suddenly felt as though I were in LA again. This was the predicatable response when I would run up North, as a general rule, in the land of self-absorption and austentatiousness. But here in San Diego, are we not more civilized than that?

Runners of the world, kindly raise your hand. Cherish your sport and aknowledge others who do the same. Do not contribute to the pollution of rudeness and aloofness. Rise above and raise a kind word to the runner coming your way. Get out of your own head for the moment and maybe be brazen enough to throw out a "nice pace" or "good job". Can that really be a bad thing?

Anything but Down

This week has brought a lot of exercise in the pool and a little bike time. Mostly, I think the time was used for exercise in soul-searching and self-analysis. I was supposed to run today, but I felt sick and completely achey. I think some of it is post-marathon paralysis, like my immune system is completely stripped, but a ton of it really is post-marathon blues.

It happens everytime, so I am not sure why I am still taken off guard. A week or so after the race, I feel completely depressed. I cannot totally blame a disappointing race time for this phenomenon. Yes, my hubris was checked at the door by mile 16, but there is so much more going on, I think. The emotional battle I waged with my sister this week, the complication of all the relationships in my life, added to the fact that I ran exactly one mile in the last 6 days, was a recipe for disaster. It all came to the surface Friday night. Lying in bed, recapping the week with hubby, I felt the tears sloshing around inside me, rising up to my eye balls, threatening to seap out and reveal my fragile state. I tired pushing them back down, but it was a losing battle. "I am totally exhausted......." were the only words I could make audible before the breakdown came in sobs. In analyzing the emotions, the bottom line is this: I need to choose another race-fast! Yes, there are a few on the books, but I want another long running race. I think the Bulldog might be the answer. What better way to comfort myself than with a 50K?

Today, my head is pounding and my body aches all over from flu-like symptoms. I cannot really put my mind around the distance. But in some sick and twisted way, it sounds like so much fun. Even on trail, which I typically dread, it almost sounds really appealing. Really, I hate nature and bush-wacking through tick country, but the race is in my mom's backyard, so babysitting is one less thing I have to think about. It is so convenient in so many ways. Drive up to LA, drop the kids with grandma, and run a 50K, some strange distance I have never covered in one shot. What the heck. Why not? Perhaps I don't need that anti-depressant perscription, after all.

Humble Pie

I am eating it. There is always a pearl that comes from a race. Some experience, some thought, some personal epiphany. Today was the day. The lesson I will take from today is never feel overly confident going into a race. All week long I have suffered from self-doubt and a terrible sore throat. All week long, just thinking about the marathon, I could have had a panic attack. It was beginning to feel totally surreal. Thursday night's dinner out was so fantastic and hanging out at the press conference near all those elite athletes was a runner geek's dream come true.I started to think it was going to be okay...like maybe even a perfect race. I was dead wrong.

The day started when we met our little VIP shuttle at the race end and made our way to the start. I was so nervous, I could have puked on that Trolley (or maybe it was the stale smell of BO and old food in there?). I really hate public transit. Anyway, we reached the VIP tent and began to partake in all the special novelties of beverages, breakfast, even the hand sanitizer and private biffies. That was golden. I saw all my buddies, even some people I knew from track a long time ago were in the VIP area and that was super fun. We were called over to meet our cyclists who were going to follow the 5 of us on the Footlocker Challenge team. They were all guys from some sponsored team, decked out in all the gear and on phat bikes. Our guys were super nice and carried all of our water and nutrition for us. This experience has been awesome, but that was worth it in and of itself. One guy bragged that he was the cyclist who followed Opah the year she ran AFC here in San Diego. Are you impressed? Thought so. Anyway...

We got final instruction from Jeanine Zocks, the woman heading the operation from Footlocker and we headed to corral 2. My hubs told me later that the guy he started with was surprised we were in that corral. He was confused and thought we were in with the Elite start. I laughed out loud. His friend was under the impression that I was like so super fast, even faster than my hubby (even more laughable). This is how the rumors start, people. So, within minutes the gun is off and we are running down Sixth Avenue.

So, the rules of engagement were that we had to hang as a "team" for the first 13 miles and then it was every man for himself. The miles flew by completely without incident. We hooked up with our cyclists just before mile 3 as instrcuted when the crowd thinned a little bit. We ran trhough downtown with the camera guy on the motorcycle following us. We were all totally jovial and laughing and enjoying ourselves immensely. One of the guys on the team kept whining that the pace was too fast. I was surprised, too, that it was just under 8:30 pace, but it felt super comfortable and I was thinking I had this race in the bag. I didn't need to win out of our five, but I wanted a respectable time, like 3:40ish. But, Jason, who is a sprinter, wanted to reel it in a little bit. We slowed to more like 8:45 pace, I think, and it felt slow. The miles flew by through downtown, 6, 7, 8 and then 9 running up the long hill on the 163 freeway. It wasn't that painful, save for the fact that the concrete was so hard and it was seriously slanted. Miles 10, 11, 12 were no problem, our friends cheered us on along the way. Friars Road is never exciting or fun, but it was still cool to be chatty with the team and move along.

Mile 13. Larry made a move and pulled out in front. I ran on his shoulder with the other 3 team members on our heels. I was thinking the pace was a little fast for Larry, an inexperienced marathoner. I was certain he would blow up. Larry, Leroy and Jason kept pushing the pace. I ran on their heels until about mile 16 when I was starting to not feel so hot. Now Julie, the other female on the team, ran along side me and asked how I was feeling. "Not so good." Was my response. I still am totally befuddled by this whole thing. We started so comfortably and here I was feeling like my legs would not move with 10 more to go. How was this possible?

I knew I was running out of gas, but my stomach was cramping so badly that I did not want to put anything into it. This is the classic problem I always suffer from: risk running out of gas or vomiting what is in my belly. It is a delimma. I chose to bonk. It was a new phenomenon: my brain was saying, "GO! GO! GO!" and my legs simply would not coorporate. It is usually my brain saying, "STOP! STOP! STOP!" and thinking a million negative thoughts with my legs still in motion. So, mile 17, I shut it all down and decided to stop looking at the clock and run happy. I saw the 3:40 pace group begin to slip further and further into the distance. I gave it up at that point. I was slowly dropping off and the team was somewhere in the distance, too. I didn't even care. My new goal was to finish with my head held high and run in a happy zone. It was relatively happy, until mile 23 when I just wanted to be done.

My brain started thinking all the self-defeating thoughts. "How could this be? How many training runs did we do at sub 8 minute pace and it was not a problem? Only one 22 mile training run did I feel like I needed to vomit and I had held it all together." I thought about hubby, already at the finish, waiting for me to cross. I am not even sure what the clock read at that point, I was kind of delirious from the heat. We had cloud cover the whole way, but it was Florida humid and the air hung on us like an afgan blanket. It was disgusting. I have never seen so many casualities on the side of the road. There were runners everywhere stopping to stretch out, some lying face down on the grass, ambulences running this way and that. It was crazy. My hamstrings began to seize, another first. I drank more water (the only thing I could injest the whole race), but my stomach would cramp miserably after I did. I kept running. I never stopped. I knew that would be a recipe for disaster. Mile 23 brought an incline of a bridge over the freeway that felt like Mt. Everest at that point. I kept shuffling my feet. Miles 25 and 26 were a blur, really. I just wanted to finish the stupid race. I remember thinking at mile 25 there was no way I could run a couple of 4 minute miles to get in under 3:40. The 3:45 pace group had pulled away. It was lead by an Elvis. My legs were lead.

I crossed the line just after the pacer Elvis guy (who was off pace) at 3:49. It was not even of consolation that I broke 3:50. Jason had won the team challenge in 3:42, with Leroy and Julie in after him by 15 seconds each. Larry was lying on the side of the road, apparently (I never saw him), one of the many heat casualities at mile 24. They had him in the medical tent moments later and then carted him off to the hospital for the IV drip. The thing that kills me is this: I ran the same freaking time at Long Beach, my death marathon in which I went out too fast. How did I start so conservative in this one, feeling great and end up with the same time? It was a huge disappointment. Perhaps I talked too much in the beginning. Maybe it was the heat or the fact that I ate nothing. I am not sure. Maybe I need to owe the idea that the marathon is simply not my distance, that I will not run sub 3:30s anymore. It is all a mystery to me, and I think that is why I keep going back. Since having 2 kids in the last 5 years, I have run DNF, 3:59, 3:49 and 3:49 marathons. I guess I should be grateful they are whittled down a little in time, but still! The marathon is a beast that cannot be conquered in my mind. That is why I go back for more and more suffering.

I headed for the VIP tent and found hubby, drinking beers and toasting with friends over their successes. He ran a 2:57 and deserved all the glory, for sure. He did just about exactly what he wanted to do and I was thrilled for him. His buddies were happy with their times and happier to be drinking beer on this hot afternoon. I was not talking much, feeling sick and moving slowly. They called us over as a team for one last interview, and as they were presenting the award to Jason, I had to dash (out of view from all of the cameras) to the nearest trash can and empty the contents of my stomach. It was all water and a few sips of coke, truly disgusting. I made it back to cameras to answer a few more questions and then I was fine.

What I would repeat about this day: wearing a hat and lots of sunscreen, using tons of Glide and eating a bagel in the morning. Be thankful I only vomited once and it was not on film.

What I would do differently: try to eat some kind of nutrition on the course, as much as my stomach hates it, talk less and conserve more energy. Try to dig deeper into that inner athlete and really want the race.

Some Wheezer song was running around my mind around mile 20 and the lyrics were these: "If you want it, you can have it, but you've got to learn to reach out and grab it". That is what I need more of. It seems all my training should have been indicative of a better race time, but I guess that is where the Humble Pie comes in. I need to respect the distance a little more, I guess. There is always the next one, right?

Cinderunner

That is me. I am Cinderunner. Remember Cinderella? She was a princess for one night at the ball. She was outfitted in fine clothes, she was chaperoned by royalty, she was driven in the carriage, and she was in heaven all the while.
I want to savor every delicious moment of what is to come. I want to let go of the fear gripping my heart, robbing me of breath, wrenching my chest. I signed up to race, right? So why am I so terrified now? Is it that I cannot let go of the terrible defeat I suffered at Long Beach marathon last October? I was so well trained, so fine tuned, felt so fabulous until mile 17. That is where i began to fantasize about stepping out into traffic and having a car hit me so I could simply stop running. On a guerny sounded better than to keep racing. But how did it all go to pot so quickly? One minute, I was gliding on air, gleefully dancing by thousands of other runners, on pace to run 3:25. That dream came crshing down by the time I got to mile 23, when it was apparent I would not even make my Boston qualifying time of 3:40. I finished Long Beach in 3:49, a huge disappointment knowing the miles and hours I had logged. I staggered over to a trash can and emptied the contents of my stomach for what seemed like an eternity. That race left a bad taste in my mouth, both literally and figuratively.
Ah, but back to Cinderunner, right? So, a running geek like me gets to pretend I am an elite athlete while posing for the media, being catered to with special services (to not have to wait in line for my bib is amazing enough), and getting free running gear. It is all a really sweet deal. The special shuttle (my carriage), my uniform (the dress), and the royal treatment (the VIP tent at the start and finish). I am so grateful and appreciative...and then I remember, it is still a race. I have to actually run this thing and do my best. I will have cameras following me and I will be trying not to lose my cookies at mile 23. How can I possibly remain anonymous with the vomit problem when we are being documented? I am terrifeid of all of these things. And, that is not to even mention the pain we know we will endure by mile 20.
So, I am in a personal battle. I feel like I am in a self-inflicted bubble of wanting to disappear a little. Here we are being interviewed and treated like celebrities, and I simply want to climb into bed and go to sleep for a few days. Really, I have no expectation of winning the competition among the 4 other runners. 2 of them are seasoned, veteron marathoners. The other 2 are men and that means they are competitive by birth right. If I can run a respectable race with my head held high (read: not in the trash can) and represent well for San Diego and all the things I value in my running and life, then I will be elated. I hope to enjoy the run, not melt in the sun (we never train in the heat and there is little sun to speak of at 4 am), and hold it all together for the cameras. I hope we can maintain a comfortable pace and run a negative split. That would be ideal.
For now, I am trying to stay healthy and germ-free. This is almost impossible living with 2 petri dishes, ages 3 and 5. Think good thoughts and please send any positive mantras this way.

10 more days

Can that be true? 10 days sounds like nothing...and it is. I am beginning to feel terrified, like this pit in my stomach will not be ignored anymore. I am looking for any sign of injury or illness to derail me as an excuse not to run the marathon. I keep taking inventory of the body parts and questioning if they all feel intact. The body really is a machine. The parts are designed and intended to work together, but sometimes one little something is out of alignment and all bets are off. My back truly aches today.

Tempo run. 3 mile warm up and then a 4 mile tempo run around UCSD's campus. Finished in 29:56. The first mile was 7:22, which was smooth and comfy, considering we usually run tempo pace at 6:45ish. I checked my watch the second mile, we were at 14:57. I forgot to look at mile 3 and then finished just under 30 minutes. I think we picked it up a little the last mile or so. I feel satisfied with that, knowing that last mile is the hardest with the steep hill they don't call Bishops and Chunks for no reason (because it is a 2 part hill and about 11 years ago, someone by the name of Bishop left some chunks there on hill repeats). It all felt pretty good.

I hope I don't live to regret this last tempo workout. I am not sure exactly what is advised. When one asks 10 different people, one will get 10 different answers about the proper way to taper coming into the final days. I think my body is telling me it is time to back it off and enjoy the taper. I am feeling all the little fibers in my muscles...really, everything hurts today, not just my legs. My back is aching, my arches are talking, my quads feel a little tender. Shall I go on about my butt?

11 Days and counting

I am still in denial about this race rapidly approaching. Everyday brings a new mental challenge to overcome, a self defeating doubt that comes creeping in, a question of worthiness for the marathon once again. I push those thoughts down and try to replace them with reminders of great training runs and countless miles logged.

Today was 6 1/2 easy miles with T. Felt so good to cruise and chat. On to the pool.

Hammer set Wednesday, as coach Terry calls it. That just never sounds promising to a non-swimmer. In fact, it evokes serious fear in my heart and creates some nausea. I procrastinated as long as I could before I got in the water today. Sipped some coffee on the pool's edge and chatted with anyone who would have conversation. Resigned myself to the fact that the pool was not going away so I either had to get in or get in the shower. I always think of the old saying "sink or swim". For me, the more appropriate one would go something like this: "sink or shower". I got in and swam 300 warm up, long course, after all.

Warmup was 10 100s on base plus 5, every third one stroke. That was pallatable, though the pace felt a little faster than I could muster. I claimed caboose and hung on to the feet in front of me. I swam one more 300 and then the clock saved me.

Something occured to me as I was grinding out those 100s, however. I am always accutely aware of how much I dread swimming. I mean, I love all things associated with it: the smell of chlorine on my skin (even at the end of the day after showering twice), the ache in my traps after a tough set, the heaviness in my chest as I am lumbering for breath on the wall. But, really, it is still so freaking hard for me. I never get in the pool and feel like I have arrived. It is never, never easy. Even on days I feel tired, I can run forever. It may not be pretty, but I can still crank out the miles and be in a realitively happy place. In the pool, I simply agonize over every minute and just want to quit.

So, as all of these self depreciating thoughts were plaguing me, a little thought came to my mind. It was a gift, really. Even as I was hating all of my deficiencies in the water, I was thinking of my huband's remarkable talent. One of the things that really drew me to him from early on was his love for all things water. He loves the ocean. He used to surf often (before life got in the way). He can get in the ocean and command it. He is Neptune of the sea. His stroke is so beautiful and his confidence in the water is unmistakeable. I am so very much in awe of someone who can do that. I appreciate his lack of fear or defeat for the water. The man can swim forever, and that is a talent I envy and wish I could emmulate. I guess this is my podium for bragging about him and his athletic abiltities. He is extremely humble, though he knows in his heart he is great. I think that is what contributes to our relationship success. We are nowhere near being able to compete or even train together. He is so much faster than I am in all three disciplines, and I am more than okay with that.

I am embarrassed to admit it, but I would not respect a partner who was not stronger, faster, better than I am in sports. Something about it seems a little archaic, anti anything I learned in all my feministic sociology classes at UCSD and UCSC, but for me, it makes perfect sense. I need a man who can out swim, cycle and run me so I feel provided for, in a silly way, perhaps, but nonetheless, taken care of. As if I were ever out in the ocean and in need of rescue, I know he would be able to provide that lifeguard quality. He is an Ironman afterall, right? In the same way, I know he does not feel like he ever has to compete with me and I think that does his ego just fine. We just work together. We compliment each other's training without ever being together in those athletic endevours. We can inspire and encourage even when apart. I think that is why Rock N Roll will be so amazing. Even if I bomb and have a pathetic time (stay tuned, people; this is a great possibility if the heat continues on race day as it has been), it will be a great day to know he is out there, somewhere very far ahead of me in the distance. I will think that I am retracing his steps as I plod along, more than an hour behind him.

Guernsey, you are amazing in all things athletic and super adorable, too. Thanks for being a beacon all these dark days in the pool. Love you.