Moving On

Maybe it is the season, but it seems the fog is slowly lifting. The weather has shifted into a tolerable sixty degree range (though supposed to warm to 80 by Christmas), the kids are jubilant, reactions are reacting for Marc at work, and I feel alive again. I can run.

Of all the things and people that carry me through turbulent times, no one understands me like my running shoes. They don't challenge my sanity with how many miles I want to run injured. They never complain about the heat of the pavement or the wet of the puddles. Somehow, my shoes are always just there for me without judgement or criticism. Running will always be my therapy and simple pleasure. How grateful I am to be alive and with two legs to run on.

With little enthusiasm, I am trying to decide which race to sign on for. I am having trouble with the excitement part because I worry my feet will fail me. They still cause me great misery, but even without running I am in pain, so off I go. My new approach to this injury, much like with other facets of my world as it were, I am going to ignore the negative. I am not going to feed into the blue and dismal, but love and nurture what is good and positive. I'll let you know how this works once both feet are casted and I'm on crutches, but until then, I am going to enjoy the endless bridge loops.

Memory

I am over the moon that my family is coming into town. I am so ultra excited, I can't hardly take it. Memory is such an amazing thing, such a precious gift. I hold on to the fabulous memories I have from past Thanksgivings when we would celebrate in Malibu and enjoy the meal on a chilly winter evening. I have never cooked a turkey before, so tomorrow is going to be interesting, to say the least. Why they chose to come to the house of someone who hates food is beyond me. Marc suggested we take out sushi, but you know we would never find it in this town on a holiday like Thanksgiving.

I think it is strange how memory will taunt and delight. Memories creep back in from out of nowhere. Driving down to West Palm yesterday to brave Whole Foods, I was reminded of one Thanksgiving years ago. I was house sitting for some people on the cliffs above Zuma beach. They had two adorable golden retrievers, Rosy and Riley, I was looking after. I will never forget those sweet dogs and that amazing house. I got up early and walked the dogs on the beach across the street, never appreciating how hard the owners must have worked for that home (one of four they owned) and lifestyle. The lifeguard came out and told me I was beyond the boundaries of the designated dog area for the shore, so we jogged on out and back to the house. The morning was spectacular and the beach was sleepy and empty, save for a few runners every now and again.

I remember staying in the house and my friend, Todd, came over. I never thought anything of him, can't even remember how I met him, but he seemed like such a nice guy. He used to tell me about how his girlfriend had recently broken up with him and ripped his heart out. He was so depressed when I first met him, he told me he contemplated throwing himself off the cliffs above the reef. He was so intense, his icy green eyes would pierce and terrify me at the same time, and yet somehow, we were always together. He loved dogs, and they flocked to him, too.

Some weeks later, I was house sitting again for another Malibu resident, and after being out with my friend, Bob, until 2 am, someone was knocking on the glass doors out back at the veranda. After almost having a heart attack for fear of an intruder in the middle of the night, I realized it was just Todd. Todd? What was he doing at my back door, and how did he know I had just come home at this crazy hour? Okay, I realized he was psycho and kind of stalkerish. I let him in anyway because he was like a lost puppy and I admit I liked the attention. "Who were you out with until this hour? Come out and look at the moon. It is so bright and beautiful," he demanded. After a few more dramatic episodes like that, I had to cut him off. Where is he now?

Memory is such a funny thing. Sometimes it serves us well and sometimes, like dreams, memory is so random and difficult to decipher. Why do memories bubble to the surface like they do? Why did I even think about Todd yesterday without a thought to his whereabouts in the last 13 years? Weird. Does memory help us work through all the bits and pieces of lost time and places, unrequited love and lost opportunities? I assume so, but sometimes it seems so cruel. Not that I miss Todd, but I miss Malibu and old friends. I'm sure even more so now that the holidays are upon us.

Who Am I?

I am not sure I have the answer anymore. I feel like I used to know who I was in this world: mom, daughter, sister, wife, friend, Jesus lover, Californian, runner and sometimes triathlete. I felt very confident in my place in the universe, comfortable, and most often happy. These days, nothing really translates. I live in a foreign land, my faith has been shaken with the recent death of a friend, I question why God would leave me here in the desert feeling alone and forsaken, and now I don't even have my best stress reliever-I can't even run. I am a swimmer.


Marine Corps marathon is this weekend and I am depressed that though it was on my to do list of marathons, I won't be attending. Laying on the massage table last Saturday, Sharon encouraged me to reevaluate my place and who I think I am. I know I have been rattled to be shifted out of my hometown and now to try to stand up again here in this one. Everything feels off-kilter, and not just the imbalance of my feet in light of this injury. Like my back that is aching in light of a new workout routine, everything is just a little tweaked in my world without the familiarity of home and the morning run. How can it be adjusted?


Sunday I met the group at South Beach to ride North to the Inlet, though Lori and I turned back early to make it home on time. The wind was grueling, in our faces. Lori looked at me and said, "This is what our hills are here

"Yeah, but at least where I'm from, the hills come with some reprieve-you get to go down the backside of them!" I told her.

Here, the wind blew its angry fury directly at us all the way North, which allowed us to only go about 17 miles per hour. On the way home, however, we were loving screaming along the coast. I loved moving along without the threat of falling down a mountain at that speed. It was great and I am hoping to make it a staple workout for a while, if the schedule will allow for it.

I love Gene. As my new found swim coach, he is the newest man in my life. I brought him coffee Tuesday and he was so happy to be part of Lori and my "coffee club" as he dubbed it. He told me at 73 years old, he can still swim 73 fifties on just over a minute base. I was impressed, after all, since he is an old guy.

Marc dropped into the gym this week while I was there working out, waiting for the kids to finish their gymnastics routine. I love that after twelve years of being together, we still love being together. I can look at him from across the gym and he makes my heart sing. I tried to pretend I didn't know him. Would I think he were cute if he were not my husband? Absolutely. Is he kind of spazzy the way he does his abs on a flat bench? Yep. Cute. It brought back memories of seeing him in the gym in college when I didn't even know his name, but I appreciated his adorable qualities even back then. With all of our stupid inside jokes and idioms, with his randomness and my sarcasm, something about us just works. In all of this mess and chaos and unfamiliarity, he is my anchor.

We leave for Georgia for a week on Sunday and I am counting the days to cooler weather. Ye haw.

Discipline

The weekend was great. Marc was crowned "King of the Jungle" for a second year in a row after winning a local 5K without even trying. I just love that title. Maybe I will start calling him Tarzan instead, though I think he needs to be furrier for that to apply. I love being married to a local celebrity when friends bring me newspaper articles about him to the gym. Love that guy. He has discipline. He owns more workout gear than regular clothing. His bike on the trainer is a permanent fixture in our living room now because he is on it twice a day (why break it down and take it back out to the garage?). We don't own furniture; we own equipment. We like to think of it as a lifestyle, right?

I often hear the word discipline associated with exercise. Usually, it is someone asking me how I am "so disciplined" to get up at 4 am every morning, day in and day out, week in and week out, to go work out. My answer to the appalled is always the same, "How can I not? It is my sanity. "
The morning is my one piece of the day that is mine...no kids music playing in the car, no little voices whining at me for something, no one to answer to and my time to simply zone out.

These days, however, discipline means something entirely different. It means not working out, as in not running, and not bearing weight on my injured feet. It means sleeping in until *gasp* 5am since the gym is not open before that ridiculously late hour. This is one of the most difficult things I have ever done because everything in me wants to forget about the whole healing process and run right on through it. I long to pretend there isn't a problem and forge ahead with new orthotics to solve the problem. Of course, I know I can't or every other effort would be in vain. Why waste time icing, massaging, getting physical therapy and electro stim, while still visiting the chiropractor for a miracle if I continue to do the damage by running anyway? Why give up wearing flip flops (it is hot here in Ugg Boots) and suffer through acupressure if I am not committed, disciplined to not run? I am not a very joyful healer. I am not meant to be a non-exerciser.

Discipline extends to the kids, of course, too. They are masters at trying to negotiate for every little thing: eight more minutes past bedtime, one more book to be read, another video ("Pretty please?"), dessert on a designated non-dessert night. At five and seven years old, my kids really know how to continue to try and exhaust me until I almost finally give into the begging for chocolate milk. There I am, being disciplined, telling them no over and over again. The parallel here is obvious: undisciplined parenting makes for sloppy kids and undisciplined workouts make for a sloppy body, right? Well, usually, until one abuses her body to the point of injury and has to aqua jog-God forbid. There has to be something in between but I have just never been good with moderation in anything. I am convinced my kids will rot out their teeth and develop diabetes if I allow them junky treats, just as I am convinced I am going to become obese now that I am not running.

Today I took my daughter to the pediatrician's office where she was diagnosed with a sinus infection. After being prescribed antibiotics, she was told to stay out of the pool for at least 48 hours. Frantic is not even the best word to describe her reaction to this bad news: "Mom! I can't miss workout. I have to swim. Swimming is the best possible exercise! Can I do a different workout tonight if I can't get in the pool?" Who does this child belong to? I told her she needs some discipline in her life already. I went to spin this morning and I lifted. Twice. Tomorrow I see my boyfriend, Gene, at pool number two. The bottom line here is, I miss being a Californian and now I miss being a runner. I miss, dare I say it, sweating in the steamy heat here. Two weeks into my non-running program and I miss the feeling.

The New Pool

Okay, I have a new plan and it is called swimming at a new pool with some familiar faces and a new coach. So, even though I have to pay an additional fee on top of what I already pay monthly elsewhere, and even though it requires me to make a second trip across town after the initial one to the gym, I think it may be the ticket to greater happiness in the water. Can we really put a price on that?

Barry was the one who suggested I come on over and swim with the infamous Gene, who I have heard about for a year now. Honestly, I just didn't want to have to adjust my routine and shift everything around to accommodate a man out West at a different facility. I finally gave in this week and I am so glad I did-I liked Gene immediately. Maybe the word loved is even in order to describe my feelings of devotion for him, despite the fact he clearly hails from New York and has that awful accent. Maybe I am just attaching a superficial savior status to the man who I am certain is going to make me an accomplished swimmer and, more importantly, teach me how to love this sport.

It was raining when I showed up for workout on Tuesday. Gene was under an umbrella, pulling his little cheat sheet out to give us each individualized workouts. I think there might have been seven of us, including me. I even bought a new Speedo for the occasion because what can't a new outfit fix? Though it is two small, clingy pieces of blue and black and white, the suit did inspire me to swim a little more like a professional and believe me, I was all about business. I was there to make it count. Unlike Don, who yelled insults from the sidelines, Gene is kind and more diplomatic about technique. "You have a fairly decent stroke." He told me. "But you need to work on that entry and catch. You are allowing your thumb to enter the water before your fingers and that is a shoulder problem waiting to happen."

He went on to have me do tons and tons of drills and then some more drills. All I could think about by the end was getting out and getting my coffee. As I climbed up on deck, there was a familiar face looking at me, but I couldn't place him. This is a small town, or have I mentioned that? Then I remembered. Last week, while in the library with the kids, I received a call from Abbe. As I blabbed with her about meeting for spin that night, I realized a man was watching me very intently. Afraid it was one more person in this ridiculous town to tell me to get off my phone in an "inappropriate place" (its a library, come on!), I quickly hung up with her. The staring man surprised me, instead, by asking me, "Are you from California? I hate to peg you, but I couldn't help but listen to you, and you sound like you are from California." I think I looked at him blankly for a while, because he quickly offered me his hand, "Hi. I'm John. My wife and I moved here from Redondo Beach and I know a Californian when I hear one. What brought you here?"

Where to begin? Was this man a friend or foe? Could I tell him honestly my disparaging thoughts and great disappointment or should I smile politely and, in agreement, nod that this is, oh absolutely, paradise? There we were, my new friend John and me, hanging out in the "L" section of kids' books reminiscing about the good old days on the other coast. He told me his parents are here and that is how they landed in these parts. He told me he used to work for an aquarium in So Cal, but life on The Island is not so bad. Hmmmm. I decided I would try to be polite and save my arsenal of negativity; he meant well, after all.

I recognized him as John from the library as he rolled into the pool just as I was leaving. I didn't recognize him right away in his pool uniform of black jammers. I think I was just thrilled to actually have a few bodies in the water so I was not left staring at the crabs on the bottom, as is the case at the other pool. There seems to be a promising crew at the new place and I love the coach. I even have a few running buddies who are meant to drift in and out of workout, true to slacker colors. Could be fun.

I think as time goes on, I settle in a little more. No longer am I anxious and anxiety-ridden about our state of being, but I cannot say I am content. I miss so much about my old life and what it means to be a Californian. I miss the air turning cooler and the quick option of driving two hours to the mountains for some snow. I used to miss the old routine, but now I think I just miss what it is to be California culture. I am not a fisherman or a boater or a seventy-degrees-is-cold- weather-complainer. I am a Californian still trying to make sense of what it means to live on a tropical island in an ocean I never thought would be my permanent beach.

As I write this, my seven year old is spreading out and admiring her six ribbons from last weekend's swim meet. "Mom," she just asked me, "Have you ever seen so many ribbons in one place? Have you ever won this many ribbons?"

"Not even close, my lovely, not even close." I told her.

Plan B

"Swimming is your friend. Swimming is your friend."



This was my mantra this morning in the pool. Swimming has always been my friend, but it is a love-hate relationship. Swimming was my friend when I was enormously pregnant and couldn't run beyond thirty weeks. Swimming was my friend when I was on bed rest at the end of that fat chapter in my life and I still needed a workout. Swimming is again my friend now that I can't run on injured feet. Swimming has been my safety net and my backup, so why do I resent the pool so much? Why does it feel like the enemy, my second choice, the Plan B? Because it is.


Murray on Monday. Mark on Tuesday. Dante on Wednesday. Dr. Ben Thursday and Friday. I had a different swimming buddy every day this week at the pool. At least I wasn't alone completely in the pool. On Monday, we also had a snake in the water with us. On Tuesday, it was a crab. Wednesday, there was a gecko in the water. Thursday was uneventful and this morning, a huge frog joined us. Why?

Tonight when I got my hair done, the hair dresser asked why my hair was so dry and stripped. "It's my Nemesis. It's killing my hair." I told her. And maybe my spirit a little bit, too.

I Don't Want To Be A Swimmer

"I don't want to be a swimmer! I don't want to be a swimmer!"

This was my declaration in my most recent nightmare. Two nights ago, I dreamt I was floating out in the middle of the ocean in San Diego somewhere, yelling at the top of my lungs in horror, cursing my last option for workout. Sadly, when I woke up, it was true. As my feet hit the floor at 4 am for the long run, I was stopped abruptly in my tracks, frozen in agony. I am defeated and dismayed to admit I have to be a swimmer for the weeks (months?) to come. Plantar fasciitis has completely derailed my training and I am out for any upcoming marathon. To say that I am disappointed does not even touch what I am feeling right now. I think it would be more appropriate to say "identity crisis" if running is out of the equation.

I saw Dr. George in the office last week and after handling my sad and pathetic feet, he confirmed the diagnosis. I knew he would, but the pain has become so unbearable, I simply cannot ignore or run through it anymore. Walking has become no small feat, and standing around I am forced to shift weight off my heel. Even flip turning in the pool has become a challenge when the pain rips through my heel. After prescribing the dreaded boot and cataflam, George suggested I try to cut back on running. And though I had no intention of following this advice, I knew I had no other choice when the following day a 21 mile long run left me crippled.

I don't want to be a swimmer because I despise pretending to be someone I am not. I am merely a pool slut, picking up any random passerby who will talk to me out there. So desperate for company am I at 5:30 in the morning, I have befriended even all the old guys out there floating down the lanes, just so that I might avoid having to swim extra, unnecessary laps (I still log it as a workout). The pool is so lonely, staring at that black tiled line, endless lap after lap. Maybe that is why I worship them: swimmers have some kind of superior inner strength and independence. They need no one to talk to while turning over their arms and thrashing their legs. They care nothing about what others think of them in a small piece of Lycra as they smugly flaunt it all down the deck. They appeal to me even in their geeky goggles and hideous swim caps. Maybe I am jealous of that? Maybe I missed the boat getting in on that sport when I was young and capable?

I don't want to be a swimmer. I just want to admire them from a distance.

For The Birds

I have resisted so many times turning to this blog as an outlet because most often it feels like a garbled, nonsensical idiom on the screen in front of me. I think in so many ways this blog is like a diary posted online for any random person to read, which seems so utterly ridiculous. It is stupid. Knowing and recognizing this, I write for myself, first and foremost, and perhaps then for anyone else who has little to do at work and cares to peruse its contents. Hopefully it won't come across as self-absorbed and superciliously annoying to the random visitor.

At the core of what I am preoccupied with today is friendship. After running the coast with Abbe, Katie and Lori (and bumping into Barry and Gary) this morning, Abbe and I went over to swim. In the dark we bantered back and forth about life and its meaning, men and relationships, kids and chaos. I can't help but love her. She has so many fabulous and irresistible qualities that entertain me. For someone as ADHD and I am, she can captivate the conversation with silly stories and crazy antics, analogies and jokes. Her mannerisms are priceless and her wit unsurpassed. She is complicated and multi-faceted, but so simple and happy all the same.

As I sat in the Starbucks drive-through line after our workouts (and cursed the guy in front of me for clogging the system with his fluffy blended whatever drink), I couldn't help but notice the birds flying in formation above me. The sky was a ruddy gray with the sun not yet up and their silhouette was almost surreal. The thing that struck me, however, was these birds were always together. I don't know what kind they were and it really doesn't matter, but they were in some kind of formation....sometimes only three, but more often together as five. I am not even sure why these birds caught my attention, other than the fact that with ice blended lagger in front of me, I was trapped with nothing else to observe. I love that even these birds with their low maintenance lifestyles and minuscule brains needed companionship. Don't we all? I treasure my friends here who challenge and transform me everyday. I love my insanely active kids who keep me running and make my heart sing. I adore my super hot husband and am grateful he digs me, too. Relationships are hard and often convoluted, but when we find the right ones, they make all the difference. Life is good with coffee in hand. I'll drink to that.

My Heart Will Choose to Say...

...blessed be the Lord.


Though my eyes read the news,
My heart refused to believe.
Though confirmed you would not live,
I find it impossible to grieve.
Certainly you wouldn't leave us-
Not like this, not now?
My mind is trying to absorb it,
But my heart just doesn't know how.
We begged God for your life,
How we all still need you here!
But not all prayers are answered,
I walk heavy with sorrow and fear.
You lived your life out loud for God,
And with such humility and grace.
Always above the mediocre scene,
Culminating in one final race.
Your warmth, your smile, your encouragement,
Overflowed to us like a fountain.
But now I am stuck, dismayed, and broken,
Grief before me like a mountain.
So I ask how is this possible?
The wind, sea, or miles could not beat you.
The trails you ran, the races you won,
How could the asphalt defeat you?
I will always think of your quiet ways.
I will forever remember your kind voice.
We begged God for His great mercy,
But I guess circumstances left little choice.
We are all so blessed to have called you "friend",
And I cannot stop asking, "Why? Why?"
I am not sure how healing begins,
When I still cannot accept that you died.
I admit that I cannot understand
Why some God leaves, and some He takes?
But this I know: you are running with the Lord,
For now, I run with a heart that breaks.

It's Been Fun

I can't stand people who are not humble. People who need credit for what they do, have done, plan on doing. I can't stand self-serving, self-centered people who want the world to realize how great they are because they said so. That is sort of what this blog feels like to me now; am I no better than some pathetic jerk giving herself props about nothing in particular? I don't want to be someone who is keeping the scorecard and showing it to anyone who will look or listen. I have known too many people like this.

Marc, I love you for so many reasons, but mostly for your humility, for never taking credit for any of your amazing athletic (or professional) endeavors and conquests. You are amazing to me in so many ways and I love that you ride 200 miles on your bike for fun without a needing so much as a nod of approval from anyone else. Thanks for always being a superstar and not thinking you are. Your daughter is just like you. She swam a 500 tonight at workout and thought nothing of it, and I think she may have swam it faster than I can. You guys rock. Thanks for being my rock.

Summer Lovin

Hours of beach time is what we are logging. All weekend long and now into Junior Guards today, we have seen way too much sun, but have loved every minute of it. I ran with Susan this morning, just like old times, as we pounded out the old course in the dark morning hours. It was as if a day had not gone by, though I worried the kids would wake up for my friend, Sharon, before I got back in the door.

I squeaked in a second run with the boy in the jogger while Owen was duck diving waves in Guards. The water looked anything but inviting, cold and dark blue. I wondered how she was dealing with going from 89 degree water to 65 degree temps? That girl is unstoppable and never complains; I was elated to watch from a distance while they navigated the boogie boards and ran along the shore. Ryan and I stopped at Power House Park on the way back from our run to swing and admired the many surfers and dolphins at play down below. Then it was back to the beach for more sand time, playing king of the mountain at one of Del Mar's many life guard towers, and hanging out with friends. With the fair in the landscape, it felt like summer is truly upon us, and it is! How could it be so long ago that I worked at Jake's in college and now I sat not far from it, as a parent, a wife, a mere visitor to these beaches? How could I have known so long ago what my story would be? I am not sure I would have written the book exactly this way, but God is the author of my life and He knows.

My kids have gone to bed raisins every night, between pool, ocean, pool and then showers before retiring. They really are water babies, their father's kids, wanting to be wet all of the time. I hope they inherit many of his numerous qualities and attributes, among those his affection for all things water. I hope my little Guard will soon swim the ocean like he does, with respect but also with a dose of reckless abandon. What is summer without the ocean? I have never known it any other way.

It's A Beautiful Life

Today. Here. The weather. The parks. The kids. We ran and rode the bike path. My daughter on her bike, rolling up and down the hills, while the wind blew her golden ringlets off her face, under her purple helmet. Her shoulders bearing the Florida sun, now exposed in her little tank to the warm California rays. My son, content as always in the jogging stroller, humming a song to himself, as we raced along under the liquid amber canopies. The sun was not yet high in the sky, just breaking through our tunnel of foliage, and all was right with the world. The temperature was perfect and the air was anything but humid. The ducks were just rousing from their sleep when we spotted a mom and her ten baby ducklings slipping into the water's edge along the golf course. The mountains were nothing short of miraculous, which is crazy, because I don't think I ever noticed them before.

We chased the path up and down the gently rolling hills, and though my daughter complained when she had to climb them, she never hesitated to charge down the backside ahead of me, never even looking back. She was always just within my range to yell to her, "Stay on the inside!" because I felt certain she would be clocked by someone coming too fast the opposite direction. We rode to the path's end and then turned around, her pace decidedly slower on the way back. Some guys on their fancy bikes, all decked out and looking pro, came up behind us at one point and encouraged her up the last hill, "Come on, you have to pedal.." So sweet and mild was this one man's voice, and for a moment, she pedaled with great fury as if to try to jump on the back and go with them.

"I'm thirsty, mom," she said, defeated just shy of the top of the last grade. We walked to the ridge. "Do you smell that, mom?" she asked me.
"What, lovely? The jasmine?" I replied.
"No! That sweet, sweet California air!" She scolded me for not knowing what she meant. Her scowl told me she was very disappointed in me for already taking it for granted after only one week.
"Oh! That! Of course, of course!" Really, I smelled the manure from nearby stables and the dry mustard along the path, buzzing with bees. "Yes, Dolly. I love it. I really do." Something rustled in the bushes and for a minute I thought it could be something large of the nature variety that I might not like meeting up with. But, when I realized it was gone, whatever it was, I relaxed again and continued to enjoy our moment. "Yes, my Love, I smell it."

We rambled on along the last of the path and I felt so content. But, then I remembered that this is what my life would look like if we lived here....the life of a single parent. This is how most people make it happen in San Diego: by working crazy hours and never seeing each other. Or, people are forced to farm out their kids to various daycare settings or pawn them off on other people to raise for the endless hours they have to be at work and travel, trying to make a living for their families. They have to shuffle their kids from here to there to everywhere, outsourcing daycare, in the name of earning a paycheck to carry the heavy mortgage. It is bittersweet when my son tells me he wants to go to that beautiful new school on the hill for Kindergarten and I have to tell him we have to go back East for Daddy's job for now. I don't have the heart to tell him that he and his sister will have to be home schooled in the fall since FL schools have failed us so miserably. I simply tell him, "Not this year, Honey, but maybe someday soon..."

Then I think about how I cherish all of these moments with my kids and dread the day I will have to leave them for an eight (plus) hour workday, dread the day they are old enough to not want to be with me. Right now, I want to document everything they do, capture all of their precious expressions. I savor every delicious comment they make, so why does home school feel like a prison sentence? Why is my heart filled with dread? Will we damage them more than the Florida school system already has?

Today while playing Monopoly, my kids were hilarious. We were dying laughing, practically peeing our pants every time my son or daughter or daughter's friend would bust out some crazy commentary or victory dance while collecting money or cashing in on a property. Shame on me for thinking the game was too advanced for them. Not only did they love playing it, they nearly beat me at it (2 hours later when I called bedtime). And when I told my boy to say, "Show me the money!" every time he rolled the dice, he inevitably became confused and started saying, "Give me the money!" when he threw the dice down. The girls fell to the floor in wild fits of laughter, and he was so proud of himself for carrying on such a show. His bright blue eyes blazing mischievously under that floppy blond hair, streaked with colors I cannot get a stylist to duplicate for me, as he danced around the room in sheer delight.

My friend Wendy took at long hard look at my son tonight during swim team while he was nestled in my lap and told me, "He just cannot be any more handsome. He is just so cute!" My response?
"Thank you. He looks just like his father."
And then I miss Marc like I have missed the mountains. It's a beautiful life.

The March of Death

I knew better than to drink the Gatorade. I really did. But there Henry was, in all his cycling glory, at mile 12 offering his help and support. He biked ahead and got me some orange Gatorade around mile 14, and it was the best thing that ever passed my lips, until it hit my stomach and the syrupy slime sat in my belly like a rock.

Gary and I had started off together with Tracy in the same corral. Trace left us almost immediately, and we bid her farewell. He and I talked and laughed about life in Vero, his troubled history with his wife of sorts, and how San Diego is the best place to live. We ran through downtown together until we reached the climb out on the 163. He fell back and I didn't want to wait, so I charged ahead, a decision I would later regret. More on that...

Down the backside of the freeway, free falling into some kind of pace, though I had a stitch that viciously chewed away at my right side. By the time I saw Eric at mile 11, I futilely nibbled the pretzels he handed me. I knew it was a training run at that point. My legs were tired. Henry rode up next to me shortly after that point and hung on my shoulder until mile 21. We chatted like not a day had passed between our training runs, as if Florida had never come between us. He told me he is training for St. George and talked about his long runs about to begin. I couldn't really focus on what he was saying because I was feeling so bad between the stitch and then the stomach cramping that was starting. I felt nauseous, dizzy, out of sorts. I really felt light headed and tired. Mile 18 brought more friends from track. They were a welcome distraction from the pain as they cheered wildly for me. I stopped to chat for a while and it was heaven to simply stop running. On to mile 19 and I saw my friend Jody. She handed me a banana and I immediately handed it off to Henry. It was offensive to even look at that fruit, much less think about eating it.

I walked the water station at mile 19 where I was reunited with Gary walking through it, too. "I'm done, Quad," he told me. "My soleus is toast and I am done for the day. Let's take this one mile at a time." I told him my GI issues were back with a vengeance and he offered some kind of encouragement. I was in so much pain, I didn't even care. His words were meaningless, but his company was welcome. I think those earlier ambitious miles had caught up with me. I wasn't even looking at the clocks anymore and I really did not care what they read. We ran on with Henry chatting it up with Gary, since I had nothing to offer to the conversation anymore; I was out of air and out of witty things to say. I wanted to die, really. Then Theresa popped in around mile 20 plus. She was fresh and chipper, dancing around us, but I was so spent, I could barely muster a grin for her. I wanted to be anywhere but on that Ingram Bridge. I had not felt this bad since Long Beach Marathon years ago, and it was painful to relive it. I knew Marc was following me online and I knew he would be worried to see I had fallen so far off pace. I was worried I was not going to make it back to my kids, waiting for the report at Nana and Gramps' house.

Mile 21 and Gary grabbed my hand and lifted my arm as we passed under a photo opt. I had nothing. I told him I needed to walk and I wanted him to leave me. "I'm worried about you, So. Cal. I'll stay with you, really." I begged him to leave me and let me suffer in solitude because all I wanted was to walk in silence, so he did, reluctantly, leave me. I watched him trot out ahead and that was the last I saw of him that day because I literally walked every last step to the finish. I got to mile 22 and thought about pulling into a medical tent, but I knew they wouldn't let me continue. I couldn't go home without a medal or Owen would never let me hear the end of it. I felt as though I could literally lay down and take a nap...I was sleepy, tired, dizzy. I really wanted to take a power nap, but I couldn't very well do that roadside.

Mile 23 I thought I couldn't feel any worse, so I decided to open the Sports Beans I had in my back pocket. My head was spinning and my legs were sore. I ripped into the package and the smell about put me over the edge. I managed to put one, literally one, bean into my mouth and started to dry heave. I was wrong about not being able to feel any worse, because there I was at mile 24, pulled over and vomiting everything out of my stomach into the street with tons of spectators to witness the demise. As embarrassing and horrifying as this vomiting experience always is (though you think I would be used to it by now), I felt so much better. I actually really wanted to run the last two miles in, but every time I tried to move my legs in that fashion, my stomach would cramp so violently, I knew it was not a possibility. I continued my death march all the way to finish 4:36. Sadly, a new all time slow record. Before this, my worst marathon was 3:57 and I think that was shortly after giving birth to baby number two. Seeing my picture at the finish, I am hunched over in pain, because my stomach felt like the lining was being ripped out of it; to jostle it even a little when I skipped under the final clock was pure agony and sheer torture.

What went wrong? Well, I don't want to make any excuses for myself. I ran too hard coming out of the gates, I was not properly hydrated, and I put the nails in my coffin when I drank that sports drink. What was I thinking? I was thinking that my body felt tired, depleted, and I could not get my legs to fire. Really, I felt like I had no turn over at all, so I was hoping for a miracle in that drink. The miracle never came, only the GI distress.

What did I take away from this experience? I have great friends, a great husband who was cheering for me all the way, and a great town to experience it all in. What do I care about the time? I am a slacker, remember? When Abbe called me for the report that afternoon and I gave it to her, she chirped, without ever having read this blog or known of its existence, "YES! You are one of us now!" So what? I am happy to be in So Cal, even here now in Malibu, Home of the Freakishly Skinny, Land of the Botox. I love LA.

Slacker

It's raining here today for the third time. Tropical and gentle, with random bursts of downpour. I always knew it rained in the jungle, but I guess I never really understood just how much. This weather pattern almost feels normal now after 9 months. There was a little break for a few weeks from the rain, but so brief, it hardly registered as more than little. The cicadas are back now, too, with their tiresome screeching. Summer has official arrived in Vero.

I read email from Jen yesterday, one of my best and most reliable old running partners from home. It saddened me when she told me she no longer makes the effort to get to the Tuesday and Thursday morning speed workouts anymore; she has tired of the drama and the drive to get there, so she has opted for runs around her neighborhood with Susan, another reliable. I am not sure which part made me sad? The idea that everything has changed so radically from what I once knew as my favorite workout? That my favorite people have fallen out of the habit of it? I am sure Henry and John and Mike and Renee still find their way there, but I've heard the dynamic has shifted.

My response to her was a truthful and genuine effort to affirm her new routine of speed on the tread mil with an ipod. I told her how after we succumbed to Florida, I really felt as though I might die without those heart-pounding, lung crushing, lactic acid burning workouts. Through email, I recounted how I lived and died for those track workouts, the tempo runs, the hill repeats and mile after endless mile around campus every week. When we moved here, I knew how terrifying it would be to do something so different.

I knew I had to reinvent my workouts to maintain some kind of sanity and inspiration in my routine. Here, the track requires us to climb tall, slippery gates and hide in the shadows when the cops drive by. The tempo runs here are so much harder with the oppressive humidity and hills truly do not exist. The wind has the power to blow us off the top of the bridges when we run miles, that is, when it is cool enough to not have to stop every 4 minutes to take in more water. What kind of runner would I possibly become? I felt like I was losing more and more with each passing week, and it killed me to know what I left behind; to know that life went on without me there and they were all still having fun running Blacks Beach or Bishops and Chunks.

But as I wrote to Jen, I realized something as it was in black and white before me. I am still a runner, but I have become a different kind of runner. I have had to reinvent what running means to me and what motivates me to put my shoes on every day. Here, I do not have the same reliable running resources. I don't have the beautiful, rolling hills along the Pacific or mild climate. Half the time when I would clamor over that black iron gate at the track, none of the Florida slackers would even show up. So I ran in solitude in the dark, sometimes with the sky crackling its fury above me, warning of the pending storms. I thought how stupid I was, the Californian who could not give up the workout due to a little lightning (that could have very well killed me). Everyone else knew to stay in bed after they checked the radar, but I needed that workout.

Slowly, I became friends with Lori, and while she will never take the place of Jen or anyone else, she has filled the lonely void. She will meet me for the early mile repeats or the tempos or 800s. We have created our own little speed calendar we follow religiously, despite the dilapidated track we run on. For the other days on which people are so hit or miss, I have to find it all within myself to get out there and go, often alone, in the dark. As much as all of these guys train for this Iron Man or that marathon, they are always training haphazardly, around their drinking schedules or wine tastings. There is some organization to their chaos, but for the most part, many of these guys are fly by the seat of their pants. It is true that Craig and Kimmie are very reliable warm bodies on the Tuesday/ Thursday tempo runs around the bridge loops, but most of the runners here are pick-ups along the way somewhere, if they decide to roll out of bed. But, at least I do have Craig, Kimmie and Lisa for the long weekend runs, mundane as the course is we always run over and over. Abbe, while lovable, embodies what a slacker runner really is: promises to be there at 4:30 am and then always, always sends a text over in the morning, "Going back to bed".

In all of this, I think I have come into a more meaningful, mature love of this sport. I think I have become less anal. Truly. I don't want to compare it to the dizzy high school crush that has matured into the comfortable, reliable marriage kind of love. I am still crazy about running and have a passion for it that defies understanding when I think of the monotony of my feet on the pavement. It is just that I kind of like that attitude of, "Hey, let's sign up for this race and that one, and maybe we will actually go and race." My Florida friends all wear their Garmins and clock the miles, but then travel hundreds of miles to races and turn off their alarms and sleep in if the weather is less than ideal. My friends here have a more laid back approach to running that used to annoy me, even make me feel superior that I was more consistent. That lax attitude would strike fear in my heart that I might become that runner with *gasp* balance, if I hung around them too much, as though it were a dreadful and highly contagious leprosy. As much as I hate to admit it, they have won me over to the middle somewhere.

So, why do they still call me "Quad"? AAAA Personality I am not so much anymore when I think of where I started from. I just may not even wear my watch for Rock N Roll to prove it to myself. I'll see how I feel when I wake up Sunday.

Until Florida Summer Do We Part

"Two months is a long time when you love someone." This was Abbe's response to me when I told her we will only be gone for 8 weeks. I am told there are bets going around the running group as to whether or not I really am returning to Florida with the kids at summer's end. Lori said she is going to punish me tomorrow at our speed workout for "abandoning" her. I keep telling them that my skin has already reaped all the benefits of the humidity and I need a little break now that I am flawless. Right. I have to come back here, if I want to remain married, that is.



Ipod. Great White Kenyan. Don Julio. Angel. Country. Abbalicious. These are the aliases I run with each morning, and as much as I hate to admit it, I am going to miss them, too. I love them and, amazingly, for as much as I bash Florida, they love me too. Shoot. I might even miss my husband (who is more Florida every day), but apparently not enough to suck it up and endure the weather here for the summer. Today was misery. Gray skies, black clouds, torrential downpour, crashing thunder and furious lightning. Was that a hurricane today with the wind factor? How do people live with the weather dictating what they can and cannot do? Yesterday's swim workout was canceled due to lightning and today tennis was rained out. What kind of fun is that?



Actually, I am going to miss Marc with every fiber in me. I know I will ache for the time he comes to visit us on the West Coast, but I figure since I give him ten months here, he can give me two months there. He is kind and compassionate, supportive and attentive. How could I want for anything more? I love that his running shorts are stored in the drawer in his closet above any of his other clothes. That is just the kind of guy he is...an athlete before anything else. I just wish he would stop running the remote jungle trails with huge gators. I wish I were kidding about this point, but I am not even exaggerating. Apparently, he thinks he is Tarzan of the Jungle now, able to run zig zags faster than those handbags can snatch him. I hate nature. I do love a man in a Speedo, however, and he wears it well. I love a man who posts pictures of his kid's triathlon on his blog. And, I love a man in cute, short running shorts with bronzed legs. Did I mention that I love swimmers? What a guy.



Swim meet this weekend for the girl. End of season tennis party and awards Saturday. 5K on Monday for the girl who never stops moving (my daughter). Marc's big presentation, house sitter interviews, volunteer celebration, send off dinners, pediatrician appointments, last ten miler run....we are almost out of here...........

Banyan Day

My kids love banyan trees, especially my son. I love how they appear to be something right off the pages of a mythical novel or enchanted, morose poem. Something about how their shoots grow down to the earth, rather than up into the light, is eerie and depressing, but beautiful at the same time. I am not sure if this unique characteristic is what fascinates my son, but he loves these trees. Every time we pass one, he will call out its existence, "Mommy! A banyan tree! A banyan tree!" Or maybe it was my grooming because I have always loved these trees, too, and encouraged them to appreciate their unique beauty.

This morning I headed out for a leisurely run. I stepped outside into the morning haze at sunrise, bracing myself for the humid greeting. Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as yesterday and the day before, so I happily skipped right into some kind of warm up pace. The ocean was quiet, serene and calm. I passed a large banyan on my way through our beach neighborhood, and immediately thought of my kids and what it means to be a mom on this Mother's Day. I think my favorite part about being a mom is that I get to so closely experience their natural curiosity and wonder about the world around them. The questions never stop, the learning never ceases, and the knowledge only builds on the previous. Maybe in that way, we are like banyan trees? We are constantly spreading our roots to become bigger, better, and cover more ground.

After all, kids start out as little epiphytes, like the banyan, needing a host to take care of them until they can spread their roots out and provide for themselves. And, like the banyan, their growth and need for space never ceases, it only increases with age. I can only hope that my kids grow with the same diligence and character as a banyan, mysterious and strong, determined, if sometimes seemingly headed the wrong way. In the end, it is a beautiful picture and speaks volumes about personality.

Here Comes Summer

I walked out my door this morning into a blanket of heat and humidity. Yep, 4:15 in the morning and summer greeted me with a wretched grip on my lungs. I took about four steps and saw the lightning over the ocean in front of me. Somewhere far over the water a storm was raging, but thankfully not where we planned our run. Lori met me and ran the first 10 miles with me, then I ran 11 or 12 more...not really sure, since the heat was making me kind of delirious. I know I left the house Friday morning, but it sure felt like I returned Monday sometime. I came home and fell into the cool pool and lay on the bottom for a while. Heaven. I need another pair of running shoes, since I seem to be wearing each pair out so quickly as of late. I love my friends here, but I am ready to have my friends back home. Hello, Summer.

Check, Please

I feel like everyday I learn a little something about myself and the world we live in. Sometimes I think I am completely void of feeling anything at all when it comes to reacting to trauma and tragedy. Other times, I am sure I am a raving lunatic with emotions wildly out of control. I am not sure why some things hit me so hard and other things barely scratch the surface?

I am still completely perplexed and disturbed by the whole shark attack in San Diego. Why did that man have to be eaten by a large fish? On his first swim back in the Pacific headed into the tri season, why was he picked off in such an unlikely place among his friends? Thoughts of large sharks have always plagued me while out in the water, particularly while fighting my way through the kelp out at the Cove, but never did I think someone would really, really be attacked. Perhaps I thought someone might have an encounter with a fish that could devastate, but not really be savagely and gruesomely eaten in that manner. This haunts me at night when I think about getting in the ocean again.

Perspective is always a good thing and I realize when we take on the wild, we do not always win. This is why I hate nature...I despise it. For as much as we eat all things natural in our house, I really do not appreciate the animal part of nature's offerings. As of late, when I feel like I am having a bad day, I think about the misery of this man's family he left behind when he so innocently left for a swim that morning. How could he know how many lives he would impact that day? Certainly he did not think he would become a statistic and be Googled by the masses.

Back to lesser complaints, my foot is acting up and not so happy about all the mileage I am running these days. I just signed up for Marine Corps marathon in fall so that I have another little something to look forward to when we return after a summer hiatus. Sometimes so many things around here seem so bleak, then I tell myself, "Well, at least I wasn't sampled by a shark today". Today the blues have crept back in after I said good bye to my brother at the airport. He understands my pain in ways other people do not seem to engage or want to entertain, which is okay. It almost killed me to let go of him when he stepped out of my car and as my son said through choked back tears, "I like when Unc-ie goes back to Los Angeles" as if trying to convince himself he was happy to see his beloved uncle leave. How did it come to this again?

I am still high from our Team's successful completion of each of their events, as well as my girl's first triathlon. She was a hero last weekend, so calm and collected in a field of 800 athletes, unfazed and unscathed by course or characters. Though she accidentally swam an extra 50, she is an amazing gem and I adore the child she is. Standing at the finish in all her glory, with her shorts hanging off her slight frame, race chip around her ankle, and medal around her neck, was one of my proudest moments. Again, these are the things that make it worthwhile and I will worship the One who makes it all possible. Please, God, don't let me ever know the pain of losing someone I love to the jaws of a shark. Why does it take a tragedy to make us feel alive? Only then do we appreciate how much we have, even while living among the sandy dunes of Florida. I still wish we could be done here.

Lesson Learned

"The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love. And the Lord is good to all; He has compassion on all that He has made. As far as the East is from the West, that's how far He has removed our transgressions from us. Praise the Lord, oh my soul, praise the Lord."- Vineyard UK

This song got its inspiration from more than ten verses in the Bible. I count at least 15 places where we are told God is "gracious and compassionate" and loves us, despite who we are. I am an ugly, despicable human being, weak and without direction. I have so many regrets and I am so lost, but He is my compass. I am ready to stop grieving and start moving forward in love. I want people to know Him through the love and light that I know lives in me. Darkness doesn't live here anymore because I am not defined by my location, but by my vocation. It's taken some time and some soul searching, but I think I finally get it.

Puzzle Me

I have come to accept the fact that I have little imagination. I have a very difficult time seeing outside of my own viewpoint, and this cripples me. Working with my daughter tonight on a puzzle game, trying to fit together various pliable pentagons in a specific fashion to create artwork, I could not see the bigger picture and make it take shape. That is, I could not manage to form the intended "princess with crown" and have her take on a life of her own, because I could not see past the directions and what I was imagining she was to look like. I was viewing it all wrong from the start, and the sides would not mesh the way I wanted them to. It was near impossible to conceptualize the end product while lost in the moment was so confusing and miserable. Life imitates art in so many ways.

I ran circles in the dark with Lori this morning. 800 cut downs. We kvetched about life in Vero: the schools that fail us, the miserable humidity that is back like a regretful memory, and the lightning that chased us around the wet track. The weather put a damper on my swim, as well, which was not all that disappointing. Today was gray in more ways than just the sky. The breakfast dishes are still piled up in the sink because I cannot seem to find the time or inclination to do them today. I think I am missing a big part of the picture somewhere here, but I cannot seem to put the pieces together and make it look like something that is functional.

Here and There

I'm so ready for this school year to be over already. I feel as though we have limped through the whole thing, hated the teacher, despised the class and administration, disagreed with the curriculum, and on and on. I am so ready to pull my kids early and board the plane bound for happier places, see family, and run Rock N Roll Marathon with friends from both here and there. I am counting down the days to get there, hitting the pavement here, as if running more mileage will get me there faster. Last week was a big mileage week, this week coming up will be more of the same. Time on the bike, while fun, seems meaningless for what is on the race calendar.

There is so much going on between now and then, that I am hoping the time will pass quickly. Parties, races, travel with TNT for their races, the schedule is booked. Owen's triathlon is quickly approaching, about as fast as the school year is winding down. Her training has been on par, so she is feeling as strong as any seven year old should. She received one of the coveted spots with the Junior Guards in Del Mar, and she is very much looking forward to being a "Turtle" this summer. Luckily, she will swim with her old team this summer, so that will keep us busy, as well. The little guy is moving forward with tennis, and more and more, people comment on his backhand. He is a reluctant participant, but doing so well when he focuses once we bribe him with his one true love: chocolate. How can two children be so different? One who cannot sit still to save her life and must participate in every sport under the sun; the other one who could care less about movement and activity and loves to read and indulge in confections. I think there is balance somewhere in between the two of them.

I did an ocean swim this morning with the Team and was convinced something was going to eat me out there. The bait fish were running at dawn, which we are told is the worst time to be out there in the midst of bull sharks feeding. The ocean here is a very dangerous place, when one considers the man of wars, the bull sharks, and the hammerheads who cruise close to shore. I can't say I am ever very happy about getting in the sea on this side of things, but I do it, hyperventilating all the while. The group complained that the water was a chilly 72 degrees, but the sunrise was beautiful and the stairways to heaven were many. Tomorrow we ride. Another week in paradise, depending on what your definition of that may be.

Evolution

Not in the Darwinian sense. Evolution in the change and growth and progressive sense. I hope this is me in everything I set out to do. My kids are obsessed with the Leaning Tower of Pisa right now. Why? I have no idea. Maybe because they are little sponges who seek to know more about any random and unusual idea. Maybe because their Italian grandfather is here visiting and talking about the Old Country. Maybe because they originally thought it was constructed of their favorite meal, pizza. Thank goodness for the Internet.

Rather than scour the local library for several books on Italy and their heritage, I went directly to the source: Google. We had everything we needed to know about the "Leaning Tower of My Favorite Junky Dinner" right at our fingertips. Don't you just love progress? Parenting is so much easier now, I have decided, rather than in the dark ages, before the advent of ipods, portable DVD players, and digital everything. Of course, we stress about what images the kids may stumble upon online, or who they might converse with on cell phones, but overall, if we can avoid video games and dodge the obesity bullet, I think the evolution of our consumer society is a beautiful thing. Faces glued to Game Boys, many of our consumer brats do not know how to carry on conversation anymore, but they are sharp little high-tech geeks. There is balance somewhere between old fashioned fun and innovation, and as parents, we try to strike it with regard to our kids, of course.

I think this is the same of my training. I would like to think I am growing, evolving, learning from past mistakes and mishaps. I do not want to obsess over nutrition details and socks or no socks on the bike. I would like to look at triathlon history and know we are in a better place now that we have traded flat Coke for Gatorade, and candy bars for fancy energy bars. We eat supplements like trail mix and take Advil like Tic Tacs for damage control, but how many of us are taking it to extremes? Are we still having fun out there? How many of us are just posers, wanting desperately to think of ourselves as athletes, scrambling for more endorphins? Guilty. Today was 3 miles on the tread mil, a swim, a weight workout, and then 8 more miles on the road to run my girl to school while she "trained" on her bike for her race quickly approaching. I love it.

EVOLUTION scrambled: NO, U LOVE IT. This sport that is. This is my mantra on days I do not want to get out of bed at all. I talk myself back into it, and then I find myself again. And, yes, I am still having good old fashioned fun, despite obsessing over the details. I still love the purity of pulling on running shoes and heading out toward the beach. I will always love the run over all the complications of the bike and technicalities of the swim. I hope I am evolving in many ways, but I am still a purist at heart.

Invincible Summer

"In the midst of winter I found in me an invincible summer." -Albert Camus

Winter in Vero is unlike winter elsewhere. It is hot and humid. So many days I do not want to get up and run in the humidity. I long for cool mornings in the 40s, to wear tights and a ski hat and gloves. I ache to have my face freeze in the crisp air along the coast. I miss the smells that accompany cooler days: chimnies burning fires, pines wet with dew, the Pacific as it spits the winter swell. It is on these days I have to find my own "summer" and its name is usually "Starbucks", because that is closest to my old routine after a morning run. Actually, in many ways, it is my running friends who have carried me through this winter. Did I mention I love my running group? They are like air for me right now in the choppy waters I am navigating. My running friends have been, while completely new and different, something so familiar that I crave more of them. Runners are the same wherever we go, I think. The characters names change, but the plot is always the same: runners train for various races; runners get injured in the process; runners talk nutrition; runners qualify for Boston; runner says, "Oh yeah. I am one pumped skinny-a*% b#*@&!"

Oh, wait. That last quote could only be from Gary, the 40-something, self-absorbed, fitness obsessed tri geek who just qualified for Boston this past Sunday in Sarasota. He is thrilled and we are all happy for him, but the best was his delivery of this news to us. He is one of the many characters who continue to amuse and uplift me. These people are actually very funny, and they laugh in spite of themselves. Really, I love my running group. And, I love my Team tri group. This last weekend was so much fun at the workouts, and I think it is all really starting to come together for them. Tomorrow night we are going to a bike clinic where Craig will BBQ and I am bringing side dishes to "serve" the Team members. Today Craig said to me, "What will we do when this is all over? I am going to be so sad."

My sentiments mimic his, which is why he and I agreed to go to DC at the end of this month to take the Team in Training coaches' certification classes. In becoming certified through their program, there is greater opportunity for us to coach their programs again in the future. It should be totally educational and inspirational to be around tons of super fit people who are doing what we are currently doing. I am looking forward to the trip and time out of Vero. Anything will be cooler than here, 78 degrees today with staggering humidity. DC will be a welcome break from the heat. Unfortunately, this heat continues as my in-laws arrive tomorrow. I told them I hope they like tropical weather and to pack nothing but shorts and flip flops. Who knows? Maybe they will welcome the warm weather? While at the beach with my son the other day, I found myself envying the people who were here on vacation, like my in-laws. What a magnificent place to vacation, I thought. How fabulous this destination would be if it were vacation! The sand is amazingly soft and clean, the water is an emerald green I cannot justify with words, and the scenery is spectacular. Then I remember this is not vacation. This is still me transitioning into a new world.

On another note, training is going well. I have been on the bike more and more, which is good. I am itching to sign up for something other than a marathon now, which is promising. My crazy friend, Abbe, wants me to do a century with her in early April. I told her I will think about it after Marc's parents leave and after Owen's birthday extravaganza this weekend, plus her swim meet, plus out of town guests, plus all of the other activities and obligations we have going on. I think we may be over-commited? Maybe that is what it is...we don't necessarily have tons of friends, rather, we are so busy running from one activity to another, we come in contact with familiar faces over and over. Racing from school to tennis to swim team to gymnastics to Karate, we always bump into people who are part of these activities. I kind of like to think they are friends, but perhaps they are just frantic like we are, trying to get through the day, creating as little wake as possible, trying to keep cool. This is winter in Vero.

Island in the Sun

I have been completely uninspired and lacking anything really cerebral to write in this venue, therefore, I have written nothing. For the most part, I think things are starting to feel like real life and not a bad dream anymore. I still think that, in so many ways, our lives here are just utterly ridiculous and we are just passing the time until we work our way toward something greater. Then I realize this is a stupid way to experience life, because it is just that...I am not experience life while I spend my time pining for something else, someone else, somewhere else.

Today was truly a day in paradise. After waking at 4 am and running with my running group (we are the sector commonly referred to as "The crazies" because we run so early and a wee bit faster often times), I met up with my Team participants at 6:30 for another 40 minutes of running along the coastline. We then caravaned over to the pool for a swim, where Marc met me with the kids for more swimming afterward. I took the little people to art class while Marc did some work. After lunch, we headed over to Michael and Lori's beachfront mansion for afternoon drinks and sandcastle making. It was truly picturesque on our island in the sun, with not a cloud in the sky, 78 degrees, and the kids frolicking in the warm waves. By all accounts, it felt as though we might be on a tropical vacation with friends. I felt really peaceful watching Marc paddle around on the longboard, with not another soul in sight in the green water, and Michael fishing for pompano from shore, while the kids dug for sand crabs and decorated sand cities with perfect shells. It occurred to me that the one major thing Marc and Michael have in common is their gift of contentedness. I call it a gift, because I think that is what it really must be: to be so completely enamoured with life and everything around oneself, nothing else truly matters. Both of them are remarkably secure in what they have, care little about possessing anything more, and need a mere beer and fishing rod or surfboard to be completely happy. How does that work?

I am envious and wish I could possess this gift, this quiet self-reliance and calm. I generally hate sitting on the beach doing nothing, because it is just that...doing nothing. My mind is constantly reeling with the list of things that need to get done, or how the time might be better spent than wasting away under the sun's scorching rays. I think I am not really sure I know what it means to relax, and so my time here in Florida, overall, seems dreadful while I am waiting for the next thing, not this thing, this time, this place. I spend so much time and energy projecting into the future, I simply cannot appreciate what we are trying to do here, and so the trees are lost for the forest.

Today might have been perfect, were it not for the fact that Lori raised the topic of my unhappiness and discontent with our present school situation. The dilemma continues and I feel utterly exhausted *exhausted* researching the academic avenues that have lead to nowhere. This continues to be the vehicle that drives my anxiousness and reinforces the dread in my chest when I think of the year to come. There are no answers to our school conundrum. There is no way to resolve the disparity of the education issue. I keep looking for the one key that might open the door to the kingdom that will somehow mimic the beauty and order of what we had last year in our district. Sadly, what remains is the uncertainty and chaos of what is starting to feel acceptable, normal, even.

This resignation to mediocre is very frightening and it propels me deeper into a depression. I feel full of doubt, downright hopeless, concerning what will become of my children's education in this small town. Just like the elderly people who rule the roads and drive us into ditches (literally!) as we swerve to avoid their hazardous driving, so is the haphazard education system here. We are worn down to believing that this is as good as it gets and it is simply a way of life here, something we must be mindful of, but tolerate all the same. That, in fact, this may not kill us, but make us stronger, if perhaps a bit jaded. And just as all the locals complain about the "snow birds" who are here and make life a little more difficult, they love to complain about how terrible our academia is, as well. And, just as the law turns a blind eye to the incompetent, expired drivers on the streets, so have the legislative powers that be shied away from any push for change and improvement among local schools. it is simply not convenient. Where is the justice in any of this?

I, for one, do not want to live with relics on the road and backward teaching. While Marc continues to do really wonderful things with his job and daily sees the fruits of his labor in the lab, I am continuously worn down, defeated, with the idea that our kids are not making progress where it really counts. Yes, they can hit forehands and backhands, do backbends and backstroke, but will any of this really matter at the end of the day if they are on a slipperly slope of education? How far are they falling down the backside of the bell curve this year alone? Next year? Where will they be when we do move back to the land of less-than-hillbillie? I shutter to think and ache for something more.

Full Circle

Our triathlon Team is really great. They are all super motivated to workout, work harder, and do more. With the exception of one individual, I think all of them will make it through the recommitment phase of the fundraising, and achieve their end goal on race day. I love our routine and how it is all playing out. Craig is driving me crazy, as co-coach, with his insessant emails and chirpy "coaches notes". I say this with endearment, because he really is an awesome coach and a wonderful person, who cares immensely about this team and these people. I feel very fortunate to be his wingman, and so far, this dance we are choreographing is coming together beautifully. He is incredibly (if not nauseatingly) enthusiastic, and that is a fabulous quality. Now, if only his emails would stop...



So, training is going well among Team members. I am enjoying my double workouts between my own morning practices, and then the additional 8 miles I am running along side my 6 year old when she rides to school. She insists on riding her bike these days, in the name of "training" for her triathlon in April. We also happened to run the fitness course today after school (across the street from her campus) so she could put some miles in her new shoes. It was (finally) a nice day, not too hot, and perfect for being outdoors. The oak trees in Riverside park are immense and overbearing, awe-inspiring and magnificent. The kids ran among them after "the workout" was over. It would have been absolutely perfect, save for the fire ants that invade the property. As it is, my arm is swollen and infected from a fire ant bite from last week, so I am still a bit leary of the buggers at the park. I hate nature.



Anyway, my love-hate relationship with my swim coach continues. This week, I love him because I am pained to write he had a heart attack 2 weeks ago, and is due to enter surgery this week. Apparently the doctors told the old man he only survived because he is in great shape in light of all the swimming he does. Don has a leaky valve that needs to be replaced, so we are unsure how long he will be out for during the recovery. I am saddened to think he may or may not ever return, because as much as he kills me when he hovers over my stroke, I cannot bear the thought of him not doing so anymore.



Lastly, speaking of swimming, my girl swam in her first "real" swim meet this past weekend. There are no words to describe the joy and pride I felt to see both of my kids in Speedos there. It is true, my girl has been wearing one for quite some time now. But, to see the little guy, all 34 pounds of him in a team suit, just about did me in. He wanted to swim in the warm up lanes while we waited between events, and because we did not bring him a suit, we had to purchase a team suit from the deck. This was truly my pride and joy to have both kids in the same lane, "warming up" for the next event. Because our four year old is the spitting image of his father, I can only imagine how Marc looked at that age at his own workouts. Funny how things come full circle. I love a glimpse into the past like that, because it is somehow magical. It is like flipping through the chapters of an old book that is somehow familiar, though I have never read it before.



As if this were not emotional enough, to see a mini-Marc in a tiny Speedo falling off his slight frame, it was really very sweet to see Marc standing with Owen behind the blocks, giving her last minute directives, in his mild manner. Unlike the other parents standing over the lanes, yelling at their kids, Marc quietly reminded her that she had to touch with both hands in the 50 breaststroke, calmly asked her if she wanted to enter the water from the blocks or the deck, and gently urged her to stay on her back the whole time during backstroke. It did my heart such good to see him coaching her in this way, though she did not flinch once, and was not at all concerned that she would pull it off without a hitch. And, indeed, she did. She did great, in what was-to me-a very huge and scary meet. The way in which Marc continues to be humble and gentle, especially in a setting that he knows all too well, really just made me feel extremely at ease and happy to have such a fabulous husband and father for my kids. Now, if only he would work on getting transferred back to Cali, then I would be overjoyed.

Tennis, Anyone?

Why have I still not changed the name of this blog to something more appropriate with regard to where we live now? I am no longer in denial. I feel like we have a strong base of friends and activities with whom and which we are very comfortable. I quite like my routine and now that the weather is tolerable, things here are so much more manageable. I am not sure why I haven't changed the blog to something like "Up Before the Humidity in Hell"....I think maybe I just don't care enough? Sometimes I wonder why I continue this charade of writing at all, other than to simply clear my head and blow off some steam so I am not completely irascible with my kids.

I continue to be in awe of my kids on the tennis courts and the coaches relentless patience for them. Our four year old is something out of a bad dream the way he continues to disrespect their authority and wander around in his own world. It is not until I march out on the courts and threated to take away his lifeline-videos-that he will tune in and pay attention. When he does actually focus for 10 minutes, he has a mean backhand and a killer volley. Even with those toothpick arms, he is able to hold up that racket (that is almost as big as he is!) and generate enough power to get it over the net. Poor Gordon, in his easy New Zealand style, never balks at him or ever for a moment loses his temper with this child who is all over the map and haphardly good in his "I don't give a *%$!" way.

Then there is our daughter. The one who cannot stand to be left out of any activity, party, sport or parade. She is a three ring circus out there, running for every ball and dashing all over the clay to make it happen. Her coach adores her, a joy on the court and an encouragement to her fellow players. She is like a light out there, a little brighter and better with each clinic. She loves to hit overheads and loves nothing more to tell us how well she does it.

There is another girl who plays a few courts over at the same time. She is in middle school, maybe, and takes privates from coach Dave. Dave is the ever-confident Brit who is extremely good and though cocky, mild in manner. I love watching him carelessly return the ball to this particular girl. Though she can crack it over the net with some serious force and speed, Dave easily and almost reluctantly can slice through her hits to stop the ball and then simply turn his racquet, as if he were doing something as mindless as flipping a pancake, and catch the ball. Then he serves it up again to her, going easy on her, I am sure. This continues for most of the lesson. He makes he run all over the court for the ball and because she is so good, she can return most everything he gives her, only for him to completely deflate her by not even having to work to return what she has just sent over the net. I have come to love this game, though I don't venture to get out there just yet.

Anyway, another day. We signed Owen up for a triathlon in April since I have to be at the St. Anthony's venue to coach the Team. She is thrilled beyond belief and told me she is ready for a Half Ironman. Easy.

We Have Arrived

We were invited to spend the day on a boat here in Vero. I never understood the whole fishing and boating community, but I have to say, I think I have a better appreciation of that following and it was a lot less painful than originally anticipated. I think this makes us true Veroites now that we have been initiated into the boating fraternity.

We met up with Mark and Mary and their son, Luke, Sunday morning. I swim with Mark in the mornings, Mary is his lovely wife (who I think is hilarious), and Luke swims in our daughter's lane at the pm workouts. The day was unlike any other day we have experienced here: cold and miserable. The sun was no where to be seen and the wind was fierce and unforgiving. Because the wind was cutting to the bone, we initially decided to forego the boat and just fish on the dock in front of the house, which was spectacular. The kids loved running up and down the "pressed birch" with fishing rods and dead shrimp. They caught tons of puffer fish (which totally blew up and grunted upon being ripped out of the water, only to float atop it when tossed back in), some kind of snapper, and a few others who's names escape me now. Our boy was disappointed to learn these creatures were not going to be accompanying us home to a fish tank. He repeatedly said, "We can take them home for pets." Once he learned this was not an option, he lost interest in fishing and busied himself among the rocks and mangroves.

The view was really beautiful. This particular house was along the river in a very secluded canal, with views of the islands, lush with native trees. I have yet to really see a house here that is less than 3500 square feet. I think that is why people move here...for the space and room to breathe. Of course, I miss suburbia and everything that goes along with it. I don't mind having to hear my neighbors yell at each other if it means I can have a decent grocery store in manageable driving distance. Anyway, the house was a museum, the yard was something out of "Home and Garden", and the boat was impressive, too. We had lunch and cocktails outside on the patio while the kids continued their quest for fish on the dock.

After shivering and suffering in the cold for a few hours of puffer fish catch and release, Mark talked us into going out in the boat. Bundled up in sweats and wrapped in towels, we climbed on board for a trip down the canals. It actually was really cool to see the creatures up close and personal. We didn't see any manatees, but tons of dolphins, blue pelicans, water fowl I am not familiar with, and of course, fish. I am going to count us lucky for not encountering any water moccasins, gators, or bull sharks. Mark tried to dock on an island they dubbed "Luke's Island", because it is their son's favorite. The river has several *several* islands that my Marc keeps threatening to swim to (say it with me: shark bait). These islands are begging to be explored, camped upon (if you are into that sort of tent thing), and picnicked at (some have tables and BBQ pits). All are lush with trees and sandy beaches with no evidence of humanity. They are clean and serene, though flat and tropical, and they left me with a desolate and uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. When Mark could not dock the boat due to the heavy winds and strong current, I was not disappointed. Let's just say I was happy to not have to jump in the shark-infested water to drag the boat up the shore. I was very content sitting where I was on the plush seat with a view of the bridges and traffic passing over us.

When Mark gave our six year old the wheel, her face was to die for: she was thrilled beyond belief to be "driving" the boat. These are the experiences that make this time worth anything at all. These are the experiences I want my kids to carry with them and take in their hearts. Let's be real; I am never going to teach them about boats or fish, so how fortunate for us we have new found friends who are very savvy in both. Somehow, I am finding my way, despite the grief I still feel and the loss that always sneaks back in. When I am not thinking about what I am missing back home, what my kids are losing in school, what our families are feeling without us there, I am trying to appreciate this jaded journey, with my heart for a compass that just does not want to work. It just won't give me a clear reading about where we are to go on this journey. I find I am loving Marc in a way that I never knew I could, a way that defies explanation, but on a level of true soul mates. Is that cheesy? I know. Somehow our love has evolved into something of a necessity, something we just cannot live without. We need each other in a way we never looked to or relied on before. It has become somewhat like an old sweater that is so comfortable to slip into. Even though it may be old and worn, it is the favorite thing that hangs in the closet, the one thing I go back to regardless of the weather outside.

I continue to love my running group and friends. We ran 23 miles on Saturday just for fun. Our first Team in Training workout is this Saturday. I have met all of the participants and I am very excited and encouraged about most of them. They all reluctantly signed on to the triathlon team, since they were really looking for a marathon. Craig is already an awesome assistant coach and I am thankful everyday I was able to cajole him into this mania. We are laughing in spite of ourselves.

Disney

Disney was amazing. The course support was amazing. The course, itself, was amazing. The people who ran it were amazing. The whole experience, despite having to get up at 2:45 in the morning, was amazing. The whole weekend was so super fabulous, I am sad it had to come to an end.

We awoke before 3:00 am to get organized and in the car by 3:15 am. We picked up Dr. Marshall, Amy's daddy, in visiting from Atlanta to run the marathon. This was his idea in the first place when we first discussed it back in June at Rock N Roll. I am so glad he stayed on me to sign up back then, because it sold out before summer was over and Marc and I got in, thankfully. It was worth the sticker price and all the headache of orchestrating my mom getting here to watch the kids, and coordinating with Amy and her family to come here from San Diego, and all the other details. It was amazing...did I say that already?

We got to Epcot just after 4:00 am and sat in the car with Marshall, eating bananas and sipping bad coffee. Around 5, we began the long walk to the corrals (as many as A-H and then I stopped keeping track) with the thousands of other people who ran the race. Apparently, the organizers used to do both the marathon and the half on the same day, but it was such a zoo, they have since run the half on Saturday, the marathon on Sunday and the Goofy's challenge of people doing both races on consecutive days in recent years. I wish we would have gotten wind of the Goofy's Challenge before that was sold out, because I think that would have been a cool experience.

Anyway, we began at some parking lot in the dark. We took off under a fireworks display and some major lights and fanfare. They ran us to Epcot, and all around the park in various places, which was so cool because we got to see it all lit up in its glory, with no crowds and the place looking all sparkly clean and serene. It was so different to see all the rides rolling with no one on them, the monorail running with no people inside, and the castles lit and lovely with no one competing for a princess' signature. On that note, when they did eventually open the park, it was fun to see all the people cheering for us and their reactions to the various costumes that runners were in. I am not just talking about all the people who dressed up as Snow White or Buzz Lightyear, but the men I saw in simply their underwear....really, tighty little (and I mean little in the sense of the material they were wearing) whitey underwear. I could tell from the crowd's reaction what was coming up behind me based on how they were yelling and cheering.

I am not even one of those weird Disney Cult-like people, but I could appreciate all of the characters who came out along the way. You know, the people Disney actually hires to walk around the campus and meet and greet the guests? Well, I felt sorry for those poor fools who had to put their arms around all of the disgusting sweaty marathoners who actually stopped for the photo option with them. Yep. Did I mention there were more gay men out on this course than I have ever run with before? I know this because I am a magnet for them, not sure why, but we always hook up and run together for a while and this day was no different. This in addition to my Ironman buddy I ran with between miles 20-26, I had lots of company and companionship the whole way. Marc and I bumped into George in corral A at the start, so he and I ran a bit together. I kind of ran in his long shadow for a while, until I decided he was having a good day and I was not feeling 100 percent still. With a head full of snot and a chest full of gunk, I am still not feeling very well following another bout with some bronchial virus. Basically, I decided to run the best I could for as long as I could, which was about 17 miles. Around mile 18, I began to feel my humanity and the body wanted to shut down.

The support was unbelievable on this course, and they handed out every kind of nutrition one could possibly dream of. I ate some banana (something I never do) around miles 14, 19, and then 24. The last stretch was just hard. There is no other word to describe how I felt, than dead. My little (he was actually very tall) Ironman buddy carried me to the end, as we encouraged each other back and forth to tow the line. Along with a woman who had tattoos all up and down her arms, I had people to pace with to the finish and I was just so happy to have arrived in 3:45 and change. Not a great time, but one minute faster than Atlanta (where I also was sick!Ugg!) so I guess that is okay. If only I could figure out how to avoid the GI issues and still give some fuel to my dying legs after mile 18. This has always plagued me and kills me in the end. Either I eat and have new legs, but a stomach in knots and vomit in the end, or I starve with no stomach problems but run out of gas. It is a dilemma.

Marc did great, though his plantar was killing him with all of the concrete on the course. He ran 6:30 pace until he blew up around mile 22 and finished with his first ever marathon over 3 hours, 3:06, poor baby. I hate when I run that slowly, too. He enjoyed the course and support, but cursed the course makeup, longing for more blacktop or grass or dirt. We both agreed that it was cool to see a lot of backstage scenery and costuming and sets for Disney. We saw so much of the behind the scenes and back country of Disney World we would not have otherwise seen. This race is a Disney geek's dream, so I highly recommend it to anyone out there who is looking for that venue. When I got into the car with Marc (who had ample time to recover before he saw me finish, of course), I could not even talk, I felt so ill. I reclined the seat and layed back, unable to recount any of these stories with him for fear I would vomit at any second. Marc began telling me his account of the day and said he needed an ice cream. Even after he got back in the car from 7-11 and was munching on a Haagen Daaz bar, I could not bear the sound of him crunching it. I really felt as though I might vomit if I continued to imagine him eating anything, so I tried to put my mind in a happy place. I thought about shoes. I thought about the kids. I thought about the people I had seen out on the course. He said to me, "Why do we do this to ourselves over and over?" I couldn't respond, but I was thinking to myself, "Because we love it. We love the marathon."

We went to Disney World today with Amy and her clan and that, too, was so fun. The kids were not disappointed to miss school and instead eat garbage and ride endless rides. It was such a fun day, and Marc kept making fun of all the race geeks who wore their shirts and medals to the park. It was pretty obvious who ran even without the gear, because of the way many of the athletes were walking today, especially around Tom Sawyer's Island, hobbling down the steps and gingerly crossing the rope bridges with tired quads. My legs feel a little beat up, too, but nowhere near like they did after the hills in Atlanta. Next project is Team in Training Triathlon Team that begins next week. I recruited (read:begged) my running buddy, Craig, to take on the bike element so that I am freed up to only give the run and swim workouts on Saturdays. I am so glad he is a sucker and could not say no. Hope that we have a successful and great season the next 12 or so weeks. Go Team.

I'm In the Mood For Malibu...

..simply because it's near me. Yep. The homestead and life is grand. How I feel alive and in love again. Our trip home has given me new life. Not just for the fact that we have caught up with old friends and family, but the whole scene. Never again will I take a mountain for granted. This is my solemn vow to never take advantage of the glorious sight of a hill, a mountain, a valley, a climb.

The time in San Diego was great, running the old haunts with the usual suspects. Lake Miramar, Torrey Pines, Tour De Poway, La Jolla....we did it all. I hated to cancel the final day with the group....I simply was not in the mood for the fanfare. I swam at the pool Saturday and was kind of overwhelmed by the welcoming committee in parking lot and then jacuzzi. I was anticipating seeing some friends who I had connected with, and in some ways, it seemed we never left, but in other ways, the warmth and welcoming and questions depressed me and I wanted to just bury my head in the water and never get out. It is nice to know I still swim in the same lane, and maybe even a little faster (thank you, Coach Don). Anyway, to run with the whole crew at one single workout was to add insult to injury. I couldn't go there and for this reason, I skipped the Thursday morning track workout and opted for runs with singletons every day. It was heaven.

Now, in Malibu, we are delighted by the Christmas spirit that still lingers. Marc and I caught a movie last night and I noted just how beautiful the plaza was decorated in lights. Even though we did not arrive here until the New Year, it still feels like Christmas as the vacation lingers on. I am so happy to be in the midst of family, friends, and good food (organic! Trader Joes!) and then I feel borderline anxiety ridden to have to board the plane on Saturday back to Nowhereville (Paxil, anyone?). I have received so many nice emails from friends in Florida, checking in and wishing us well, asking our whereabouts and when we are returning. Our time here has been so busy, with a full social calendar, as well as dental and doctor appointments to get caught up on. I have hardly thought about our lives on the other coast, apart from the nagging intermittent quandary about the cat and wondering if the house sitters have figured out the lay of the land in that house. "That" house. Even now as I look at what I wrote in black and white, I realize that nothing about that life feels like mine. That is not my house or my neighborhood, or my town. Here is where my heart is. Here, walking through the skeleton of the house my family is currently building atop a mountain in Malibu is where I belong. Wandering through the framing phase was poetic, in a way. I love this stage of the building process I have witnessed so many times, before the house takes on a life and personality of its own. Before it is dry walled and painted and decorated, I love seeing the soul of the house. I love imagining how it is all going to come together again, when the 9,000 square feet of ply wood and pluming are still exposed, how will this become a family's house? Their world? Their home? How does anything become home? How do we come to call somewhere home and believe it?

One of the last emails I read was from a running buddy, Craig, wishing us a Happy New Year and safe travel. He told me the Sunrunners have received the "best Christmas gift of all this year" because our family has joined them in Zero Beach. I felt both elated and nauseated. Happy, of course, because he is so kind and cares so much about us, truly and sincerely. He supports my athletic endeavours and idolizes Marc and his athletic ability, he is always so encouraging. But I am sick because I just want to come clean with Craig and everyone else and tell them how miserable I am, how I just want out of our relationship. That whole line about how it's not them, but it's me and I just cannot do this anymore. ...It's that whole living a lie thing again, where I feel like we are leading a double life; we want to find happiness and fulfillment in one, but we are distracted and constantly pulled away by another one. I never was good at breaking off a relationship, but I was always worse at living the lie, empty and unfulfilled. Maybe I just won't get on the plane Saturday? Avoidance always seems a viable option.