Killer (Christmas) Loop

We ran the 21 mile Killer Loop this morning. I am so grateful for Marc and the Little People acting as Sag Wagon and water crew. Exhilarating to run that far for no particular reason or race. The group was great, the weather cool, and the mood divine. We ran the final four miles at 7:30 pace and felt fabulous. I didn't even mind (that much) when Barry and Marc fed the kids doughnuts at the end for their hard work and perseverance. Breakfast post-run with the group never tasted so good. Christmas week has been amazing, after an amazing birthday and anniversary week, as well. Thankful am I to be alive. What more can be said?

"Run for the Buns"

Love the annual "Bun Run", in which local neurologist and ultra endurance athlete, Jim, bakes up his notorious sticky buns for his favorite scandalous running group. I swear, these people will take any excuse to talk about "buns" and other body parts. ;) I told Jim he is the ultra Renaissance Man- how many people do you know capable of diagnosing brain maladies and whipping up some serious pastries in a day, all while training for yet another crazy endurance race? Yep. He's a winner. A great time was had by all- pictures posted on FB spell it out.

Tomorrow is my least favorite holiday. I can think of few things I like less than the smell of turkey cooking in the oven all day, or a day dedicated to all things food. Thankful to be in the kitchen for hours? I think not. Thank goodness I have the best husband around who cares nothing about tradition and allows for the boycott, despite his love for food (that's love). He trains and races (and wins) so much, he continues to eat anything- and everything- imaginable. Actually, we don't totally hang the holiday up- the apple pie is in the oven right now (the only thing he really cares about are the desserts) and we will do select items to preserve some of the holiday feel for the sake of the little people who live here.

On that note, Owen runs a 5K in the morning, and we have family swim relays right around the corner. The sober day has come in which the entries reveal her interval, at eight years old, has surpassed mine. It is bittersweet to fill in the blanks, but wow, my girl is fast. She gets those webbed feet from dad, certainly, as my days of hanging on the side of the pool, sipping coffee, and chatting it up have not helped my times. My justification is there was never any speed there to begin with, so why push too hard? Life is short- I would rather drink my latte and enjoy the people. Coach Gene has all but given up on me, yet he still yells if I talk too long on the wall during a set- something about being a bad influence. Barry tells me he swims at least an extra 500 yards when I am not there to distract him. I am going to take that as a compliment.

All in all, in taking inventory of my life, so very many blessings. As much as I whine and complain here at my computer, I try not to be this extremely negative on the outside. Everyone needs an outlet to vent, and this is mine, I suppose. There really is so very much to be Thankful for, starting with tomorrow's early pre-race run with great, fit, funny people. How do hermits survive? Vagabonds, recluses, gypsies on the go without relationships- how do they manage? I need a network and I am elated to have that, no doubt.

What's "fair" about an Affair?

I think it should be an affarce.

I don't believe that old adage "Time heals all wounds" anymore. I think we are all a bunch injured people, walking around with seeping wounds that we have slapped some bandages on in order to try to function in a dysfunctional world. I think we forgive, but we never forget. I think we always have residual pain from wounds inflicted by others that are so deep, they cannot ever truly heal even into an ugly scar. And yet, we soldier on for the sake of those around us.

I have met so many people in the last two years who have had affairs or been afflicted by one. I have witnessed the destruction to the individuals the families involved with infidelity. I have seen the women waste away to nothing on the scale, starving themselves for some control after their husbands step out on them. I have been witness to men stuffing the emptiness of the wives who left them with alcohol, random women, and worse. Just like I don't get camping, I don't understand why we think we are going to find something better on the outside of our relationships. Why sleep on the ground when there is a delicious and comfortable, albeit predictable, bed back at home?

It is fine to explore the great outdoors- to hike and run and mountain bike-and then to return to the comforts of home. Why sleep with it? Why do we want to mix it up? What is it we're searching for when we try something else on for size? Why the adventure and excitement of the great outside? Are we all really that savage and prehistoric? I despise the discomfort that comes with the morning after- sleeping on the rocky earth with only a thin layer of nylon between me and all that dirt. I hate the film of dirt that comes with waking up with it. Everything aches.

My mind is consumed with this as it is on my doorstep- again. My heart is restless trying to make sense of it.

Reluctant Redneck

This past week a whirlwind after hitting the routine in full swing and trying to get back on East Coast time. I swear, it gets harder to get caught up every time we make the trip and come back to what I will never call home. With a renewed sense of myself after spending a brief nine days in the Promised Land, I come back here indifferent. I didn't want the 4:30 am Welcome Back Committee. I feel guilty for their warmth and unconditional love for me when all I can think about is my former life. I abhor the same six or ten mile loop we run like mice on the wheel day after day, after running much varied terrain all last week. At least I take solace in the idea that upon our return here, the morning temperatures are now in the 70's at the start. Will tights weather ever be upon us?


This got me thinking about how running just isn’t for the faint of heart. When summer temperatures here climb to the obscene, sweating takes on new meaning. Even at 4:30 in the morning, until just recently, we were uncontrollably dripping wet. Despite the fact that we wear so little clothing (we may as well all be running naked), we are seriously hot. My shorts have never been so non-existent, and let's just say that if a sports bra wasn't necessary, it would not be worn. I joke with most of the guys how "redneck" they really are ("Whatever, Malibu Barbie."), but truth be told, I really like most everyone and we are a tight-knit group. With perspiration flinging off pumping limbs, spit flying, and noses farm-blowing, I’ve shared more bodily fluids with these running partners than I have in some intimate relationships. The running here doesn’t afford the luxury of cooling off in shade or catching a breeze; it forces us to visit putrid portable potties and put thirsty lips to slimy water spigots (never before did I even know what this word was).

So why can I not look my running friends in the eye when they ask me how the trip home was? Why do I simply blow it off as "fine" and tell everyone, "Oh yes! It's wonderful to be back here." Getting on the plane to return to this coast is still a deliberate act of sheer will and they all know it. They know I'm full of it to wear the mask and smile politely. I'm like a fish out of water and everyone knows I'm suffocating, but they kindly offer to help pick me up and throw me back into a puddle. My friends coax and caudal me, shuttle me back into the routine with this dinner and that party, and then I'm okay.

Running with Barry and Gary every Friday is therapy, too. They always give me some perspective (as well as much laughter)and here it is this week: I have great friends here. People even like me. We have many, many, many activities in which our family always participates and our social calendar is usually booked solid. My friends are my life here. But when I think about returning to work, or where I would like my kids in school, where I would like them to grow up, the answer is always the same. It is not that I am above the people or routine here. It simply still feels- even after more than two years- like I am parting my hair on the wrong side when I get out of bed every morning. I still have to correct myself when talking about heading away from the ocean- it is West and not East to head to the mainland. I still draw comparisons and feel like there is so much life I am missing out on back home.

I am not sad or resentful or upset anymore. I am resigned to the idea of this for now and I will appreciate my friends every step of the way. Then I am going to hope that they all decide to move to the West Coast to continue to be part of my world because I cannot seem to adapt to life here. I already asked Barry to take the Barr in CA and his response was, "Never again" so prospects are not good. I sure will miss these people, if not their climate.

Driving down the grade and heading into Hollywood to meet a friend for dinner last week still feels comfortable. Driving the 101 is home. Sitting in traffic on the 405 is a non-issue because it is a small price to pay to live in paradise. Fighting for a parking spot in a crowded lot brings me back to days of driving as a teenager and learning how to be defensive. Standing in an endless line for a cup of coffee is business as usual. Smog is a way of life. I miss it every single day.

A Run Down Memory Lane

I found an old writing sample about Long Beach Marathon. I may have already blogged it, but it is fun to read about the horrors of the past. This still stands as one of my all-time worst marathons, as far as how horrible *horrible* I felt when it was over, but I learned so much about myself along the way.



Defying Logic to Find Heart




Running to me is all about courage. It is about how much heart each of us has and how we choose to direct the fire in our soul. It is the story we write with our shoes along the asphalt and the expression of our personalities. How do we travel those 26 miles and how do we finish? How much courage does it take and just how much heart is involved? What is my story? I found out in October of 2005 at the Long Beach Marathon.



My training had been perfectly on par. My nutrition plan was flawless and my legs were race-ready. The autumn weather in Southern California left me with nothing to want, perfectly clear skies and high fifties at the start, as we lined up in our appropriate corrals. My only goal was to run a 3:40 so I might qualify for the coveted Boston Marathon spot again. I figured I had it in the bag. So confident was I in my training and overall shape, that at mile three, I jumped behind two guys about my late twenty-something age. Both were extremely fit with bronzed, shaved legs (surely a sign of triathletes), and each ran with music plugged into his ears (perfect- I wanted to zone out in my own head and simply chase some nice gams in front of me). The guy on the left wore a sign on his back that read, “3:30” and his friend to the right wore the matching partner sign, “Or Bust”. I liked their style immediately.



The three of us exchanged nods, sharing that knowing look with the silent understanding that there was work to be done here and talking this day was not an option for any of us. Here in the early morning hours along a beautiful coast just after sunrise, two perfect strangers to me befriended me for the sake of a common goal: to run a respectable marathon. We began the race under gray skies with several hundred spectators already lining the course. The first three miles seemed to breeze by with the one that blew stray strands of hair off my face. I felt comfortable, at ease, jovial in the moment. Mile four and I checked my watch that boldly read 30 minutes even. Interesting. Team Ipod appeared to be a little ahead of pace, but no matter, this was time in the bank, right? Surely these 3:30 guys knew what they were doing- they had the matching outfits and all the right gear that told me they were marathon veterans. This was the day I was going to prove to myself that two small children at home couldn't’t cramp my style of sub 3:30 marathon pace from my former life. 3:40 was for the weak. After all, I had endured child labor, certainly I could withstand a little bit of self-inflicted pain of another kind? I was being generous with myself, giving far too much slack with the initial 3:40 finish time.



The miles clicked away and away and away. Somehow the line between 3:30 and 3:20 became completely blurred as we continued to slap our feet along that boardwalk. By mile 16, I could feel a faint sense of worry growing in my chest (or perhaps that was my labored breathing?). I took inventory of the body to get comfortable with what was ailing me, and by this time, most everything was uncomfortable. I talked myself into thinking that my hair felt wonderfully amazing and without any sort of pain whatsoever. So did my fingernails- perfect, all ten. I forged forward with that thought, chasing the boys, whose names I didn’t even care to know, just ahead of my stride. I watched that “3:30 Or Bust” begin to bleed from the sweat that soaked their shirts, betraying their carefree and haphazard attitudes, as they pranced along, as though this were just another day, no different from any other training run in the weeks leading to this moment. Business as usual out on the road. Mile 17 and I couldn’t deny the fact that I was now dropping off the pace, which still would have given us better than the 3:30 we were chasing. “3:30” guy looked over his shoulder and with a brilliant smile, used his hand to motion for me to keep up, but all I could muster was a pathetic head shake no. I dismissed him by looking down at my unhappy and throbbing feet, now feeling like stuffed sausages in my size seven and a half Triax.



By mile 19, now alone and running considerably slower, my mind was in a very dark place. The open course lead me to serious delusional thoughts, “If I step out of this shoulder, even just a little bit over the line, I can get hit by a car and I will be able to stop running…they will have to pick me up and I can stop running....i can ride with medical help and I can STOP running....” My stomach lurched and cramped, refusing to settle the GU I had choked down only minutes earlier. My legs were strangers to me; they felt like nothing I had ever known before, and definitely not extensions of my body. These were not my trusted friends who had carried me through all the miles of perfect training for sixteen weeks, they became the traitors I had now come to call them, “Judas” and “Benedict”.



I stumbled through the water station at mile 22 and had to relegate myself to walking. The clock here revealed the ugly truth of my time slipping away from me- not even 3:30 anymore, because I had given up on that long ago. Now, the clock glared at me, scolding me for even letting go of the initial goal of 3:40. I knew my error- I had tried to run with the Big Dogs and I had been eaten alive. My legs and stomach were pulverized as a result and my ego was bruised. Just as I was chastising myself for being so utterly stupid, I caught a glimpse of an ambulance in my periphery. While shamefully shuffling the runners cat walk now littered with Dixie cups, my mouth was agape in disbelief- there was “Or Bust” lying on the side of the road! He was on his back, digging his fingers into his forehead as though the pain were splitting his head in half, chest heaving, while EMTs frantically worked over him. “Bust” had busted! My chest hurt from his certain pending disappointment (once he was convinced death was not eminent), and I decided my suffering clearly was not as bad as I initially considered it to be. I soldiered on, trying to catch his eye for reassurance, but elbowed out by medical personnel.



I remember not miles 23 to the finish. I simply remember feeling grateful for the cloud cover that graciously offered those of us racing the reprieve from any sort of bright light, my own head screaming at me from dehydration. The moment I crossed the finish line, it began to rain, ever so softly, and I was thankful for the wet that wasn’t my own sweat. It was as if the sky had courteously waited for my death march to end and now it began to cry for me- the clock read 3:51 high. Before I could allow the lump in my throat to grow with this poetic injustice, my boy “3:30” appeared from out of the masses and in my face, clutching my upper arms, now trembling from exhaustion.



“Good job!” he said, far too enthusiastically for me to appreciate. “How are you?”



Though I was ecstatic to be reunited with a warm, familiar face, the blood leaving my legs now shunted back to my stomach prevented me from answering his question. I held up a shaky index finger and weaved over to the closest trash can. Linking my aching fingers through the chain link fence, I effectively emptied my tummy of all that was in it, making a convincing case for medical attention for myself.



“Are you okay?” He inquired, with a hand on my sweat-soaked back.



“Never better,” was my response this time, and though the accompanying smile was weak, I meant it.



The urge to cry had subsided, perhaps due in part to the distraction of the vomiting issue and the pain in my stomach muscles from the uncontrollable lurching. But moreover, I forced the lump of disappointment in my throat down because even though my qualifying time had run away from me that day, so had the inhibition. I didn’t care that I was throwing up the contents of my gut in front of thousands of people. I was losing my lunch, but gaining a whole new perspective on what it means to be a passionate runner. I didn’t simply go through the motions that day- I ran with emotion and found my true identity in being a runner.

While I used to always be so concerned with the outfit and the shoes and the matching hair tie, today it didn’t matter that I threw up all over my Nikes. I didn't care about the photos along the course; I was too busy being the real McCoy. I didn’t leave anything on the table to regret later because I knew even though I didn’t run a smart race, I was able to still drag myself to the finish line despite the stomach pain and the heartache. My heart was broken, but I had heart.

Brian was waiting at the end of that race. He had ridden his bike to the finish line and was all smiles to see me come in. I didn't know him at all, only stories of him from Marc and their many days of swimming in younger years. Marc reintroduced us and told me I did great, regardless of the time.

"How far is the car from here?" I asked Marc.

"About six blocks," his reply.

My heart sank. My head throbbed. My stomach hated me. I knew I would never make it. I considered kicking the kids out of the jogging stroller and asking Marc to push me. Then I looked at Brian and his means of transport.

"Get off your bike." I barked at him.

"I beg your pardon?" Brian had the nerve to challenge me in my fragile state.

"I said, I need your bike. Please let me ride it. My legs just don't work anymore right now. Get off." The stomach pain was making me cranky and I was growing increasingly impatient.

"Oh, of course, of course," as he threw a leg over and climbed off. "All yours."

Thank goodness. Now I liked him. I always like a Yes Man. I climbed on and we rode/ walked back to the car. Six blocks later, Marc and I said goodbye to Brian and I reclined our car's passenger seat as far back as it would go. Marc had to pull over at least twice for me to lean out of the car and vomit in the gutter on our way out of Long Beach, but my memory is a little hazy of those events now. What matters now is this day forward.

I'm still grateful to Brian for his bike that day. He will always be a Yes Man to me.

The Horizon

What drives us? I have decided for me it is misery. The greater the misery and pain in my chest, the greater the longing in my heart- the more destitute I become- the greater becomes my need to reach for the ever-fading dream on the horizon. The farther out of my reach it seems, the faster I am going to run to try to touch it. With little hope in my heart, I am going to push to catch it, even if I die trying.

Marc has a conference in Los Angeles in November and I am counting the days to get out of here. When I look at and evaluate the circumstances, it all seems so obvious. I never aspired to grow up and simply be some one's wife. I never wanted to follow a man and his career across the country, lose my identity along the way, while rendering myself helpless to the elements. I can complain about everything around me, allow the circumstances to continue to spin blindly out of control, or I can stand up and get off this mundane ride. How much longer will I choose to sit back and allow Marc to continue to follow the track that has been worn ahead of him? He is passive, but I am not. The more he tells me no, the harder I am going to push for what I want, and that is the driving force I need out of mediocrity. Like the child who has an internal tantrum, I need to be told no so I can make it yes. Spankings never scared me.

The discontent in my heart is at an all time high, now with the high heat of summer here and kids back in the routine. The quick fix and distraction from the dull ache in my chest are the trips we have lined up on the books....the Carolinas, Atlanta, CA- but what about the long term cure? These are mere temporary treatments for the sickness that daily binds me- homesickness. It never ceases- it sometimes abates a bit when I can find happiness in the little things, but the big picture is still the same. How can we allow something like a stable job in this economy dictate our geographic location? Can we really put a price on happiness? Just as we cannot expect one person to meet all of our needs, we cannot sit at the station and wait for the perfect seat on the perfect commuter train to come. If this were the case, we would all be paralyzed forever- waiting for the perfect spouse, the perfect house, the perfect opportunity to LIVE.

I am ready to live now already. I am not getting any younger and I sure as hell am not getting any wiser.

Diversity

I think I am giving up racing. I am continuously disappointed in my times that seem to get progressively slower. Today's 15K was no different- I ran 1:10, a whole minute slower than last year, which I think was a minute slower than the year before. Is it that a-g-e is creeping up on me? Why can I simply not get my legs to fire any faster? I absolutely ran out of gas at mile 7, so mile 8 was basically a cool down to the finish. Mile 9 to the .3 was straight up ugly. 7th out of 108 in my age group- not even close to a podium finish, which is very humbling. Tracy killed it, taking first in her age group of 113 chicks. She is a quick chick leading the pack. I love calling a friend an Award Winner.

The upside is my little chick ran a PR in the 5K of 35 minutes. I think she had something better in her, though she has been sick all week with a nasty virus and still trying to keep on top of all her activities of junior guards, riding horses, swim team and tons of time with friends. Today we all kind of hit the wall with the 4:30 am wake up call.

After the race was the traditional parade with Navy jets and old Coronado fire trucks, surfers, clowns and everything in between. The kids ran wild with friends and ate tons of junk food before heading into La Jolla for a BBQ and swim party with a different set of friends. What a perfectly beautiful day. Marc ran along the coast while we hung out by the pool. He ran all the way down to the pier in Mission and saw tons of parties and people along the busy, happy miles. Everyone and everything here is so alive. There is no shortage of things to do and people to see, places to explore and educational opportunities for the kids (science museum in Balboa Park yesterday was awesome). In a word: diversity. I need it like I need air.

Back to the in-laws for dinner outside with no bugs. Our second and final BBQ of the day, and I am grateful for seventy degrees and no flying friends. I love living outside all the day long....is there any other way to live? Tomorrow, Marc and I run hills. Yeehaw.

Del Far

Or so it was named if you lived here in college, as opposed to "The Jewel", but I love Del Mar. It is magical and majestic, serene and quaint. I love running the cliffs along the railroad tracks and breathing in the Pacific gray air. Our friend Barry in FL refers to me as a "Pacific Dweller" and I think he nailed it- of the Atlantic, I am not.

Owen continues her Junior Guards every day on the beach and life is good, drinking Starbucks and taking in the many tourists from Arizona while killing time at the park. I am nothing short of exhausted, still living as a single mommy and running from one end of San Diego to the other for parks, play dates, swim team, and guards, lunch and dinner dates, birthday parties and everything in between...I fall into bed exhausted but elated.

70 degrees and no bugs. Did I mention life is good? I love a storybook day- I hope tomorrow's chapter brings more joy and adventure. How can I take for granted even one day of pure goodness? I really try not to, knowing it is drawing to a rapid close. 4:15 am for some punishment from Susan tomorrow.

Weekend Warriors

Today was absolute bliss along the coast. We met at our old stomping grounds at one of many Starbucks in the hood. Jen and Susan carpooled and met Tracy and me at our starting point. None of us had done this particular 15 mile course north along the coast in ages.

We headed our in total darkness (for something new and different) and freezing air (this is still nothing short of amazing and miraculous to me) up the hill and into Del Mar, a magical place. What I thought might be an awkward and uncomfortable run, trying to settle into a pace with three other girls who had not been together in a year, turned into pure bliss. It was as if not a day had passed between us, loping along the highway, waiting for the sun to come up. I am never sure how pace and conversation will sort themselves out after time away from each other, but somehow we managed to roll right into a beautiful run.

We weaved in and out of my favorite streets of Del Mar, hardly aware of the million dollar homes around us, almost taking for granted again the hills above and cliffs below. The sound of the waves under us whispered their peaceful presence against the cliff side and sky was pitch black, though dotted with stars.

We headed toward the scene of the terrible cartilaginous crime, the sea monster who attacked the unsuspecting triathlete last year. I still shudder every time I pass that surf spot and wonder how his family is coping now, how they might continue to love the ocean that took their beloved. If I think about it too long or too much in depth, I think I may never swim in that sea again. So I push down the negative thoughts and try to calm my frayed nerves, reminding myself we are on land at the moment, in awe of the endless blue of unknowns.

After passing Blood Alley (named for the bikers and runners who have been hit by cars with careless drivers checking the surf), we stopped for a quick squat break and dodged one sleeping homeless man. I told Tracy she could just as easily squat behind a No Parking sign and still be hidden, her slight frame all of maybe 86 pounds. She was not amused and quite annoyed that the bathrooms were still not open yet for business as usual. This coast or that, runners are still the same, ducking in bushes and jumping behind trees to tend to nature that calls at the most inopportune times.

We turned around and traced our footing back, though failing to account for the added steps in looking for an open restroom, and falling just short of 15 once in the Starbucks parking lot. Susan made us run laps around the parking lot until her Garmin read the official number ("Are you for real?") and the onlookers inside were amused by this senseless act. I am glad we did, however, because in killing that time (and our feet), we bought the necessary minutes to catch Sue, Kathleen, and Jan who were rolling in from the other direction from their early morning run, and jumping in cars to get to the swim workout. I was elated to see them and catch up for a few minutes, as well, until I felt faint as though I might fall over. I think it had something to do with the torrid pace Susan set for us coming home (even Jen gave up on that), and upon abruptly stopping, my mind had not yet caught up with the program. I think my brain was still in fast jiggle mode- nothing a latte couldn't fix, however.

How happy I am to know a group of strong and self-assured women, who each bring something unique to the run and the conversation. Why was I worried? Why did I think we would somehow not connect again? How could all of the miles and roads and races shared between us not forever connect us? Why would I even doubt that bond? Maybe because time does change people and circumstances- I am a different person than I was two years ago, with different expectations and different dreams. But under all of the layers, I am still a runner to the core, and so are my girls.

Friday Eve

Running the Lake with Jen was great. Uncle John even came out for the occasion and ran with us, or, in front of us. I must admit, I am impressed with my brother-in-law's running stamina right now. We were running around 7:40 pace for the five mile loop and he was a few yards ahead of us. It was nice having a big guy running out in front to take on any random wild animals and all the cobwebs, particularly after he told me a story about his friend's dog being attacked by a coyote right in front of them on a walk around a neighboring lake.

Counting the days until Marc gets here and we can relax together. Tomorrow is another busy day of dual play dates, a birthday party and dinner date. Ahhhh.

California Therapy

I love this time of the night. The kids are snuggled down into their warm comforters and they are reading books or watching sweet videos. They are exhausted from an invariably crazy day of running from this play date to that park, to another commitment and then the pool. I look forward to bed all day after freezing in the June Gloom, clipping around in flip flops with toes frozen. I love it. I think the high today was 64 at one point, but most of the day along the coast where we spent was in the fifties. I love it. I love being bundled in cozy sweat pants and zipping up in a favorite hoodie after a well-deserved hot shower. All is peaceful and delicious.

Tracy came over at 4:30 this morning and we ran our favorite Tour De Poway loop: ten miles of lovely rolling hills with some serious steep climbs in there, as well. Kimmie would die, if only she could see the mountains now. My quads were burning and my calves hated me, but I refused to ask Trace to back off the pace. I refused to give into the hills that have become unfamiliar strangers to me because that would be admitting weakness and slacking off. I had to ask Tracy all the questions near the end of our time together so that she would talk more and I could dedicate all of my concentration toward breathing. It's a beautiful life.

Running with girlfriends is always therapeutic, but something about running here with girlfriends is pure Prozac. They are like a shot of adrenaline to me, fueling the rush and leaving me wanting ever more (I had to corner Jen at the park today and line up the Lake Miramar run for tomorrow). I think Tracy and I solved most of our childhood issues, marital woes, and even touched on world peace- all in an hour and ten minutes this morning. Not bad considering the sun was just up and we had not had but even one cup of Joe yet. Tracy and I share a love for a great many things, but we venerate our main man, Joe, above all else. We love Joe. I am already dreaming about him on my lips tomorrow after the lake run. I love it.

Now off to snuggle my kids and read to them. I l-o-v-e it.

Jailed

As I sit and listen to the happy squeals from my kids in the backyard, loving their game of "Jail" with Gramps, I wonder how it has come to this. How am I sitting on a fluffy bed with my beloved husband on the other side of the country? How did we come to agree what is best for our family is to be separated two months out of a year? While I admit being back in my home state rejuvenates me like nothing else, I have to reflect on the obvious: is this the best choice for all involved? In so many ways, I still feel stuck- a prisoner in my own life.

Certainly Marc is alone and, well, lonely in the 4,000 square feet around him back in the inferno. The kids and I are cozy and loving our accommodations here where someone cooks and cleans and caters to our needs. Is this a fair shake? Of course I can justify anything when I think of the "sacrifice" of living ten months over there. Admittedly, Florida feels less and less of an out-of-body experience and more of a deliberate act of endurance. But I never like anything that was not my choice by design and I never like to be told no, therefore, how could I possibly have liked our move from the start?

I ran with the old group here on Sunday. We traced the hills of San Dieguito with our feet, up and down the rolling hills along the golf course. I am pleased to report that I was freezing in 54 degree temps. Some people simply never change, and I think I prefer that to those who have left their spouses and moved on from their jobs. I guess I really don't like change, and yet, with only one life to live, how can we possibly remain stagnant and do the same thing forever? Do I really want to move back to CA so desperately? Not so much when I go out with a realtor and look at houses-it is difficult to assign a value to four walls of grotesque old architecture. How can people really ask for -and get- the numbers they are for what is included? The price of living in Paradise has really not dropped that much. Of course, when I watch my son swim here under the watchful eye of his dad's old swim mates, I think I would do whatever it takes to get back home again. My heart could burst with pride, I am so happy to watch them coach my kids- the cycle starts over again. Just like the kids I used to babysit are now watching my own kids-where did the time really go?

The time I am most homesick is around Halloween when I long for the air that has turned cool and school is back in full swing and fall is all around. Then I am homesick at Christmastime when I long for the mountains and hot chocolate of Julian and caroling with neighbors. Then sometimes I am homesick when I think of all the variety there is here with regard to EVERYTHING (running routes, gyms, swim team, restaurants, parks and recreation) and I feel as though we have nothing on the other coast. But do I really want to move home, the paragon for the good life? Does it have to be here?

Sometimes I think no. I think what purpose would it serve us to run home? We have moved on and settled in and recreated a life that is ours. We have made great friends, and found a new routine and locked the kids into sports and classes and buddies. We can't simply fall back into what used to be our lives. I grieved that loss a long, long, long, long time, but now I think I am looking to what comes next. With only one life to live, why not live as much and as many places as possible? Why not dream the dream of the acreage in Oregon with an apple orchard and horses for the kids? Why not consider the possibility of doing something totally different and off the wall- unexpected. I am a California girl to the core. Every fiber in me lives and breathes the Pacific, but somewhere in there discontent has gotten hold of my heart and it is struggling to make a name for itself. Discontent wants to evolve into Great Expectations and make something bigger happen.

I am applying for Grad school finally. It has taken me this long, but here I stand at the crossroads. Our kids are getting older and more independent, some days so much so that it breaks my heart. At her last swim meet, Owen asked me why I was sad.

"Mom, are you sad because I am getting bigger all the time?"

"No, lovely, I am sad because you have almost closed in on my swim interval."

Their shrieking continues outside. Poor Gramps- chasing them and dragging them back to "Jail", the relentless "Judge". My kids never tire of this game, running back and forth under the eves of the house, their little bare feet slapping along the bricks where the birds have scattered their mess of seed from the feeders above. All the while, the dogs chasing the kids, never ceasing to be just at their heels-they seem to wear smiles, too. Then they all come inside and the Goldens collapse under the table, where the little people drop crumbs of after dinner delights. These are the memories my kids will grow up with, as mere visitors to California, not the residents I always wanted- assumed- they would be. Just as I was a traveler to New York and Michigan when I visited my grandparents every summer, my own kids will be transversing the States to see family each year. I am not sure how that makes me feel anymore. A prisoner to another state? A slave to our current economy, locked into a promising job that feeds our family?

Jailbreak. My time is up.

Run, Not Race

Today was time to pay the Piper after all the long miles on the pavement in the small town we call home. But, before I get to that, let me get back to my blond roots here in Cali and share a story about a lapse in brain power.

We arrived in Los Angeles Thursday morning, ahead of schedule and with a fabulous pilot who landed our 747 on a dime. We got our rental car and sailed down to San Diego with no traffic and empty stomachs, but we pushed the pace to get South before we decided to stop for food. After lunching at Kai's on the beach in Cardiff By the Sea, it was on to the in-laws for what Abbe is now calling the "Spa Accommodations". I cannot remember being so happy and in love with life in recent memory. The houses on the hillside were glorious in the afternoon sunlight as we reached Poway.

Abbe and I decided to run Friday morning and take Saturday off before the marathon. We agreed on a 5:30 am start time so we might sleep in a little and stock up on rest before D Day. It is funny, because I really have had zero stress or preparation for the race. Of course, I ran long training runs, but I have not had the usual butterflies or apprehension that usually precedes a long race. I hadn't thought about outfit or replacing my well-worn soles, or planned the pre-race dinner. Regardless, for the last junk mile training run, I set the alarm Thursday night for 5:25 (to squeak in every last minute of sleep before heading out the door) and fell into bed after a long day of travel. I must have been exhausted, because it felt like I had just put my head on the pillow when the alarm jolted me out of bed. Ugg. I was tired.

I crept down the dark hallway on cold tile to get Abbe out of the bedroom she was sharing with Kimmie and coaxed her out of the billowing covers. The house was cold. We are having unusually cold weather right now with May gray not even burning off by its usual midday disappearance. Abbe reluctantly dragged herself out of the room and echoed my sentiment of being exhausted. After dressing in shorts and long sleeves, we walked up the first mountain and then slowly began a jog down the decent. We were freezing in the damp morning and agreed on about three miles, just to turn the wheels and loosen up after being on a plane and in a car for the day prior. The air smelled sweet of jasmine all around and in the darkness, the sycamore trees looked foreboding and eerie- something right off the pages of a storybook. The streets were soaked with the marine layer that hung heavy in the air, a chilly 57 degrees. Though tired and cold, I felt so alive and thrilled to be sharing my California joy with a Florida friend. I was home again.

The streets were so slick, we slid right along, up another long climb toward the high school on top of the ridge ahead. After cresting that hill and following the rolling hills to level ground, we decided we had already exceeded our three mile easy run limit and decided to turn around.

"Why am I so tired?" Abbe kept saying. I promised her it was a sign of a good taper, or so Marc has told me when I have complained of the same ailment in the past leading into a marathon. It sounded good at the time, anyway. As we headed back up the hill toward Marc's old high school, the fog swooned in the light of the street lamps and the heavy mist seemed to dance around them, as well. I couldn't help but notice how very dark it still was and how few cars were on the road- we had seen two altogether. Wasn't this a work day? It was Friday, after all. No matter, and we continued down the hill.

Just then, head lights came from behind. The morning was black as night and I told Abbe I thought we might be better off jumping over the guard rail on the trail that paralleled the street since we were without reflectors or blinker lights. Despite the fact that it sounded great to get hit by a car and not have to race Sunday, I didn't want to be maimed for life. She obliged and we swung a tired leg over the cold metal and the other followed. The car that approached from behind came to a screeching halt. Were we going to be abducted out in the middle of horse country? It was a cop. A cop? What did he want with us?

The young cop, who was very easy on the eyes, asked if we were okay. Abbe wasted no time in telling him our life stories about training for the marathon, visiting from Florida, and hanging with Marc's family. His response was he thought we were teenagers coming in from a late night. "Oh, I love you! May I have your badge number?" Abbe said. He told us to be careful and wished us luck for the marathon. His partner was in the marked car behind him and over the PA the second cop said, "Have a nice days, girls."

"Wow! Your California Cops are so friendly and helpful!" Abbe remarked. We trudged up the last hill and then down a long stretch into the driveway. When we got into the light of the driveway, Ab looked at her watch and said, "Oh schmutz. My watch must have broke. It reads 3:40 in the morning." All at once my stomach hurt and I knew why those cops stopped us. As Abbe began to change her watch, I had to report the dreaded realization-it was 3:40 in the morning. No wonder the sun had not woken up yet. I set my alarm the night before, but forgot to adjust the real time to West Coast. We had left the house at 2:30 in the morning. Sometimes my brilliance astounds me.

We slinked into the kitchen and checked the time on the oven in the kitchen. Yep. 3:42. It was confirmed- I am a genius.

Fast forward to today, race day. I am thrilled there is no vomit to report. While a time of 3:52 is nothing to write home about, the fact that it was not preceded by any unwelcome bodily fluid is a victory for me. I had anxiety walking up to corral three this morning when I thought about how painful last year was. I could not put my mind around hurting like that again for the sake of some numbers on the clock. I did not want history to repeat itself, and so I truly gave myself permission to let go of any expectation of time. I have told myself this before, but then reneged on it in my mind. Today, when I saw the 3:40 pace group in front of me still at mile 9, I dropped back and let them go. I couldn't bear to even think about the possibility.

There was such joy and freedom in running in ignorant bliss. While I do admit to looking at my time at the half way point (1:50 high), I can honestly say I never did read a clock again until I saw the numbers at the finish. It is amazing when I run and don't try to race how much more fun it really is. I stopped and chatted with old friends at mile 17 and again at mile 19. The social became more important than the end product and it was as though I really were no longer captive to the idea of the "race". I was enamored with the beauty around me. I dare say there was a tear in my eye as I came down the backside of the 163 freeway and specifically turned around to drink in the sea of people chasing me down the hill. The mountains were *are* spectacular and to be running among them made me feel like a speck of dust in the universe. All of a sudden, I felt very small and grateful and I knew I had to acknowledge the marine layer and 59 degree temps as a gift. The whole day was nothing short of a gift- to be running on two legs, to celebrate life with friends, to have four hours to myself, alone in my head, to think about everything I have- these are all gifts.

The smells of the marathon were all around me- the sharp, gingery smell of some one's muscle relief ointment, the sticky orange Gu the man next to me was slurping down, the distasteful smell of the woman who chose not to wear deodorant this morning, the scent of someone else's shampoo now that her hair was damp with sweat.

Crossing the line was bitter sweet, knowing I had let go of working for a respectable time, but free from the bondage that comes with that effort. My feet hurt, my calves were sore from the hills, but I rejoiced to see our ride home, Tracy and her sweet husband who chauffeured us to the start, as usual. It made me realize just how fabulous it is to have friends on both coasts.

I could recount all the miles and emotions. I could try to articulate the beauty of the day. I could try to paint the cold, gray picture of happiness in the midst of 20,000 runners, but I won't. There are no words to describe the relief I feel now that the race is over and the contentedness I feel having completed it as a runner and not a racer. That was huge in and of itself.

Inspired

I refuse to believe there is a marathon in my near future. My head is so not there and I could care less about the finish. Is that wrong? I am waiting with great anticipation to see friends at home, who are now calling me daily asking for the count-down to our arrival (18 days, thank you very much). Summer is here and I can almost taste the salty Pacific air. I cannot wait to dive into the blue waters of my childhood and lay on West Coast sand again. I can't wait to drive along Pacific Coast Highway and run the hills of Torrey Pines. The mountains are calling my name more than anything else from home. I might even be down for a little earthquake action, just for old times sake.

As for training, it is what it is. I love to run and could do so for miles at a time-21 miles yesterday and then ten more today on tired legs. I love running with the boys-no b.s. and all work horse. Craig raised the question today about what kind of time I am looking for in San Diego and I told him I honestly could not care less under current circumstances. Somehow I rarely have successful races anymore, so I think I will have no expectations for May 31st. Speed begets speed, and I have not been consistently running track. I long for a big group of early morning runners again to tear around a track with. I miss the chest-burning pace my peeps used to push me to in days of old. Without speed, how can I possibly expect to have a strong marathon? I have made peace with it.

Maybe it is lack of motivation, or maybe it is increase in maturity, but I care so little about what the clock reads. It is kind of empowering that a clock doesn't define me anymore (neither does my weight, or the shoes I wear, or whatever). I want to enjoy running for the pure and simple sport it is meant to be. I love my training partners and we have such a great time together in the wee hours of the morning. I love that we text and email each other incessantly throughout the day because I cannot live without that contact with my athletic friends. I love being a mom, I love being a wife, I love being a friend, I love being a runner-these words define me. Maybe a marathoner I am not? I am not inspired to run a "fast" marathon, but I am inspired to do great things otherwise.

I have a new plan as to how I am going to attain great things. Wait for it. I want to inspire other people, too.

God Sends the Wind

On warm autumn days
When the air smells sweet
The days are short and amber
And rain falls in sheets.

His breath bends the forest
And moves the ocean with ease.
God sends the wind
And scatters the leaves.

Though hard to run in
And worse on bike
His wind still whispers all
Things that I like.

The wind communicates,
Reminds and cajoles.
The wind hushes and calms,
And then it consoles.

It stirs in me memories,
It shakes up dreams, sorrows-
Brings back my childhood
And speaks of tomorrow.

His breath is soft
But sometimes is violent.
The wind can be peaceful
And then comes the silence.

And in that quiet
I often will hear
Songs of what is to come-
God is near.

Love The One You're With

Okay, it sucks getting old-really. Today's race was a painful 1:16 for ten miles- 7:41/mile, which is usually my half marathon pace. Can't wait to see the photo of me vomiting over the finish line. An onlooker yelled to me as I crossed, "Come on, girl. You got it." Yep. I had it-vomit as the finale. The worst part was I met and ran with a nice man at the start and he happened to be waiting to see how I finished up, only to watch me puke. "Guess I know what kind of a day you had." He said to me. That about summed it up. Why do I always have to embarrass myself like that? So uncivilized. I knew it was going to hurt, and it did-that last mile really hurt.

After the race, the day proved to be really fantastic. Marc and I went out on the boat with fifty of our closest friends-Patti and her family pulled the yacht out for the occasion of St. Patrick's Day. I love the Irish-they make me wish I drank. Green beer and lots of laughs, these people know how to party under the sun. It was with great ceremony and precise detail the sailors navigated the huge boat out from the dock and down the fingers. I admit it was really cool to be part of it. We have such nice friends here and were it not for the balmy weather and lack of mountainous terrain, I might even want to stay a while.

I feel bad that my negativity has seeped into some of my running buddies' thoughts. Today on the boat, one such friend happened to mention that he has lost a little enthusiasm for our typical Tuesday/Thursday six mile loop at my suggestion (I think it was his nice way of saying my constant whimpering) and that made me feel really lame. It lead me to think: are we each capable of being content if not for some negative, vocal people? Do we innately believe that what we have is special because that is what we want to believe, or are we driven to want more? Is the six mile loop just absolutely perfect for those who know no other way or are we all looking for a little something more? In other words, until someone else puts some other idea out there, are we merely creatures of habit with our comforts and routines? Is it not until someone scandalous and self-righteous comes along that we question what we have?

I am always amazed at how many people within our running community are divorced, separated, twice and three times remarried, working on a new relationship, etc, whatever. Were they all content until someone else came along? Were these people originally happy until a new and better offer came knocking on their door? How do they feel about their status now? How did they lose the vision of the original plan and shift to Plan B? Don't get me wrong-several of these people seem very happy the second (and third) time around, but how did it come to pass? Certainly they didn't walk down the isle the first time with the thought that they would be doing it again in a handful of years?

I wonder if in the same way I am like this about my living situation? Florida is really okay, but I have tasted something else-something sweeter-and it beckons for me. I know what I want and it tempts and distracts me from what we have here. Will it not really be as green as I think it is when we go back? Florida has never been the long term relationship for me, so how long until we divorce? How do I invest myself completely in this relationship and environment when I am always longing for something else- the elusive other "man"? How long until "he" envelops me in his arms again, ever calling my name and whispering things that make my heart race to think about what "he" has to offer?

Marc always tells me how discontent I am; he says that I am never satisfied and always waiting on the next best thing. He always tells me as long as I don't change him out for the next item or attraction, he is okay with it, but food for thought, right? Being on the boat today with Patti and her family made me feel sad that we are not as tight with our own families, spending the afternoon together out in the sun, lounging on a huge vessel in the river. How can we? We are a whole country away from them. Then again, sometimes being in close proximity to family brings on a whole new set of problems and obligations, I realize. If life is full of experiences and opportunities, how can we begin to choose the ones that really suit us? How can we really know we are content with who and what we have? As humans, is it just in our nature to be fickle? Some of us more than others, I suppose.

Regulus

I signed on for a race-at long last. I have not had the heart to commit to anything and I am not sure why. I think it is a funk, but the funk has subsided and I felt motivated to put something on the books after a very long hiatus.

My daughter teaches me something everyday. Two years in a row at her old swim team, she won the award for "Most Improved Swimmer". Her coach told me she had the "heart of a lion" and those words have sat in my chest like the ache I feel when I long to be home. Those words roll off my tongue when I encourage her to push a little harder in a race. I use those words to water her little soul like nourishment to stand a little taller and work a little more. Those are the words I of think of when I think about what a great, driven kid she is and how she wants to excel in so many things she does. Heart of a lion sums her up when she clambers up tall oak trees and peers down at us from above. Unstoppable is she.

Regulus is the name of the star that marks the heart of the constellation Leo in the night sky. It is one of the brightest and most beautiful stars in the sky. Regulus shines uninhibited and on fire. I am hoping I might have a little heart Sunday and make my girl proud.

Just Another Day

Okay, we are in the new house and it is pretty cool. We had a party here last weekend and it was almost a success. I say almost because of course it had been a beautiful week and the day of the party, literally the moment the party was to begin at 3:00, the sky opened up and it began to pour. Just when I think I might be able to make a go of something here, the weather ruins my mood again.

It poured and poured and POURED and we couldn't even enjoy the outdoor kitchen...we were all huddled in the indoor one. Actually, not true, a few of the men variety were outside under the cover watching sports on the flat screen and drinking beer while Marc tended to the BBQ. I am pretty sure that was Florida's way of giving me the middle finger on the day of our soiree. Whatever. We may have to do Cinco De Mayo to make up for this one. Honestly, it was such a great group of people, I wouldn't have cared too much if it snowed (too much)-I had a ton of fun knowing we have enough friends to actually call them together for a party.

My feet still kill, but I run anyway. Sounds like it could be a children's song, like to the tune of Bingo, or something as lame. "My feet still kill but I run anyway, and idiot is my name-o. I-D-I-O-T, I-D-I-O-T, I-D-I-O-T and idiot is my name-o. Yep. I am sure it can't be good for me as I crank up the mileage, but it is that or live cranky. I would rather be an idiot than cranky and unpleasant, so here I go again tomorrow at 4:30 am. Just another day. I am ready to hit bricks and pass out.

About the Shoes

It seems I never find the time or inclination to visit this site anymore. When there is so little time to be had, I never think to sit down to piece together and compose silly thoughts. Yet, here I am, wanting to put something in print because writing has always been my friend.

Life is busy here and getting busier all the time. As I try to plan for the summer trip home, I realize with the kids getting older, we are getting more entrenched in activities and obligations here that make it that much harder to slip away. In the beginning, I wanted to pretend this was all a bad dream that was going to be over. My life would resume as before after suffering for twelve months in the uncertainty of an uncivilized place, right? I was going to do the time and then get on with my life on the other coast.

Fast forward to almost 18 months later, and we are still here, living as "savages". Hardly, unless you count the rats that like to seek refuge in our garage. After my many complaints about trying to maintain this giant house and wanting to downsize, we are moving into a larger house on the mainland ("Way to downsize, mom," my daughter said to me with utter disdain as we drove up the circular drive to the new digs). Small houses are hard to come by here in FL-is that a function of hurricanes? Anyway, off we go and the work begins now. Boxes, family coming to town to help, and a possible half marathon on the books that same moving weekend. Yikes. Marc's schedule crazy with his company's move into the new building and chaos abounds. When we spin plates, we like to spin at least seventeen at one time because somehow I love the abuse. So, why would I chose to race the same weekend everything is going to hit the fan? I am not even close to being recovered from plantar that has derailed my training for so long. I am not anywhere near injury-free, but I can't take the not running or not racing anymore.

Walking around on injured feet was so utterly painful at first-now it is just par for the course. Even while running, the pain has become a dull ache that I seem to forget about the more the group rambles on. I would rather run in pain than to not run at all. For months, I stretched and iced and massaged and got adjustments. I changed orthodics and experimented with running styles. I laid off for almost ten weeks with little to no improvement. I gave up flip-flops (the universal dress code here) and slept in the boot-then Marc massaged some more. I changed my shoes and adjusted the mileage. Now, I do nothing but I am going to run, despite the discomfort.

In the same way, Florida will never be painless to me. It will always feel as though I am walking around in uncomfortable shoes on broken feet, limping through my day. The more I try to break in the uncomfortable soles, something else begins to ache and remind me of its unhappiness. A neglected something that I have failed to take initial inventory of will begin to rear its ugly head and remind me how bothered I am by...everything.

However, I know for my happiness, I have to try to figure out how to run with compromise-I have to live. The more we make friends and attend events and join groups and clubs and activities, the more the shoes are tolerable. They are not my shoes-jeez, they don't ever even match the outfit!-but for now, they are what I have to walk, run, and dance in. They are shoes I would have never chosen for myself, but they are beginning to pinch my toes less and demand less of my attention, despite their initial repulsiveness. Maybe this state we reside in (for however long or short the time may be) is not so backwards after all, but my thinking that was so all along. I always want the top-of-the line, cutest and priciest shoe; I always pine for a comfortable orthodic, but somehow, the shoe is out of stock and that insert is never the one prescribed to me.

If that insert is not going to be flexible, then I guess it is going to have to be me. I think I am someone who will always require an adjustment to live pain-free. Sometimes that adjustment is making peace with the shoes we have and learning how to adapt. I am a work in progress every single day. I thank God I have a husband who can handle me and friends who uplift me.