Up Before the Sun in San Diego

Something Old, Something New

2011-02-23T20:37:00.000-08:00

I am reinventing my idea of this blog and what purpose I hope it might serve. I may occasionally still write here (since I am kind of bipolar like that), but here is to moving on, at long last. Ultimately, I write for myself, and it feels great to talk about nothing or talk about everything. If you care to journey with me, I hope you might find you relate to some of the emotions I experience along the way.

http://aswampsaga.blogspot.com/2011/02/chocolate-frosting.html

Determined

2011-02-07T15:39:00.000-08:00

I feel reckless. Restless and reckless. Aimlessly wandering through the weeks, unattached from anything. I feel like I need to be saved from myself. Decently content when it comes to training and companions with whom I do so. Speed workout is great and Friday Boys Run remains my favorite weekly workout. They talk about nothing serious and there is no drama; it is easy to just run and to just be. Oh, and they run fast.
Sunday brought another 5K. Marc was second overall without even trying. I want to be like that: brave enough to enter something that painful and talented enough to not even sweat. He doesn't even realize how fortunate he is after all this time. I look at the pictures of him and I think what an incredibly cute guy. I know all of my girlfriends wish they could sleep with him. ;)
Swim meet all weekend and my girl is no different than her father--cool and collected, without a care in the world. Junior Olympic meet the 18-19 for those who qualify. I guess we're going to Clearwater. I think I am excited but I just can't seem to access what I should be feeling.
I think about so many people from my former life who feel like a distant memory now. I don't want to go home for the summer, because it is just too hard to leave them again. My sister is getting married in April and we are all in the wedding. It hardly feels worth it to fly home to only stay a week, but looking forward to hanging with her. I often wonder what I would be like and where I would be if I weren't extracted from my roots. Maybe I wouldn't like the person I would have become. Maybe I would be aloof and self-serving. Maybe I wouldn't appreciate all life has to offer if I felt like I had everything already. My mom used to say that about all of the kids at my high school, that they had nothing to look forward to since they already drove Porsches and BMWs, but I never understood what she meant. I think I am still processing it, because I'm quite certain I would have been just fine driving a 500 series. Then again, I am so different from who I was back then, but who am I?
I think of the growing pains I have endured the last three and a half years and it causes me to consider isn't that what life really is? We are always growing and changing and adjusting, within ourselves and within our relationships. What appears to be something we want one day may not suit us at all in five years, unless we choose to rearrange and reconsider priorities. How much can we alter our likes and desires? Can I be talked into something I really don't want? How many times must we change our position to see it from a new perspective? Why, as humans, are we always searching for more, more, more?
My mother never pays me any compliments or offers accolades, but one word she always uses to describe me is "determined". I think that is all I need from her, or anyone, really. I don't care what else can be said of me, but "determined" implies everything I hope to be.

I Don't Want To

2010-12-29T16:51:00.001-08:00

Post holidays and so much work to be done....not just with writing, but with packing up Christmas and then packing up the entire house for Saturday's move. The puppy is so much work, too. An infant in the house would have been an easier than a super sloppy spazy lab. John has come and gone, and with him, so much of the Christmas excitement and joy. While he returns to the Promised Land, we go back to our lives as we were before. Post holiday blues are even more blue without family around. There is SO MUCH to be done and I don't want to do any of it. I don't want to clean or pack or lift or load or haul or clear or organize. Moving is fun but so overwhelming, too.

Love

2010-12-13T17:29:00.000-08:00

Love that it's almost Christmas. Love that we got our tree tonight and decorated it by the fire. LOVE that is it going to be in the 20's here tonight. Love our new puppy---gorgeous boy! Love that my brother-in-law is coming here next week (counting the days). Love that it's almost my birthday. Love that Marc and I will celebrate our anniversary next week. Love that we are moving to another house and I can get rid of more furniture and "stuff" (is that why people always ask if we just moved in here, though we have been in this house for two years???). Love that my sister and I talk all the time because I love her to pieces. Love that my girl cleaned up at the meet in Gainesville last weekend and is SO close to JOs....kills me. Love all of my running friends and all the fun we had at the Shaf's house and the scandalous party. Love this whole season and everything is means. Love that I can't stop listening to Christmas music and thinking about love....

Contagious Discontentment

2010-11-03T18:13:00.000-07:00

Today was a scary roller coaster of a day. What started out with me promising myself I would have an open mind and a good attitude, came full circle back to "Not a chance in this lifetime."

Marc and I have decided to look for a house to pur...to pur....to purchase. There. I said it (wrote it) in black and white. We are thinking about considering the possibility of purchasing a house on the island. Here. In Florida. On the opposite coast I desire to live on. I went out with a realtor today, and it is really interesting to think about the people I encountered along the way in the span of a few hours, and how they influenced my emotions.

The morning began with a women's group and me "haphazardly" paired up with a woman with whom I have never had a conversation before. I poured my heart out (and shamelessly cried to this perfect stranger) about how sad and lonely my life feels since it has been "off track" and bizarre post Exodus out of The Golden State. I blubbered on and on about how we have just returned from a fabulous trip to Peach Tree City to see my old friend and ex-roommate. Roberta, too, was very disgruntled to have to leave California for her husband's job seven years ago. Upon their departure at that time, I remember thinking, "Wow, poor little soul. How dreadfully awful to have to move out of Paradise....". Little did I know how the chips were going to fall and that I would be in the same predicament only a handful of years behind her. I digress.

I shared with Emily, my partner, that our trip to Peach Tree City was amazing. Halloween was excessively fun with a surplus of kids crammed onto golf carts so full, they were dropping off in the streets as if they were turnips falling off of truck in transport. The weather was mild and the houses were decorated to the hilt, to my delight. We had a week of old friends and new ones, we rode bikes and explored, we tooled around on the golf cart and dined in civilization.

The only minor setback really, was my daughter's run-in with a scorpion. Apparently we missed the memo that states these disgusting arachnids are in abundance, and one would be wise to shake out her shoes before stuffing her foot into them, especially without socks. No matter. A quick (and expensive) trip to the emergency room imparted the knowledge that scorpions this side of the Mississippi are not poisonous, unless one happens to be allergic. Experience a scorpion in Arizona, California, or Texas and you may not be as fortunate. We'll chalk that up to one advantage this coast has over the other: scorpion stings far less apt to cause bodily harm or prove fatal. Again, I digress...

I continued my story to Emily about how getting back to The Sticks and reality really stinks. We came home to bugs in the pantry, an ant farm in the kitchen (I really need to break down and allow Kelly the Bug Man to treat the inside of the house), a $480 electric bill (and that is without a week of AC, a letter informing me of an accumulation of monthly maintenance charges on a savings account I was not aware was in existence, a dead goldfish, a mountain of mail to sift and sort through, and zero Internet access. The schedule resumes and school is in front of us again.

Emily was very kind and encouraging. She had some uplifting words of wisdom and actually made me feel better about my current life chapter. She mostly reinforced that what we are doing here in not in vain, and that if the kids are healthy, happy, and thriving, what else really matters? Does that mean I am to sacrifice my happiness indefinitely? I am not sure, but for now, I guess at the very least, I am to try to continue my journey with seeking gratitude and worry less about the issues that plague my consciousness daily. I left the group determined to keep an open mind about the properties we were off to look at.

I was not impressed. I can't help it. The truth is, I cannot picture myself living for an unspecified amount of time in anything the realtor showed us today. Can't do it. Can't stomach it. Can't imagine it. Don't want to even try.

How did we even reach house hunting status? I am not really sure. I think it all came to a climax when we had to deal with our ridiculous landlords one too many times, and we felt we should at least consider our other options. Certainly we could pay less on a mortgage than we do in rent every month, but that would be the ultimate betrayal to the Land that I love. How can I possible go against every grain in my body and commit to purchasing land here when everything in me wants to get on a plane and fly away and never come back?

After feeling positive and hopeful for the future upon pouring out my guts to Emily this morning, I went on to meet a man working in the bank (who helped me with said monthly maintenance fees) who commiserated with me about the "lameness" of the town we share in common. Ethan is a transplant, too, as it turns out, and though we started as strangers sitting opposite from each other, only an oak desk apart discussing Custodial Accounts, we became fast friends and pledged our loyalty to each other to get out of Dodge, so help us hurricanes. We even shook on it.

Fast forward then to swim team this afternoon, and another conversation with the kids' swim coach brought more clarity on the subject. Scott, too, is dismayed with the older-than-dirt country club population here and wants to start over somewhere else. Disappointed with the lack of team growth in the last five years, he and his partner would like to make a fast exit to Anywhere But Here. We share the same thing in common, and it is called Discontent. I wonder if it is contagious? Does this town just breed it? Does it grow like cells in a Petri dish more rapidly than bacteria itself?

So, this all leads me back to square one and that is this: I really cannot bring myself to seriously considering home ownership here. Yes, the kids are desperate for a dog, and true, we despise our landlords, and of course, ultimately we could save money and build some equity in a house, but I fear the risk far outweighs any potential benefit. So, I suppose I continue to live here with one foot in and one foot out, the foot out fidgety and forlorn, wild and wanting to run away.

I hate to think I am spreading the Discontent further around me. I wish I could say the buck stops here, but sadly, the longer we live here, the more apparent it becomes to me that we are just a bunch of broken people, living gypsy lives, waiting for the next best thing that is not just going to happen along one of these days. What are we waiting for? We are no better than the old people who retire here and wait to die.

I want to live.

Hold With Hands

2010-10-06T17:31:00.000-07:00

My chest is heavy
My heart is grieved
My soul is empty
I cannot breathe
Though I want to run
I've forgotten to walk
Though I want to sing
I cannot talk
The sky has lost its vibrancy
The wind whispers emptiness
The sea no longer soothes me
The oaks speak grievances
I used to think potential
So many dreams to come
But now I just feel useless
To bleak I have succumb
All around me lives unravel
Brittle shells of delicate glass
To myself, I am a stranger
Can't see tomorrow for the past
The questions left unanswered
I know I'll never understand
Why in life we cross paths with some
And others we long to hold with hands

Summer Time and the Living is Fine

2010-07-05T19:29:00.001-07:00

When the girl is in mild climate, it's fine. My run on the horse trails was peaceful and fragrant. The cool morning air carried with it the smell of chaparral and sweet jasmine. My only company were the thoughts running through my head, elated to be back to something familiar.

I traced the rusty red trails with my feet for several miles, lost in thought. With hardly any light to begin the day, I felt rebellious to be out on my own, as though lost in the wild somewhere. For a moment, I had myself convinced of this adventure, until I reached the street and was brought back to reality by wild honking. The lunatic was only Tracy, on her way to catch a crazy run up some mountain.

I told myself I would turn back after only 20 minutes, knowing I had a race the following day, but of course, I didn't. I promised myself I wouldn't punish my legs with hill repeats up and down the street, but I couldn't resist. Perhaps that is why my legs just wouldn't go any faster than they did for the 15K. I really don't care. I had a great time running and I can live with 1:08. I beat my brother-in-law by three minutes, which is great, considering all the smack he talked on the drive down. Hanging out with John allows me to feel closer to Marc while he is not here. While I couldn't let him trump me, I feel I have lost most of my competitive edge, and it feels fabulous.

I chased some guy in an American flag Speedo for the second half of the race, and it made me emotional. Proud to be an American, elated to be living free, excited to be back in civilization where people actually do wear silly, attention-getting get ups. I wasn't arrogant enough to think any of Speedoman's cat calls were for me, running on his heels. I came in fourth in my age group, which never feels great. I think I would rather be 20th than be that close to a podium finish.

As we tried to high tail it out of there, I found Speedoman at the finish and asked him to pose with me in a picture. He must have thought I was a freak, but he put his arm around me and smiled for the camera anyway. I sent it to all of my Florida friends.

God bless America.

Summer Solstice

2010-06-21T16:26:00.000-07:00

For me, there has always been something so romantic about the fall. Ever since I was a child, I loved when the wind would change and the Santa Anas would roll through, and the smell of crackling fires filled the walk to the school bus. Despite the threat of fires, I loved the dry, cool air and cherry lip balm that sealed my parched and thirsty lips. Even though I didn't grow up somewhere where there are "true" seasons, Southern California offered enough of a change in climate that the air was different and the turn in temperature at least warranted sweaters and jeans and license to drink hot chocolate. Mornings could be in the thirties and evenings brought crisp air that begged for an after dinner walk through the neighborhood.

Even in the absence of "true" leaves changing colors and falling from deciduous trees, as an adult, I loved running down the pool deck to jump in the water before our feet froze to the cement. I loved the steam off the jacuzzi and the boys club that sat in there and owned the pond. I loved knowing that getting in the pool would be warmer than the air outside, so I may as well get wet and get moving on some yardage.

And now, here I suffer yet another ear infection because the water we swim in is as warm as soup. How I have not stroked out, I am not sure- perhaps because I never push myself hard enough to be in any danger of that happening? I dropped my car off to get tires today and ran home at 9:00 am. In those 2 miles, all I could think about was how I wanted to drop dead and I may not make it back in time to get my kids from camp. Even still, there was a contentedness in me that I have not known in a long, long time. I almost didn't recognize it at first. The sun seared my back and the glare off the pavement made it nearly impossible to choose my steps. Desperate for sunglasses was I, stupid enough to think a hat would be enough. Sweat dripped from my face and rolled into my eyes, adding burning insult to injury, mocking my stupidity for thinking I could survive a late morning run- the second of the day.

Yet, still, I was content. Maybe because I know the trip home is inside of two weeks, I feel calm and at peace. As much as I detest leaving Marc for many weeks on end, I delight in the idea of seeing people and catching up with friends. I love the idea of our trip to Tahoe and a drive up the coast to San Fran this summer. I cannot wait to workout at my old gym.

Maybe my death run today wasn't so deadly because I can think about and look forward to our trip to North Carolina this fall, where it will feel like a "true" fall. I still am not sure how weather affects me as much as it does, but I somehow never feel human when I try to operate under such compromised oven conditions. How am I still not "used to it" after three years? I am dreaming about 58 degrees in the Pacific and rolling hills and chilly morning air. I can't wait to run the cliffs along the coast and drink in the beckoning blue sea. I long for a time when we can redefine our lives and figure out what really drives us and move on.

At the heart of it all, I still come back to who I am and I know that first and foremost I am called to live a certain way. I shouldn't be so negative and I need to be grateful for all of Creation all around. I need to love nature (even gators- eek) and give glory to the One who makes it all. I have no doubt God calls each and everyone of us to a purpose. The difficult part is trying to decipher what that looks like and what that means. Sometimes the code is seemingly impossible to crack when it comes to what He is saying in and through our dreams, hopes, interactions, doors opening or doors closing. I always want things my way, but does that necessarily mean it is His way? Often times, I am too frantic to even try to figure that part out.

I tried to reconcile those thoughts on the run back to get the car at 11:30 am, but by then I was really fried.

Didn't I JUST say...

2010-06-09T18:16:00.000-07:00

...I was craving the Pacific Northwest??

I received a call from a dear friend from San Diego days today. I haven't heard from her in ages. Her son and Owen were best buddies in Kindergarten, and their family relocated to Connecticut at the same time we moved here. Ami has been a wonderful support person, with regard to advice on how to tolerate a move, make friends, find a new dry cleaner, etc (they have moved 6 times in the last 6 years!). She just told me her husband took a job in Seattle six months ago and has been commuting. They just decided two days ago to make the move back to the West Coast this summer.

Life is so unfair. I am so jealous, my stomach feels sick inside. I am truly happy for their family, as they deserve every amazing wonder and opportunity this life has to offer, but it pains me to think here we still are, lost in the jungle, and time is marching forward. It's like there is still a huge hole in my heart, an emptiness I cannot reconcile. Most days I feel okay, but then news of something like this hits me and I am completely sidelined, sucked up by a pit of despair that seems insurmountable to climb out of.

I know some of this goes deeper than living in this provincial town. Some of this black hole stems from the idea that my children are growing up, I am not getting any younger, life is passing us by, and here we still are- living a life that I never imagined for my family. In a way, it is sick and demented and ungrateful, knowing that Marc has a wonderful career here, we are together as a family, I can be with the kids freely, etc, etc. I guess the rotten, spoiled, Malibu child in me seeks attention sometimes and needs recognition, pathetic as that may be. I guess I really am just not that flexible to roll with life's punches, evident from a very early age. Perhaps this is why I have ever so much sympathy for my own children when they cannot make sense of the world in which we live and the windy road we often find ourselves on.

When I am with my kids, I feel driven with purpose. I think even Marc kind of gets it now and wants to arrest my tantrums with patience and compassion. When I am running with my friends in the morning, I feel relatively okay. Speed today was great. Being with that crew makes me feel like I can do this, I can make it- everything is going to be okay. That for whatever reason, this is where we were planted and I am meant to grow.

4 x 800s descending and then 4 x 400s descending was palatable in that order. The trick, I think, is to organize my life in some sort of palatable pattern that makes sense and is tolerable. How is it I can always break up the workout into something manageable but life can be simply overwhelming sometimes?

Snake Count

2010-06-08T18:07:00.000-07:00

I am up to six in the last 4 weeks. I think the serpents are invading the swampland here. They love to torture me and slither around and in our backyard pool. Why? Don't they know I hate them? Whatever do they want from me? They have broken my spirit and now I have no choice but to purchase Snake-Away, or as my friend in Georgia calls it, "Shoo, Shoo Snake". There is no creature more putrid than one that slithers on the ground and looks at me with those disgusting, beady little eyes.

We ran at 4:30, as usual. The air was so heavy, it was like breathing cotton. We were a big group today, each of us blanketed in sweat since there was nowhere for it to evaporate to in "the fabric of our lives". It occurred to me that I have never been here to experience the month of June before.

Our running group was neatly separated into three tidy sectors today. I ran with the boys in the front, desperate for air, certain they might really kill me today. That is when I saw it- coiled up and sleeping in the middle of the dark, warm road- some kind of red, white, and black snake. I did what any unsuspecting runner would do- jump and scream. Dr. Jim on my shoulder said, "Wait for it, wait for it..." A second scream from his wife a few paces behind. Helen nearly stepped on the colorful vicious hose. Why do they have to be out even in our sacred hour of predawn? Don't snakes need the sun to sustain their pathetic lives? Or have they reached their solar limit like I did, so many weeks ago? They, too, have resorted to coming out only in the dark to suffer the heat and humidity, the lack of air movement, but at least avoiding the blinding sun.

Someone most cleverly pointed out the difference between spring and summer here to me. In the spring, it is hot, but at least there is an occasional (much appreciated)breeze. In summer, it is hot, but the air just hangs in a still choke hold. Summer has arrived. I am restless.

I'm Melting

2010-06-06T12:34:00.000-07:00

Today was one of my most favorite marathons back home and I cannot remember a year I haven't run it. Seeing pictures at the start in Balboa Park totally depressed me, but I am trying to be cheery, thinking about some upcoming races on the books. Marc and I are considering the Outerbanks marathon or possibly a 50K in Peach Tree City. Mostly, I am totally burned out on the same course we run here, day in and day out, and very much looking forward to some Pacific time this summer. My legs miss the mountains and my lungs are desperate for some dry air. With the torturous heat here, July cannot come soon enough.

Life is crazy busy, so I am not really sure why I am complaining. It's not like I even have time to hang around and endure the heat, as chaotic as the schedule has been. Each day brings a new opportunity to give back, and that is exactly what we are trying to do with program for soldiers overseas. Little by little, things are coming together and I look forward to working on that project each day.

The kids have been in meets almost every weekend, though now trying to get ready to get home, we have backed off of most competitive events. Workouts and stroke classes keep us moving, and they just assume be in the pool when they are not in the ocean.

This life isn't bad, just not the one I ever envisioned for my family. I'm dreaming of the Pacific Northwest and some time in Seattle or Portland. Can someone hook me up with a job there? This girl is not made for the tropics.

Spring Swing

2010-05-16T14:44:00.000-07:00

I have completely neglected any writing here because I have been furiously trying to write some articles for a new website that launches July 1. After writing a small piece (that I wasn't even that fond of)for mindsettriathlon.com, I have been fortunate enough to do some freelance writing for another site- more on that later.

With Spring in full swing, the kids have been swimming up a storm. With private stroke lessons and workouts between two pools, they are always wet. This weekend was no different with yet another swim meet, this time down in Jupiter. Owen was disqualified today in the 50 butterfly. Her stroke was interesting, to say the least. What started out as something that resembled fly, finished with something that looked like a fly/breast hybrid and the officials didn't go for that. Don't get me wrong- I hate fly and my timing sucks (not that I even attempt it much-ever-at workout). I think she's tired from all of yesterday's events. She told me she quietly prayed the storm clouds that had been threatening all day would finally provide something viable to save her from the final backstroke event. The rain never materialized, much to her dismay. Her brother was quite happy to be off the hook today, his events on Saturday.

Boxing has been amazing and I love Gus more than ever. I am taking a hiatus, however, trying to get back into some kind of love relationship with triathlon. My swimming has really suffered- I haven't been to the pool much until two weeks ago. In fact, the coach sent out a "general" email to everyone in the program, requesting less talking on the wall and more swimming. Barry forwarded it back to Marc, the coach, and me, with a few minor and clever adjustments that began each sentence with my name and mentioned something about sipping coffee. Clearly, Gene was targeting me and suggesting I need to be a little more serious if I am going to take a lane at his workout. Being singled-out by the coach in a passive-aggressive email was definitely a rude wake-up call and one that tells me I had better change my attitude about the workout before I am kicked out.

We leave soon for CA, and that trip cannot come soon enough. On the Left Coast, the kiddos will be immersed in more swimming, Junior Life Guards, and a few other camps to keep busy while I take a creative writing course through UCSD. I'm really excited-about everything. I keep having the same dream- the one in which I am running the hills through Poway. The smell of chaparral is sweet and horses, strong. The morning air is cool and dry, passing over my lungs with ease. The mountains tower in front of me and the horse trails roll like dusty ribbons into the distance. I feel like I can run forever. I am peaceful and content because, at last, I'm home and everything feels familiar.

God Bless America

2010-04-17T19:00:00.000-07:00

Something really cool is in the works! We are organizing something so amazingly cool and nonprofit and amazing for our soldiers. More to come soon!

Blah, Blah, Blah

2010-04-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

I'm procrastinating- I don't want to go to bed. Sleep is such a waste of time and so boring.

The days are passing ever so slowly now that we are back in the routine. Single parenting is not fun; with Marc still on the road with Eddie, all I can think about is making it through the bedtime routine without backup. Teaching kids, carting kids, reading to kids, dropping kids, picking up kids, flossing and brushing kids- I'm beat. I'm more than a little cranky, too, since I never make the coffee as well as Marc, so I have all but given up trying the last two mornings. There is a drive thru for that, I know, but somehow I haven't been able to mobilize before noon after trying to straighten out everything in the morning and who wants coffee anymore at lunchtime? I feel blah.

I long for a speedy workout with the 5:30 crew. Nagging pain in my leg reminds me I'm not better and have no business running speed, but I'm hoping Dr. Jim doesn't show up and lecture me next week. When I bumped into him at the pool, I pretended I had done the whole workout with a pull buoy, per his suggestion of no kicking. I'm thinking he may have bought it, but Gene may have given me up with his smug and distrusting grin. This week as a single mom, I think I'm fragile without Gus to blow off some steam. 40 minutes on the elliptical trainer is not cutting it for this junkie. I need a fix. I thought very seriously about bringing the kids into the boxing gym to hang out while I workout, but I thought that might be a little obsessive and far too putrid an environment for them.

To add insult to injury, Marc keeps sending really epic pictures of life on a mountain bike through Moab. Does life get anymore amazing than the Arches? Someday I am going to get on a bike and just ride into forever. I wonder if I should first sit on the trainer Marc set up for me to become reacquainted with my bike? Nah.

"Holding Pattern"

2010-04-12T19:06:00.000-07:00

I hate flying. I detest everything about it. I hate being smashed into a germ tube with several strangers all forced to breathe the same recycled air. I hate having to pee into the same, small receptacle with all of them. I hate the smell that circulates through the cabin, and I hate being told to sit for several hours on end. I hate getting off the plane, wanting to eat my purse because I am so hungry. I hate the bumpy wind along the rickety wings, and I hate the anxiety of wondering if the kids are going to hold out, cramped up and caged for hours (they do better with this than I do). I hate the take off and the landing, but I hate, I HATE, the "holding pattern".

Nothing could have been worse news than those two words after a turbulent and hideous flight into Salt Lake until the captain said, "Snow squall". Then, as if we didn't hear him the first time, he said, "unexpected snow squall", which was even worse than before. He tried to lessen the blow by throwing in the adjective "small", as if this were to take away from the trauma of having to hang out and fly in circles for an extra 20 minutes due to winds so severe. How was my claustrophobic self to absorb this information?! My breathing felt shallow and all I could think was two more bad words: wind shear.

Then in a flash, the decision was made to land the plane- almost abruptly- to take us out of the holding pattern and just go for it. No warning. The captain just made the call (with obvious approval from the ground) and the flight attendants were to remain seated because it was far too turbulent for anyone to be about the cabin. It reminded me of the panicked decision the doctor made to take my son by c-section. There was little discussion or decision with regard to Marc and me- it was simply an urgent, definitive decision that we were going along with. Just as the nurses flew into action that early morning years ago, the flight attendants knew their roles. It was like batten down the hatches and brace for impact. There was no polite, "Attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing". It was something more along the lines of, "Sit down, hold on, and shut up." When I heard the stress in one of the attendant's voices, I knew it was serious. What good is a holding pattern if we were to crash and burn anyway? Why prolong the agony?

After finally setting the plane down and fishtailing all over the runway in ice and snow, it came to a halt at last. Cheers and applause rang through the isles and I guarantee I wasn't the only one who threw up a few prayers (I think it was more like bargaining with God, but I'm not certain anymore) in those tense minutes. My kids were rattled, but quickly forgot the fear when they stepped out into the falling flakes of beauty. Nothing could have been more contrasted than the searing heat from my head and burning anxiety in my chest from the landing than the serene beauty and quiet of the snow we stepped out into. Nothing was more peaceful than the delicate white world all around us. Nothing could have made me happier at that moment than seeing Eddie's black Escalde when he pulled around the terminal to pick us up. He had driven cross country from Florida the week before with all the gear, and now I know why.

The week was a blur of one activity after another. Skiing, snowshoeing, sledding, mountain biking, swimming, running- it was the exercise addict's dream vacation. Every time one of us needed another fix (and I dare say Eddie and Lotte are worse than Marc and I), there was another line to snort by means of bike or sled or skis or shoes. Utah is an amazing place- we were like kids in a candy store, not sure where to go or what toys to play with first. I hardly remember Utah as a teenager in the summertime, and seeing it in a veil of white was a whole new lovely experience.

Eddie and Lotte were the perfect host and hostess. Their home away from home, again, a stark contrast to all things Florida. The mountains cascaded over us like something out of a dream. The snow flurries danced around us that first night, my kids dancing outside in it until eleven o'clock. The evergreens a delight for eyes soured now to too many palms. The whole experience was a revelation. How did we end up on the East Coast again? Just being around familiar restaurants and architecture, landscaping and businesses, I felt so much more at ease. I felt like I was home, even though home was another 11.5 hours south in the car (we debated the escape route more than once). It's not even a matter of the West Coast being "better" or "superior" to the East, it's merely a matter of comfort and familiarity.

And so I have to ask myself the obvious question: how much longer will we be in this holding pattern? Are we waiting out something less than ideal, something stressful and anxiety-producing, to reach something really fantastic? Am I really doing anything here, touching any lives, reaching anyone in some small way, or am I to crash and burn? What purpose am I serving in a town from which I still feel so disconnected? How can God use me when I feel so useless? I know it is all in the attitude, but my heart is still broken for home. When my old best running guy and "scheduler" called me today to check in and the same question is posed, "So, when are you moving home?" I still feel baffled and lost for words. How many times can I silently scream inside, "NOW! I WANT TO COME HOME NOW!"

Instead, my steady answer remains the same, "Marc is doing really great things. His company really loves him. He loves his job. He has achieved so much success. We are grateful for a really great job in a really bad economy..." and this is always met with the same nods of agreement. This is all, of course, true, but why then do all the little things here still gnaw at my insides? When will the tugging on my heart ever subside? How will I ever come to terms with liking old people (I detest them as much as flying)? I hope I don't go to hell for that. I'm working on that one, faced with it daily.

And so all I can tell John, or any of my other buddies from home, is what I believe to be true: God has a plan. He has the blueprint and I am trying to read it. It doesn't make a ton of sense to me most of the time, but I think I sometimes read into things too much. I'm simply trying not to flail and fishtail too much in the interim.

Utah Bound

2010-04-03T14:47:00.000-07:00

We're out of here! We leave Monday for skiing in Utah with Eddie and Lotte and I can't wait! Not sure if I am more excited about playing in snow or just the idea of exiting this small town and small mentality? We are so ready for vacation, with the past few weeks so chaotic. Marc's half Ironman in the monsoon in Sarasota, then his company race a week later. Not only did he PR at his event, the half marathon and 5K we have worked on for the last 3 months came off without a hitch, which was awesome. He did such an amazing job as race director and we are so proud of his efforts to pull off that kind of event.

Of course, the same weekend of the company event, our daughter landed a leading role in her first ever theatre performance. This was all very thrilling, but the lines she had to memorize were insurmountable and her solo for the musical needed a ton of work. While I made it to both performances, Marc only made the second one (after breaking down the race course), and was nodding off throughout. We are still in awe that our kid got up on the stage and belted it out, and elated that she was one of three kids in the performance who was offered a nomination to go to Montana this summer for a two week camp on the lake. She has never even expressed any interest in theatre, so this is a huge honor, one she is still cherishing. We are still exhausted from all of the hype.

Then, on to Marc's birthday and now Easter. Will the fun (and madness) never end? Somehow, Easter has just snuck up on me this year. Today was really fun- egg hunt with 50 other kids at Dr. Jim's house. His wife is Mother Earth (or Mother Easter?) with all of the eggs that went out and all of the preparation that went into planning the party. My kids always love that venue and leave with lots of loot. The best part is the doc dressed in Bunny garb and the kids sitting on his lap for pictures. Cuter? This is the first year my son will actually go near him in that bunny suit. Even though he knows who is inside, he remains skeptical.

Tonight, our Easter Bunny comes (thinking this is the last year our older one will buy it) and I love all of the tradition that goes along with it. Some old, some new (like dying eggs today outside in swim suits by the pool), but making beautiful memories, to be sure.

I ran yesterday for the first time in two weeks, and again today. I'm hoping my leg will hold up and remain pain-free (amazing how the pain stops if I don't run?). George said no "hill" running (he meant the bridges) for a few weeks, so I wonder how running in Utah fits into that equation? He never said anything about mountains and snow is soft, right?

Circuit Jerks

2010-03-18T04:09:00.000-07:00

This is our lot in life with Gina in the boxing gym. One crazy, intense, stroke-inducing exercise after another in her circuit training at 4 am. With Gus, it is always intense in the ring, and with mitts and bag time. With Gina, our fate is less ring time, more wing time- as in, my wings are so sore, I could die. Push-ups, pull- ups, overhead press with medicine ball, wall balls, and the like all lend to the idea that I am very aware of the muscle fibers in my back and arms today.

Did I mention it might be a stress fracture? I'll know more tomorrow when I see Georgie in the office. The blessing and curse of living in a small town is this: girl mentions in passing that she has intense and nagging pain in her lower shin that now radiates to her ankle and the back of her leg. This pain tends to intensify running down the little bridge incline some affectionately call a "hill" here (her girls in CA would KILL her if she ever breathed this out loud in polite company on the West Coast). Girl's friend, Patti, calls doctor Jim, who then calls girl and insists that she come in to face the music. Girl tries to resist, unaware doctors are in the acute business of forcing reality checks, but she is no match for bossy neurologist who likes to throw around his weight. Girl is defeated and succumbs to her inescapable fate: she is scheduled to see his orthopedic partner at 10:30 tomorrow morning.

Girl asks if doc will also consider prescribing anti-psychotics in addition to the bone scan, knowing it is not looking good for her family for the next several weeks on a no-running prescription.

Say it with me: sad.

Something Old, Something New

2010-03-15T16:00:00.000-07:00

Some firsts feel surprisingly familiar. Sometimes we experience things for the first time, only to feel we have really already been in that moment. When I left for college, life was somehow business as usual. Even though I never lived more than 15 miles from home before, going away to school was not that life-altering, initially. When I became a wife, there was somehow a familiar comfort about falling into the arms and bed of the man I love. It wasn't quirky or scary, but a natural progression of where the road had led us. The first time I became a mom somehow didn't feel so foreign or bizarre. Maybe it was all those years babysitting, but holding that little warm bundle, wrapped like a burrito in a stiff, striped hospital blanket felt natural and the norm.

This weekend was the first time I left the little people and headed north for a girls' weekend getaway. Overdue? Perhaps. There was something very familiar about driving the coast north (though the ocean was on the wrong side?) in search of independence and brilliance. Independence because it WAS very strange to be in a car for five and a half hours solo without being subjected to the "Alvin and the Chipmunks" CD for the eleventh consecutive time. Brilliant because I was able to allow my mind to just wander and be lost in who I am apart from mommy and wifey. It felt very much like the days I used to drive from LA to Santa Cruz, alone and independent, free from any constraints or demands of others, left to conquer the world on my terms.

I met my best girl from Los Angeles. She is confined to a life in Peach Tree City now, and I, further south, of course, trapped in my own. Savannah seemed the obvious destination to meet up, somewhat in the middle for us both, and it exceeded my expectations. The old, even mildly treacherous, original cobblestone streets that run the riverfront are full of character. Numerous shops squeeze in side by side, under restaurants and pubs, and sell everything from candy and gifts, to clothing and coffee. Steep, Gothic staircases invite the unsuspecting visitor from the upper greens and modern hotels to the uneven, enchanting road below. Black, rickety bridges precariously connect one suspended walkway to another above the riverfront, as if they are mimicking a fire escape with their narrow and haphazard nature. The original brick buildings, while old, somehow saved face- perhaps with more than one makeover?

The Oglethorpe history, the historic monuments and statues, the benches bearing names of the departed are reminiscent of a great American history novel. The wind coming off the river bit through my three layers, tore at my face, and tormented my hair, but it was still magical. The massive oak trees, straining under their ancient limbs, cast long shadows on the green parks near our hotel in downtown. The enormous barges pulling into port with all of their cargo is something out of a compelling movie, while the old steamboats on the water, revealing their age with every guttural moan, are right off the pages of a Mark Twain novel. When it began to rain lightly, it only added to the mystique and wonder of the city.

Apparently, we chose the wrong (or right, depending on your perspective) weekend to visit because it was one wild party along the streets, alleys, and bridges with the pending Irish holiday. You see, one does not wait until March 17th, or even the weekend that follows it to celebrate the Leprechaun. All of Savannah rolls out the green carpet in style and serves green beer beginning the Saturday before. Good thing my girlfriend was wearing a green sweater; we pulled off the 16 and into downtown into a sea of green. She called me from her car (we timed it so we rolled into town at precisely the same moment), "The first thing I am doing is going to the hotel and changing out of this green sweater. Why is EVERYONE in green?!"

There were green wigs, green shirts, green hats, green pants, green dresses, green bling as far as the eye could see. There were people with pots of gold on their heads and people dressed up like the little men from folklore. Even the shiny black horses pulling carriages were brandished with green headdresses and flair. And all the world had in hand a plastic cup of green suds to ring it in the Irish way, of course. Later, we witnessed a lot of green vomit adorning the adorable cobblestone streets, but maybe that is the Irish way, too, I suppose. Ever a nonconformist, Ro changed into a gray sweater and then we were the only two people for miles in but-green.

Needless to say, we slept nary a wink that night with all of the commotion out on the street below our hotel and the bustle of cars and buses. Even the horse-drawn carriages clamoured along the roads into the wee hours, their freshly-shoed engines click-clacking in time the whole way. The whole city scape was a scene of contradiction. It was creepy but romantic, Gothic but modern. The modern steel bridge in the backdrop juxtaposed with the original Cotton Processing Plant in the foreground didn't make sense. The proud city hall building too close to the rundown graveyard in the middle of the square didn't work. For every something old, there was a something new, just as unique and spectacular, for the eyes to embrace. Those who say Savannah has "Southern Charm" have not even scratched the surface of how to describe her beauty and I know I cannot here, either.

Some things are better left experienced for herself the first time. While they initially seem new and unique, they evoke something very familiar, too. I think I have been to Savannah before in a dream. Maybe that is the allure entirely?

Waiting for the Receipt

2010-02-22T10:24:00.000-08:00

Today was another fun-filled morning with Gus. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday never can come too soon. Even when the alarm goes off at 3:30 am, I somehow manage to spring up and out of bed, thinking about the torture camp that awaits us with great joy and anticipation.

This morning's motley crew was Barb, Lisa, Bill, and me. Barb is not up to the task of sparring just yet, so that left four rounds for each Lisa, Bill, and me. Twelve rounds in the ring for Gus seemed no easy task this morning, either. Even though he moved faster with us as we gain more experience (read: danced circles around us), teasing us with his ever-bobbing head and slippery shoulders, Gus seemed worn out. Don't get me wrong, he still killed us, KILLED us, until we were saved by the bell at the end of each three minute round. Three minutes could be three days when forced to block and slip punches and find holes to land a few of our own. All the while, mouthpiece impairing his speech, Gus mumbles words of encouragement or eggs us on with, "hit me harder" or, "um-hum, yep". We have already figured out how to translate mouthguardese.

With great enthusiasm, we charge him, hoping to hit his head, but more often getting his elbow or a gust of wind from the breeze generated by missed punches. He taught us to get in and punch him, and get out as fast. He calls it "waiting for the receipt" and apparently that is something we don't want to do in the world of boxing. The rule is to get in, nail the opponent as much as possible ("your left jab is your tape measure"), and get out quickly, as not to "wait for the receipt". Makes perfect sense. I have no desire to take any more licks than I have to, right?

When I consider his facility, I am really disgusted- how can I look forward to it? The smell inside is putrid- a cross between the nastiest men's locker room (don't ask how I know this) and rancid body odor left to ferment. Because there is no temperature control, it has been freezing in there as of late, with the welcome cooler temperatures; I can only imagine what this means with summer pending. His studio's carpet is peppered with old coffee stains, among other unidentified marks I dare not ask about, and the concrete walls are wallpapered with newpaper articles of all of his now-successful fighters he has raised up to the big league. Al Pacino and "Scarface" posters grace the walls, as well, reminding us of our bad ass status, I presume.

While under his watchful eye, we wear other boxers' gloves (until we get around to ordering our own), which repulses me when I further ponder what could live inside the leather from others' hands. We share equipment while working out together, along with the sweat that dots it("Ew- who dripped all over this?!") without regard to the germ factor.

Actually, this is a lie. I think about the germ factor the whole time I am in there. Like when I picked up one of the towels we used to do some abs on and I threw it in the "dirty" pile (as if I could really discriminate from the other pile in a heap on the floor?!); there was a snot rag Gus has used to mop up his face with post-spar, smeared with green mucus and red blood. Does it get any more vile than that? I could have vomited at the sight, but that may have been my stomach's response to the intense circuit we had just finished? We pay for this kind of fun at 4:00 am?

Yes. And I am not waiting for the receipt. It is money well spent- the cheapest personal training (and therapy) one will ever find, a KILLER workout, and a great way to stay motivated when the chips are down.

Fly Girl

2010-02-20T17:02:00.001-08:00

I'm so not. I have never been good at doing anything on the fly. I am not good with change, not flexible with schedule, never one to roll with the punches, not willing to compromise details, and never been able to fly by the seat of my pants. I'm not all that great at improvising and never one to fake anything. Is it any wonder my son is the same way?

My daughter (who tends to be on the other end of the spectrum) asked for something new and exciting for breakfast today. Saturday is always pancake morning in our household, with the exception of swim meet mornings or 5K races, but today she wanted something different. It was a leisurely morning. Marc was gone up north to ride a bazillion miles with some guys. The kids and I had nowhere to be for hours. Why wouldn't it be pancake morning? I hardly can blame her for desiring something different, however. Sometimes I feel if I have one more groundhog day, I may have to take drastic measures- I digress. I decided to surprise the kiddos with strawberry crepes.

I took a traditional recipe and made it very nontraditional by altering and omitting some ingredients for healthier fare. The crepes turned out beautifully and they were actually really delicious (I had a bite, never big on anything pastry-like). My boy, on the other hand, would have nothing to do with this idea. This was an offensive departure from the norm. No crepe would pass his lips on sheer principle alone. The NERVE of someone suggesting something other than the typical menu.

"I would like my pancakes now, please." He informed me, smelling the crepe before him.

"Just try them, buddy...it's like a pancake with whipped cream and strawberries," his sister pleaded, referring to the filling of whipped organic Tofutti with berries.

Not a chance. Not happening. I looked at him from below the rim of my coffee cup, waiting for the response.

"I would like my pancakes now, please, Mommy," ignoring big sister's encouragement.

He was very polite, but matter-of-fact and ever resilient in the pursuit of what he wanted. It immediately brought me back to when he was two years old and we (I) took away the beloved pacifier at the pediatrician's urging. For a child who never wants for much of anything, rarely complains, and is agreeable in SO many ways, he is a child who knows EXACTLY what he wants and there is rarely flexibility in those minor cases. It near killed me to take away that pacifier, particularly when, through tears, he remained ever polite in his plea, squeaky little voice shaking, "I would like my Nonnie now please, Mommy." His little rosebud lips quivering, my heart breaking.

I didn't cave with the pacifier back then, but I did with the pancakes today. I think because I get him- I get it- so well. Most of the time, he and I are pretty low maintenance. We like what we like and we try to be mellow and fly under the radar. We typically don't want to draw any kind of attention to ourselves(though this week someone told me my "character is larger than life")and we aim to please. We want to be agreeable, we really do, but some things are worth fighting for.

Some things cannot be compromised. For him, I guess it's pancakes with maple syrup on top. For me, it's the Pacific with mountains on top. Is that really so difficult to understand and accommodate? What is going to pacify me? Nothing here, I fear, on principle alone.

Spar Me Up

2010-02-16T11:12:00.000-08:00

In the ring, sparring with Gus. I love it. He lets us hit him and he hits us. I told him to stop punching me so hard since I am a girl and he had all the gear. Lisa and I are addicted. We cannot get enough. Waiting for the next fix. Can hardly think about anything besides stringing up the gloves again and again and again. How many more hours? I wish all the world could experience the high. I feel alive when I am in the ring and facing off with him.

Gluttony

2010-02-03T11:48:00.000-08:00

I still have fleeting moments when I feel like I am having an out of body experience, floating above, watching the frantic happenings of my life. Day to day, I feel chaotic. Starting the day at 3:30 am with workouts, homeschooling two kids, racing around from one sport to another, trying to maintain a large house- it's nothing short of exhausting. I often wish I could slip into my six-year-old's world- steal a glimpse into his happy imaginative world and escape the reality of my own for a while.

Boxing with Gus has breathed new life into my workout routine. So has doing Crossfit. Exercise has always been my Happy Pill, and when I am less than excited to hit the pavement, water, or weights, I know it is time for a new drug. Enter Gus and his killer workouts. An hour of boxing with him one-on-one feels like a lifetime of torture- I love it. Slowly, however, I am winning over my tri buddies, and they are joining me in the ring and along side the bags. Interesting to me is how quickly each of us becomes "addicted" to the new rush in our veins. Nothing else has been sacrificed (boxing gym, to speed workout, to Crossfit and on to the pool) to make room for the new drug- we simply add it to our repertoire.

Is this an illness? Is it ever really enough? We want what we have, but then we want more. It's the American way. We're gluttonous, greedy savages, grasping for more than we already have, or maybe that is even good for us? Today's speed workout was one mile at 15K pace, followed by 8 400's, alternating between 5K and 10K pace continuously- no recovery, lactic threshold- and then another mile faster than the first. My legs are lead, but it's still not enough- I'm hungry for something else.

I like to think that somehow, having kids has found some sense of balance for me. If I never had kids, I would still be "using" exercise for up to six hours a day, stealing a run here, shifting an appointment for a swim there. It was easy to be selfish and self-absorbed when I was single. My life was about me and my workouts. My kids saved my life, in a way, or at the very least, maybe my knees.

I could never imagine a world without movement. I couldn't live in a still and sedentary world. I can't sit down long enough to put these thoughts in print. My attention span is that of a four-year-old and I move in sweeping motions through the house (you would think it would be cleaner?). Marc always tells me how proud he is to have a wife who is athletic and tries new sports. I tell him I am not doing anything heroic- it is only means of survival of the fittest. I am not fit to survive if I don't hammer it out everyday in some fashion.

Return to Heat

2010-01-22T09:57:00.000-08:00

Here we are again in January and the temps are climbing above eighty. How does that happen? How do people live like this? I ran with the girls at 4:30 and then the boys at 5:30 am, though I didn't tack on as much as I usually do. Somehow I didn't have the heart- I think the heat took it out of me, or maybe it was the massage last night from Sharon? I was wiped.

I cancelled my current gym membership so I can break out of that routine and do something completely different (and better). I cannot wait to start the new program and kick some serious tukis with the shake-up in regimen. My running friend, Carlo, has brought me over to his program and I am completely addicted to it, thinking about the next visit before I even leave the current. Heaving and writhing in pain on the floor (though pretending I am stretching), I have not suffered physically in this way for a long, long time. I love it.

Visitors galore from CA scheduled on the books for the pending months. I simply cannot wait to savor the time with each one of them. Time is marching on, kids are getting big, months are wasting away. Passions are knocking on my door and I am trying to mobilize to make them something more concrete.

Ancient Greece inspires me.....

I Have A Dream...

2010-01-18T10:00:00.000-08:00

...that I will live these words and measure up.

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

Preach it, Dr. King.

Departure From the Heat (Amen)

2010-01-06T11:57:00.000-08:00

This week has been pure comedy. Floridians truly freak out when the mercury dips below seventy; when it drops below sixty, there are frost warnings, and with this week never warming beyond fifty, there is absolute mayhem in this town. I have friends who are running in ski masks with our mornings in the low thirties. Admittedly, my blood has thinned and sixty feels cool to me, too, but I quite welcome the departure from the scorching temperatures and love dressing in layers.

We ran speed this morning- Barry, Gary, Jim, Bill, Lisa and myself. It actually was pleasant once the blood was flowing and we were in the full swing of sets of 800 cut downs. There are two types of Florida runners: the ones who get up and dress for the Arctic, complaining the whole time about how cold they are, and the ones who don't get up. I find I am never as happy as when I feel human and can be outside enjoying frigid, instead of humid, air. This morning was no different and I near skipped out to the workout. At long last, we have a steady meeting place, a standing workout, a locked-in time for a real speed workout. Barry, aka "Mayor", even called ahead and pulled some strings to have the facilities unlocked for our early morning use.

Funnier to me than the weather and people's response is how very sore I am from yesterday's workout at Lori's gym. We did a high-intensity, high-rep, high resistance (did I mention high intensity?), weight class yesterday. I am still laughing out loud, thinking about the scene in that place. Are men really so ridiculous to think we are completely unaware of the fact that they are ogling? Do they not know how obvious they are when they take inventory of a woman's body?

My favorite was the character who tried to join us in the organized booty camp class. For those of us signed up and paid, we had use of the trainer, specified weights, and the planned set. Enter random fatty, beer gut over his shorts, mid fifties (I'm guessing), balding on top. I would not be so harsh to judge his appearance had he not been so obnoxious, pushing his way in and making loud, grunting noises to direct attention his way. Did he think he looked good in the middle of our workout? Hmmm. I'm mean, but I have little patience for people that desperate for attention.

Killer (Christmas) Loop

2009-12-26T18:05:00.000-08:00

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"

2009-11-25T17:13:00.000-08:00

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?

2009-11-23T07:32:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-21T19:43:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-21T19:21:00.000-08:00

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

2009-09-07T16:59:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-04T19:42:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-29T20:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-11T19:18:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-09T18:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-31T14:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-09T12:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-03T18:12:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-15T17:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-13T12:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-18T18:01:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-22T18:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Moving On

2008-12-22T18:47:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-26T15:33:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-10-20T08:48:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-06T18:10:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-01T16:38:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-26T07:07:00.000-07:00

"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

2008-09-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

"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

2008-09-19T07:54:00.001-07:00

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...

2008-08-27T19:09:00.000-07:00

...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

2008-06-23T19:42:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-16T20:43:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-11T21:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-05T20:21:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-27T16:39:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-20T15:10:00.000-07:00

"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

2008-05-11T07:30:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-09T10:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-05T17:50:00.001-07:00

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

2008-04-21T17:44:00.001-07:00

"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

2008-04-02T17:39:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-29T16:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-10T19:48:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-04T18:14:00.000-08:00

"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

2008-02-23T16:42:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-11T17:22:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-01-31T11:44:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-28T19:25:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-14T18:12:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-01-02T20:39:00.000-08:00

..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.

The Wheel

2007-12-19T16:29:00.000-08:00

This morning began peaceful and serene. We see dolphins in the river just about every single day if we look for them. This morning as I returned from the pool, I saw several playing along the shoreline near some fisherman's boat. They must really like people, ever curious and playful around the boats. I wish I could have held on to this peace for the entire day, but no suck luck when I was behind before I even got back to the house at 7:15. I felt like I was running on a hamster wheel the whole day...trying to make progress, but wondering if I was getting anywhere at all?

The day began with a track workout at 4:30am. We ended up with about 7 miles of quality after the 3 miles warm up and some 800s descending. It felt so good to do some speed again. I love track workouts and I miss having some consistency with standing dates to run circles with. If I can say one negative thing about this group, they tend to be haphazard in the way they train, finicky about workouts and whereabouts. The track crowd has been lacking and I hate running circles in the dark by myself. So, I was happy this morning to meet up with a few loonies, as we climbed the fence to the track (I am still in disbelief that we have to do this) and meandered over in the dark at the start.

So, the whole workout, I vacillated between feeling like I hate this small town, and loving the people who comprise it. I despise so much about living in Nowhereville, but I love the people I now call friends. George is the local orthopedic surgeon and he works with Jim, the neurosurgeon. Tom showed up at the track this morning and told us some stories about how when he and Jim went to do White Lake Half Ironman in North Carolina, he had dehydration issues race day. I love how he talked about being pulled off the course because he was blacking out and swaying back and forth in the run. Once the officials had Tom in the tiny hospital there, they called Jim, Tom's training partner and emergency contact, and asked, "Are you this man's doctor?" Tom did Jim's southern drawl perfectly, "Well, I guess I am now. What the hell happened to him out there?" Jim had to rescue Tom from the hospital, where they wanted to keep him overnight.

Tom went on to tell another story about how about a few years ago after the hurricanes, he had another unfortunate incident. He was running on a rainy morning with the group over the bridges, and somehow did not notice the barriers and sandbags along the road from after the storm. He tripped and fell and broke his hip and collarbone once he hit the slick pavement. George had been with them that morning, but had apparently already gone his separate way before this accident. Doc turned early because he had to get home and on to the hospital into surgery. Tom, hollering in pain on the road, told the others to call Doc George, who in turn, rearranged his day and met Tom at the hospital. George had Tom in for surgery that morning to fix up his busted bones. What a friend.

These people are like family to each other, and I think that is what a small town brings. Everyone is linked to everyone else. There is less than six degrees of separation here...I think it is more like two degrees? Anyway, Tom's stories were uplifting and comical, light and airy before I headed into the dark and dreary of the pool. Actually, the pool was not bad, and after talking to all those guys about triathlon, I felt mildly excited to slip into the water and turn my arms over. My legs were dead from the track, so I pulled quite a bit. The air was warm and the pool even warmer. The usuals were at the pool, which was nice and we chatted between sets, something I made up as I went along. I may have swam 1500, which was fine for me to call it a day.

The rest of the day is a blur.....in a word, frantic. Running in the car everywhere with the kids, literally, every hour accounted for. School, park, errands, gymnastics, errands, play dates, meeting with Team in Training for the triathlon team, errands, and on and on. I am dead to the world and ready to fall into bed. I must admit that I am feeling a little smug that we are part of the "A Crowd" for the park play date. I have come to learn that not everyone receives an invite to the exclusive club that meets at the park every early release Wednesday. I kind of dig that we made the cut and that my kids meet the credentials to be part of the clique. I realize how utterly ridiculous and arrogant this sounds, but the more time I spend with some of these women, the more I am realizing just how difficult it is to break into the Mom Crowd in Nowhereville. I felt readily accepted by the runner crowd; for some reason it is the group that has the least to prove (though some very competitive), and they were the most willing to befriend me right off the bat. Maybe in skimpy running shorts and naked tops, there is no place to hide? We are who we are in our running shoes and we cannot mask anything with makeup and jewelry at 4:30 am? It really is hard to be glamorous and put-together when we are sweating like no one's business here in the Africa heat.

The whole mom thing is another story, however. It seems that here, there are so many more stay at home moms than where we are from, so I guess when the kids are the center of one's existence, there is more to prove in the parenting and with one's identity. Many of these moms don't have too many outside hobbies apart from their kids, so they command the whole mom scene (soccer, tennis, swim team, cheer leading, PTA, playgroup, latest SUV)and they are going to let you know it. I feel fortunate that most of the moms I have met thus far have taken me in to show me the ropes in such a small place. Of course, there are plenty of snooty women on the island, but there are some who tool around in their golf carts and wear jeans that are (gasp!)non-designer from somewhere that is not a local boutique. These women are really actually fun to be with, and they bring humor in light of me bemoaning the red ants at the park when we sit in the grass and get eaten alive.

I finally made my way back home around 5 pm tonight, dizzy from exhaustion, but elevated to see more dolphins in the water as we came back over to the island. For the most part, this place is pretty vanilla, apart from the beautiful beaches and palms that grow in the sand. I miss the mountains and hills and rolling anything, but the dolphins tend to add a little something most days.

Jacksonville

2007-12-17T19:09:00.000-08:00

The weekend was a complete success. Marc did awesome in his marathon, though still a little weak and not at full throttle. He ran a 2:55 wihtout even trying, which put him 16th overall and 3rd in his age group. Another plaque has joined the wall in the ever-expanding shrine in our bathroom. What a guy to pull it off...and he only ate seven Gus the whole run. Yuck! Can you imagine choking that many nasty Gus down? How do people eat cake batter while running a marathon? Whatever works. Anyway, he more than qualified for Boston, which we knew he would even not at his best, so hopefully that will come to light this spring. We are debating possibly training for something longer, like a 50 miler, but there are so many runners here who are going to Boston, it is wooing us more and more.

There was a group of Sunrunners in Jacksonville also running the marathon or half. A bunch of us went out to a pre-race dinner Saturday night, which happened to be my birthday. They were all so sweet to come with gifts and dessert offerings, which was just so much fun. I honestly really love the people I have come to know in this circle of runners. They are all so real and concerned and forth-coming with jokes, information, and affection. It is such a refreshing change to be encouraged and pushed to seek more races and workouts, rather than be criticized and yelled at for doing too much by some former running partners I cannot mention here. Crazy George was out there at Jacksonville this weekend. This was his third marathon since Thanksgiving, which is exactly what I love about these people...there are no limits, no boundaries, no stopping them in travel and training. They are all on the crazy train and they revel in having company. I love being a passenger on that train with nut cases along side me.

Marc noted that George already knows me well enough to know how painful it was to sit in the sidelines and just watch the marathon this time. Because I was on little people detail, I was not a participant this time, and George had said, "This is killing you, isn't it?" The truth is, Marc had signed up for this one long before we left San Diego and we did not know just how popular it was among the people here. I was happy to support him and be a spectator this time around, knowing that Disney is closing in fast. I ran 21 miles the weekend before this one and 15 this past weekend. One more long run and then the taper, which sounds great, actually. George and Kimmie ended up running the marathon together, Craig did well in his half, as did Lori, Gary, Frank, and Abbe.

We had to jump into the car immediately after the race to get home. Last night was Marc's company party at the big boss's house down the street from us. They have a beautiful home on the water with a huge pool they heated for the occasion. The air has finally cooled down here, but I am told not to become accustomed to it for too long. This little cold snap will be gone as quickly as it came, so I am trying to enjoy every minute. The party was painless, save for the fact that I felt like an impostor. I couldn't help but think what a fake I am for being there, since I really would never choose to be friends with any of these people or spend time at a Christmas party with them. I felt mildly annoyed that we were mingling and schmoozing with any of them, knowing I am just counting down the days until we can get home to be with family and "true" friends in Cali. Maybe I was just tired and cranky from the long drive home from Jacksonville. Either way, back in Zero Beach and the countdown resumes to get the hell out of dodge. I love the miracles this season brings.

Ho, Ho, Hum

2007-12-12T18:23:00.000-08:00

How is it almost Christmas? I still can't get over the fact that I feel like we were just arriving at Halloween, but here we are somehow in December???????? I am not ready..........

Marc has been sick for two days, which is such terrible timing before his marathon this Sunday. I took the kids out last night with friends Lori and her crazy *crazy* husband, Michael, their daughter, Olivia, and another couple to whom they introduced us, plus their 3 daughters. We all went out to dinner and on to a place called Tara Plantation. Tara Plantation is a huge law office complex here in town where a self-proclaimed "Christmas Junkie" begins over Labor Day weekend decorating the offices with lights, trees, wreaths, and holiday paraphernalia. It was a sight to behold and the kids were in awe of the attention to detail. Each room a different theme of trees, lights, music, several trains, and larger than life Nut Crackers and St. Nicks. I think they ate their weight in cookies, too.

The weeks have been busy with the usual commitments. Last weekend was the annual Sunrunner's party and drunk fest, held at the neuron surgeon, Jim's house out west. He and his wife have an amazing estate with so much property, they own their own lakes. It was totally fun to be in a completely different setting with my usually sweaty running friends. I have not had a sip of alcohol in more than 10 years, but Lori's crazy Michael dragged me into the part of the house they call "The Red Room" with all the "Big Boys" and insisted we knock back some Petron. The man is an obnoxious extrovert and loves to drink (and drink and drink). He does not know the word "no". I think he is like 14 years Lori's senior and she loves to say how glad she is she met him when he was 50 and not 20. "Can you imagine what he was like then??" she always says. Marc continuously commented that night about how many "lushes" were at this sprawling estate. It's true, for the way they all like to drink, it is impressive they can abuse their bodies like that and then abuse it more with excessive exercise. Marc did not escape the Red Room either, telling me that by that time, Michael was so drunk, he was doing the lime and salt in the wrong order on his hand with the shots. Those two stumbled out together so proud of themselves that they had remembered the salt was in the rooster shaker.

I am getting nervous about our trip home now, mostly because I know once we are there, I am not going to want to turn around and come back here. We continue to meet really nice people who are constantly inviting us to this gathering or that dinner. For the relationships we have made, I will never regret living here for a time. The question remains, however, how long will this time be? Today I felt extremely excited and full of hope to think about shipping out this coming summer. Why waste another day being somewhere that feels isolated and miserable? Then I felt guilty about wanting to leave when I thought about how my daughter was on fire on the tennis court yesterday, ripping the ball over the net with her fierce backhand. Her coach kept looking over his shoulder at me and telling me it was his "brilliant coaching", but I know better. That girl just turned it up a notch and decided to check in to keep up with the more advanced kids. These are the things that make living here worthwhile, but I still want to go home.

Feast or Famine

2007-12-04T15:35:00.000-08:00

When it rains here, it pours. It comes down in droves. Thankfully, we have not had any rain since Saturday (on our long run, to be precise). Today was actually nice, for a change, weather wise....no rain, no heat, no humidity. We soaked up the sun at the park in the morning, drank in the ocean air from our front drive mid-day, and then enjoyed a cool early evening on the tennis courts riverfront. The kids are actually getting pretty good on the clay, and I am loving watching them with the coaching staff. Truly, I am impressed. I never thought I cared one way or another about tennis, but I am a believer now. It is a great sport and the opportunity for it is perfect in these parts.

Other than that, I am disappointed to have missed the West Palm Marathon last Sunday on account of bronchitis (again), but I guess it is all meant to be. Disney Marathon is only about 5 weeks away, and closing in quickly. We leave for Jacksonville next weekend so Marc can run his Boston qualifier. That sweet man, who cannot keep a secret, gave me my anniversary present early from my most favorite place in the whole world. In a word, Tiffany. There is nothing more romantic than that little blue box and white ribbon, except when it arrives at this time of year in the blue box with a red ribbon. The ring is *beautiful* and I know how much he wants me to be happy. With several holiday parties, birthday parties, and school engagements, how do I have time to be anything but crazy? Mostly, when I feel homesick, I want to die, but when I am happy, I am on top of the world. This past weekend in Palm Beach did a lot for my sanity, to be in a big city again and around civilization. I love the Christmas season and everything that comes with it. I love that we got married this time of year, because it only heightens the magic that surrounds.

I start coaching the Team in Training tri group in a few more weeks and I am eager to meet the participants. Not sure if I have taken on more than I can handle when I feel like my little people are so needy, but hoping it will all come together. I can't wait to get back to Cali soil and run some hills....I am thinking Torrey Pines everyday to get my fill. I miss the Pacific so much it hurts sometimes. But, my running friends here are so amazing and full of life....it is nice to have new blood to run with...sometimes I just miss the old.

Mother Earth

2007-11-27T18:24:00.000-08:00

"But what do you have in common?"

This is the question Marc kept asking me over and over about my relationship with Roberta on the way home from Georgia. Coming back to Vero has left me with a serious low feeling after so much bliss in Atlanta. There were so many highs there (being with friends, the chilly fall weather, the marathon, the community), it is difficult to come back to the lows here (the heat and humidity, the cranky elderly people, the old, run-down feeling this town resonates). Some days I feel like there is really nothing here for us. Maybe this is just the normal Post Marathon Blues I always seem to suffer from? The kids are excelling in tennis and all their extracurriculars, but apart from the time and financial freedom we have gained, I still feel empty in so many ways. How can this be our lives? How did we really land here, in Florida? Not possible.

Talking to another swim team mom at the pool tonight rekindled the warmth of the weekend. When she asked what we did for the Thanksgiving holiday and I told her, she emoted, "Oh! I LOVE Atlanta! I would live there in a SECOND! The schools, the town, the people....but my husband is from Vero and he will never leave here..." her voice trailed off as he threw her a disparaging look. I had to agree how fabulous Atlanta really is, at least what we experienced of it. This mom, Alisa, is from Los Angeles, too and we are in agreement that Florida is just not where it is at. We agree that we need not be back in LA necessarily, but that this is not where it is happening for us. We complain about the schools and the seasonal people and the pace of life at every practice.

It is funny because I always read my kids the Clifford The Big Red Dog books. The characters live on Birdwell Island, some little fictional island off the East Coast that seems the ideal place to raise kids. On Birdwell Island, the kids and their dogs roam the town and run on the beach and grow up in a wholesome neighborhood with exactly the perfect mix of various ethnicity and no racial tension. It seems the perfect little beach town, and they never seem to have any insect issues? Vero could almost be like Birdwell, except that there is racial tension (this may as well be the South) and the Confederate flag flies proudly here (say it with me: scary). The bugs are ridiculous and there is a racial divide.

Anyway, today I had to think about why Roberta and I are such good friends and how we have managed to remain so tight for all these years. What is it about our relationship that works? We met almost 14 years ago when she trained me as a server at the restaurant we worked at together in Malibu. She was going through a change of career after a life crisis and I had transferred back to school in LA out of Santa Cruz liberal hell. We both needed the money that place brought us and we closed the bar together many nights. We knew how to work the tables and customers and we always took the best of both. She was like a sister to me, always watching out for me and my best interest with men, dating, money, and school choices. I think I was her security blanket of someone who was always around once we moved in together and I was her biggest fan and cheerleader. That woman is Mother Earth. She was an amazing teacher and now that she has kids, she is Super Mom. She is the super volunteer, the team mom, the cake baking extraordinaire, the substitute teacher for all ages, and the fill-in-the-gap for any other need the school/neighborhood/community has. Roberta is the one they call when they need food, carpools, clothes, or babysitting.

So, what do we have in common? She is a Jewish Democrat, I am Christian non-partisan. She loathes exercise and sweat, while I am a cardio junkie who laces up my Nikes twice a day. She is the amazingly laid back, semi-messy mom who does not require her kids to use seat belts. I am the Paxil-needing, strung-out safety supervisor who cannot stand it when water spills in the car. She loves to cook and allows her family to indulge in many of life's guilty pleasures. I hate cooking and think of food as the Enemy. Our differences have become magnified now that we have kids. We parent with very different styles and with very different ideas. But, we both love our kids more than words can say and we both want to nurture in them a love of learning and curiosity and wonder. We want them to love reading and sports and have tons of friends and shoes.

But I know I want more of what Roberta has...she has a serene, carefree way about her that blows through the room like a warm summer afternoon breeze (in Malibu). She is fanatical about cleaning her kitchen counter tops, but she lets the kids draw on the windows ("It comes off with Windex"). She has a particular way she loads her dishwasher, but she doesn't care if the kids spill snacks in between the couch cushions. She is insistent that the kids always brush their teeth, but she only requires them to shower every third day and laughs about how stinky they get. She runs her kids ragged with activities and takes them to the ends of the earth. I, on the other hand, am such a stickler for the schedule and allowing for downtime. Her TV is on midday and her kids trudge in and out of the house in shoes. In our house, TV is a rare treat and we are a shoe-free zone. Her kids call her by her first name and their crayons are stored in empty frosting cans. I am not sure my kids even know my first name, and I cannot bring myself to allow my kids to eat anything with hydrogenated oils, let alone save the can for storage. I cannot skip reading the labels and counting the grams of sugar my kids might eat, constantly tallying up fat grams I do not want them to ingest. Roberta just lets her kids be kids and I want more of that. I want to be more of the person I am when we are together. She is almost haphazard in her parenting, and I desire to have more of that tendency. She is so creative and carefree, while I sometimes feel so "in the box" and "follow the guidelines" in my parenting.

What do Roberta and I have in common? Not at lot, quite honestly, but she teaches me that I want to be liberated. I want to put into practice the freedom she lives with in rearing her kids. She takes her little people to (gasp!) fast food, and while I don't think I can ever really go there, I recognize the need for balance. Berta fed our kids Lucky Charms the morning Marc and I were at the race. My knee-jerk reaction was to cringe (I hope I didn't show that outwardly). But, at the end of the day, is sugar cereal really going to kill them? We told them it is only sold in Georgia, by the way, now that we are back home and my four year old is asking for cereal with marshmallows in it.

Speaking of balance, I am seriously considering running the West Palm Beach marathon this Sunday. I know it seems crazy to run 2 marathons 10 days apart, but the idea of staying here in Vero this weekend is just too mediocre. Truly, the idea of staying here and having nothing on the books this weekend is enough to make me consider taking antidepressants. Berta would go (if she ran 26 miles at a time) and let her kids eat chocolate cake with trans fat in the car on the way. Shoot. She would probably let them watch videos all weekend long with lollipops hanging out of their mouths, too. Whose house would you rather grow up in?

Atlanta

2007-11-22T15:19:00.000-08:00

We LOVE Atlanta! We love the whole city, as well as Peach Tree City, where our dear friends from Los Angeles now live. We love the trees and the colors and the cold air and the kids in the leaves! We love the large houses with huge backyards, and the homey home town feeling here. WE love the golf cart rides around town and the zip line from the trees, and we love the fall colors! Did I say that already??? And, we loved running through Atlanta. It was a beautiful (although hugely hilly) course!The trees here are unlike any I have seen...they are bright red and orange and yellow. The leaves falling on the course today were falling as if in slow motion, and I would put my hands up to catch them.

Marc and I met up with Dr. George and his lovely wife, Lori, this morning. We dropped Marc off at his half marathon start (he only ran the half since this was his warm up race before his marathon in Jacksonville in 3 weeks), which began at our marathon turn around point. We left him in the dark and then hurried to get to our starting line, with time to spare.

George and I started at 7:30, 30 minutes after the half went off. I could not believe how few people were in the marathon. I have never run a marathon in which I could actually see the race start. It was amazing. Apparently only 700 people run the full, but several thousand run the half. I guess with the holiday, most people prefer to get home to family sooner. I wondered how Marc was doing, 30 minutes into his race. He was hoping for a 1:18 today, but we later realized how lofty that goal was with the rain and hills and wind. There George and I stood at that start, as it began to pour rain....a cold, miserable rain.

"George! I hate rain! I hate running in the rain!" I tell him.
George, ever steady, very quiet in his doctor-like measure of calm says, "Don't worry. It never rains here like it does in Florida. It won't come down in droves. It will blow out as quickly as it came in and we will be fine."

The gun went off and off we went. I let him go immediately, knowing he is a consistent 3:30 marathoner and knowing I did not want to try to keep his pace. I told him I am a loner when I run, anyway, and do not like to have to chat the whole way. He was in my sight for most of the first 7 miles, simply because there were not many people on the road in front of me, Honestly, I did not even look at my watch through the miles. For one thing, I loved that not every mile was marked. In the beginning, there were only mile markers every 2 or 3 miles. This was so great, because I did not agonize over the them and count my way down so intently. Another reason I did not check my watch really at all, I woke up and decided I was going to have fun today and not care about the time. I really wanted to finish enjoying the run and I did just that. Lastly, with the rain coming down (Florida style), I couldn't really read the numbers anyway, so why bother?

Anyway, around mile 7, I passed George and yelled at him to come with me. He said his legs were tired. The hills were relentless and I was not at all prepared for just how many there really were. My quads were tired, too, at that point, and I knew it would be a long day. Anyway, I knew George was not far behind, and when I got to the 13 mile turn around, I saw just hold closely he was running behind me. At this point, I did read my watch and it read 1:46 and I thought, "Oh, that's going to hurt later." Some guy who was volunteering told me I was the fifth woman to come through. I hate that he even told me that. I was running so blissfully until that pressure-filled thought. Another hill on the way back out of the turn around. Really, the hills were never-ending. I think George dropped back, because I waited for him at the next water station, but I could not see him coming. Miles 14 and 15 came and went and I still felt okay, trudging ahead....in the rain.

I had had to pee for many miles, so around mile 16, I finally came to a port-a-potty and went in. As I came out, George passed me and I ran in his shadow for a while. He was walking through the water stations, I realized, but I began falling off whatever pace I had been running and lost sight of him. I was desperate for the rain to stop because I was freezing and miserable. My shorts were heavy with water and I could now hear the squish, squish, squish of George's loud feet ahead of me.

Mile 17, I came through a water station and took some Jelly Beans, and out of the port-a-potty in front of me came George. He signed to me that he was done with his hands. I asked him how he felt and he told me his legs were done, that his tires fell off. I told him to come with me and we would just take it one mile at a time. We hung like that until mile 20. We ran in silence with only the "Squish, squish" of his feet, heavy on the wet pavement.

"Where is the water, George??? I need water! I am ready to lick a puddle!" (Did I mention that it was still raining? It rained consistently through mile 18, and then it was intermittent showers from there) I was getting desperate. If I have one complaint about this race, it was that the water stations were not spaced out properly. We would go for miles without any support, then there would be 2 water stations within 3/4 of a mile of each other.

"Water is coming...I think at the bottom of this hill." he told me. George is useless. He was trying to be positive, but I knew he was lying to me in his even tone. We got to the bottom of the long hill that beat up my quads and then around the corner, but no water. I was dying. Then, I saw it....it was like a beam of hope....the water station just before the huge climb they call "Cardiac Hill" just before mile 21. That is where George and I parted ways and that is where I hung it up. I was so done. I didn't care at all what the clock said...I wanted to crawl to the finish. But it was George who told me he was going to fall off and take it easy up the hills to the finish....yes, there were hills all the way to the finish. He started walking and I was in shock. This is the man who never gives in, never gives up and never quits. He is the Hero of Vero, he made the Vero Beach Times Magazine as one of "Vero's 40 most influential people" and here he was walking. He must have been hurting. I started Cardiac Hill slowly, hoping he would get me, but I tired of looking over my shoulder, since I was so exhausted, and I had to keep moving my feet.

Miles 22, and 23 were not memorable. I was hurting and I just wanted to get up that endless hill to the finish. Marc jumped in at mile 24 and that brought mixed emotions for me. I was elated to see him, but knew I would have to keep running and all I wanted to do was stop. My legs were absolutely cooked. The hills got me and they got me in a serious way. Marc went 1:20 in his race, which is great, knowing the head wind and the hills were against us. I was so proud and happy for him.

I walked through the water station at 24 and took some more beans. I felt like I had to vomit and that was not a good feeling, knowing I had 2 more miles to go. More uphill and it was like a bad dream. We finally made it to mile 25 and past the Capitol....and, another hill. At least the rain had stopped. We marched on and Marc kept saying, "Come on Pea, you look so strong. Take the Ironman in front of you." I didn't care about the man with the Ironman tattoo and shaved legs, but I did pass him anyway. The last 800 was downhill, but it was not even a welcome thing. It hurt and my legs were so sad. Ironmand passed me right at the finish. George was still nowhere behind me and I wondered how he was feeling. Not good for a 3:30 marathoner, since I came across the line and heard his wife yelling for me, waiting for him. I am sure she was surprised I came in before he did. 3:46 and I was thrilled to death. I actually felt good, minus my "barfy tummy" as the kids call it and my numb legs. I was cold, wet, frigid, and in need of a shower. I had not been this cold or with this kind of quad pain since Boston in 2000. I did not expect that at all. In the end, I finished 9th woman overall and 3rd in my age group. Apparently most of us finished around the 3:40ish mark, according to my hubby.

We waited for George. He made it in 3:55, shaking his tired head. Marc handed him a Diet Coke and he drank it immediately. That brought him new life and then we headed out back to the house for Thanksgiving Dinner. When we got home, the house smelled wonderful and kids were happy. What a great day. We are loving our time here.

Okay, Now I am Nervous

2007-11-19T19:15:00.000-08:00

We leave tomorrow for Atlanta! I cannot WAIT to see friends and not eat turkey! I hate the food, but love the tradition of family and friends. We will make vegetarian black bean soup for those of us (Ro and me) who are not into the turkey and dressing. We have to do the traditional spread for the kids and husbands, but that doesn't mean we have to eat it.

I have all but forgotten about the marathon until today, since I have been so distracted with school obligations and prepping for the trip. This morning I ran with Dr. George and Lori and they reminded me I need to pick up their race numbers, since they arrive in GA after the expo closes Wednesday. I have never run a marathon on a Thursday and it is kind of throwing a monkey wrench into the system. I have run marathons on Saturday and Sunday, even Boston was on a Monday....but, never a Thursday? The taper has been a little confusing these last few weeks, for sure. Should be interesting.

They are forecasting rain, by the way. Rain. There is a freaking drought there, and Thursday the state is going to get rain? I wonder if there will be ample water to drink on the course in the height of a drought? When I ran with Barry, et al, last week, he told me the marathon was cancelled due to the drought situation. I believed him, dry lawyer personality he is. Quadruple A in personality, always training for Ironman something, Barry is not to be taken lightly usually. He is not really known for being funny, but I guess he thought that was? I bought into it for a while when he told me it was on CNN the night before.

Anyway, as I zip up the suitcases tonight, I am acutely aware of my running shoes sitting on the top of the bag. Yikes! The kids are packed, the house sitter is lined up, Marc is signed off at work for the long week. Tomorrow we leave! Now, I am nervous. And I am wound about as tight as a spring.

Hump Day

2007-11-14T18:23:00.000-08:00

I am beginning to think that I try to sabotage my races. Yesterday when cleaning up in the kids' art room, I slammed my foot into a metal chair and destroyed my toe. I immediately crumpled in pain. My toe then immediately became swollen and black, and it was excruciating to walk on. This would almost be funny, if not for the fact that my marathon looms in 7 days. The part that makes it seem like sabotage is the fact that one year ago, I did the same thing, on the same chair, on the same foot, 3 days out from my Half Ironman. What is my deal?

Tonight the foot was so much better and I was able to run 2 whole miles on the dreadmil. I met my workout partner, Lisa, at the gym and we lifted, too. At first, I thought she was not showing, but then I heard a distant cry from across the crowded gym, "Quad! Quad!" I am not sure if I resent or resemble the nickname yet. Behind Lisa came the man who labeled me that dubious title, Gary. Gary is a super fit, super fast Sunrunner who we all call "Skinny Ass". He is so metro sexual, totally concerned with his appearance, and dresses in really loud running shorts or cycling apparel. He is kind of creepy and always stands a little too close for comfort. I told him these things this evening, as well as the way he reminds me of a slimy professor I used to have my sophomore year in college. Skinny Ass quickly made his exit after that and left us alone to workout.

I really like Lisa. She is very real. She has a killer bod, is super fit and maintains a tan year round. She is super mellow and easy going and I think they all call her "Country" because she is kind of a redneck at heart. We really have very little in common. She is a total party girl, loves nightlife and cocktails. She is going through a sad divorce along with her two kids, and working her booty off to get by. But she is so amazingly sweet and funny and she just calls things out as she sees them. We have to respect that about her. She is quiet, but when she talks it is worthwhile and her voice never waivers. She is intentional and steady, just the way she is when she runs. There is no BS about that girl.

On the way out of the gym after picking the kids up from their classes, Owen stepped on a rusty nail in the parking lot. She was not wearing shoes. I am not sure why we are culminating in foot injury this week and I am hoping for less drama tomorrow.

I Have To Admit, It's Getting Better

2007-11-12T18:13:00.000-08:00

In the words of the Beatles, "it's getting better all the time...." Not sure if I am still high from the fun and excitement of being at the Clearwater 70.3 Championships to see John PR, or just that, in general, life seems to be moving along more smoothly. I am still desperately unhappy with the school system here and with no reasonable solution or alternative, I cannot imagine it will get better anytime soon. I deplore the idea of our kids getting a mediocre education and Owen repeatedly telling me how bored she is in school. This pulls on the heart strings daily and I want to run back to Carmel Valley in an instant to make it all go away. At least there, if nothing else, we knew our kids were getting a quality education and being challenged all of the time.

Anyway, the weekend was a total success. The drive to Clearwater (clear across the state from where we are) was easy and only 3 hours. The kids did great, Marc and I enjoyed some much needed family and vacation time, and the beaches there were amazing. The kids loved the race scene, with so much going on and so many activities to take part in. I loved reconnecting with an old friend, someone familiar and safe, close to home. It almost felt like we were dining out in San Diego and just talking about another race, as though no time has lapsed since we moved here. Clearwater really is a cool little city with some spectacular beaches. Of course, it gave me the bug to want to race that distance again and soon!

We had lunch with an old colleague of John's while he was racing, a man by the name of Stephen. He was very generous and kind to us, as well as encouraging and funny. One thing I have come to realize about the locals (he lives in the panhandle of this state), is that they quickly forget just how miserable the weather is here in the summer. Stephen was one more person who claims the "3 months" in the summer are difficult, but the other "9 months" make it all worthwhile. It is true, the weather here is finally beautiful. (We went to the beach yesterday and the kids were in the water, 78 degrees, by all accounts chilly to Floridians, but about as warm as the water ever gets in San Diego, no?).

Anyway, I feel like the locals forget about just how dreadful the heat and humidity really are....and they cannot calculate the months properly. I count June, July, August, September, and ALL of October as being disgustingly hot and unbearable, so I am not sure where "3 months" comes from? I told Marc, I liken the weather to being in a bad relationship. When we are in that relationship, it is hard and we long for something better, easier, something with less drama. Once we break up, all we can remember is the good. We reminisce about all the good times and cannot let go of the fond memories. This is what Floridians do: they completely forget how terrible it really was and live in the moment of how wonderful everything here is. I guess that is one way to live, seeing through rose tinted glasses. I am still bitter about the relationship and glad we broke it off with the humidity, since I was becoming dreadful to live with.

The kids and I were out front tonight, cutting back the Bougainvillea that grows wildly out of control. It is a huge and wondrous sight when it is in bloom, as it is now, but becomes increasingly tangled and crazy the higher it grows. They love taking their little craft scissors and "trimming" the flowers back. I have the huge hedge trimmers and crop as much as I can, knowing we will be out there again in 3 weeks time to do more. My boy always saves the flowers for me and puts them in a vase inside. My girl complains that the landscaper is not doing his job. But, in the next breath, she tells me how much she loves the time we spend doing this together, so I think that counts for something? The evening was beautiful and we decided to go across the street to walk on the beach. I took dinner out of the oven and we ran along the shore until the moon was high and it was time to get to the pool for swim team workout. We barely made our way back, since it was pitch black with no lights to follow until we got to the bridge that traverses the jungle path back to the street. It was so much fun to just run in the dark like that, dodging crabs and chasing the surf.

Lastly, I cannot believe my marathon is inside of 10 days now. My buddy Craig said, and I am sure he was quoting someone else, "E, if you hurt at mile 10, you are in trouble. If you hurt at mile 20, you are normal. If you don't hurt at mile 26, you are abnormal." I am sure it is going to hurt. I know I am going to hurt. I just hope I can keep my GI issues in check, otherwise it is going to be a sad Thanksgiving. Oh.

Moving Forward

2007-11-07T16:47:00.001-08:00

This has been another busy week of many activities, obligations, and appointments. I started the kids in a new tennis program, which has them playing on clay courts now and being coached by pros. I know I will be accused of being an aggro tennis mom, but I was becoming disillusioned with their original routine: too many kids, too little experience, too much time waiting to hit the ball. Now they are taking at a more "serious" venue under the watchful eye of some spectacular pro, I am told. This is great, as is the fact that they are benefiting from the low numbers of kids to coach. My boy basically had a private lesson yesterday, and walked around today saying, "Bounce, hit. Bounce, hit."

My girl is still carrying around the trophy she won from last weekend's 5K. She won the 9 and under age group and loves her Dolphin Dash win. Marc won overall, and came home with the largest trophy, of course. We are starting a shrine in the bathroom for all of his wins now. We may have to add on another room to the house soon if they continue their earnings at the rate they are going. Personally, I cannot think of a more miserable experience than to hurt like that for just over three miles. I would sooner run 100 miles than have to race three. Ouch.

The weekend also brought some huge surf, courtesy of Noel. When we trudged to the beach Saturday, we were quickly alerted by the lifeguard that no children were allowed in the water due to severe currents and high surf. The kids busied themselves instead collecting shells and climbing on beach driftwood. Marc, of course, had to get in with a board and surf the epic wind blown junk that was out there. The next day, the same decision to surf brought him a gash on his wrist from one of the skegs, at which point he decided to get out before he attracted too many sharks. Good thing, considering we read in the paper the next day a man was attacked by a shark and bit on the tukis that same afternoon. He was surfing just a stone's throw from where we were. Love the nature here in Florida.

Lastly, I came to a startling conclusion today while standing in front of the mirror naked in the gym locker room. I think this is the best shape I have been in since college. I dropped my boy off in his gymnastics class and then hit the shower quickly (since I was in need of one after my gym workout). Standing around and talking to other moms from the class made me feel happy to be part of the Mom Club. I feel honored and privileged to be a mom, have 2 great kids, and be able to take part in all the discussions about school concerns, sports debacles, and homework woes. Being around moms who are pregnant with number three, running around doing the mom thing, makes me ache for a third one sometimes. When I look at my little guy, I can't help but think how totally beautiful he is, how lovely and wonderful and sweet he is. How it could be really fabulous to have another beautiful baby. Then I think about the athlete in me and how kids cramp that style. In my mind, there are two camps: the one in which moms with three or more kids reside, and the one with two kids or less. Three or more is constant chaos, blissful craziness, and never a dull moment. Two or less is seemingly doable, organized chaos and highly transportable. Mother to three is to be part of the inner tribe of the Mom Club, the special sector of the cult with its own language and connection. Mom to two or less seems more connected to the husband and wives club, the willingness to move forward as a couple and back to the intimacy that brings as the kids become more independent.

I know what two kids has done to my time and the havoc it has reeked on my body, which is only now recovering the best way it knows how at 32 years old. I want to be a hot mom and desirable wife. For me, a third kid could virtually spell out disaster. Not just the idea of sleepless nights again, the mile high of poopy diapers or mismatched sippy cups with lids that always leak, but the image that goes along with it. Please don't get me wrong. I am not saying that all women who choose to have three kids are homely and undesirable. I can only imagine what it would mean for me. I think for me it would mean my body would really go to hell fast and Marc might leave me. Period. Today standing in front of that mirror, I almost felt like I have a decent figure that deserves more than the frumpy mom clothes. Maybe I deserve new boobs to boot? Who needs another ankle biter when there are more races to run and silicone to be had? This is what I am going to go with in light of the newest study that came out shedding new light on the connection between heart disease and birth control.

Knowing Is Half The Battle

2007-11-02T12:41:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me in the pool on Wednesday that I really never knew how to swim. I took lessons all growing up, both private and group lessons. I swam a short stint on swim team in high school with a coach who was completely inappropriate with his sexual inferences and jokes (he married a former student once she turned 18) and rarely did he do anything to actually correct one's stroke or give pointed direction. I swam in a few rec classes in college, too, but never remember the coach really working with me there, either? Then on to a Master's Program swim where I would painfully grind out the yardage with some occasional help from the coach that I guess I never grasped. I didn't like his, "run your finger tips down the lane line in the recovery" technique. Ouch.

Only Don has ever been able to break it down enough for me to actually grasp and understand what the stroke means. In a word: complicated. But, I also realize that, like with anything in life, knowing is half the battle. Before, I was ignorant. Now, I can see it, absorb it, try to put it into practice. He has not told me again that my stroke looks perfect, so either I am slacking again or he is feeling less generous with his compliments.

I didn't swim today. I did my last (at last!) long run before the marathon in 3 weeks. I am troubled by all the stomach pain I had today...not sure why my belly was so unhappy? We ran at a pretty good clip, so maybe that was it? I was glad to be done before the sky opened up and it started raining again. the wind has been just miserable *miserable* M-I-S-E-R-A-B-L-E this week with that tropical storm that is killing them in the Caribbean. I really should not complain, since people are losing their lives, but at one point this morning, the wind literally took our feet out from under us. Lisa and I were going over one of the bridges, and a gust came up so fast and furious, we both lost our footing and almost went down....no joke. I didn't know it was possible for wind to do that to something with our weight, but it must have been the combination of our movement forward, the way it was blowing, and our footing at the time. It was the craziest thing to experience for a split second.

5K tomorrow for Marc and Owen. I have a feeling Owen's competition will be back for a showdown....this time with reinforcement. I hope Marc can pull it off again, too. I love that geeky guy in his racing flats out there. What is wrong with runners anyway?

Fall Festivities

2007-10-26T11:57:00.000-07:00

With life feeling more normal now that some of the fires in So Cal have been contained, I feel so much more like myself. My family lost some of their vineyard and had to do an emergency harvest to salvage the rest of the grapes. Apparently the wind just ripped the netting off of the grapes and tore it all to shreds, so now it is harvest time, though early, before pests begin to come in and eat the grapes once they smell the sugar. Marc's family is finally back at home and happily cleaning the house of ash and dirt. His mom says it smells terrible, and they also have a tree down on the garage. These are small causalities, considering how much more people have lost. It really is mind boggling and causes one to pause and consider what is worth complaining about.

Here in Florida, the big talk today is the weather radar. It has been, brace yourself, raining all day long, which has put a damper on both spirits and the Halloween Fall Festival. I spoke with head PTA mom today and we discussed options for plan B and where the booths will be held if we get rained out. This is very probable. She claims there has been no rain in 6 months and now it is all coming in these past few weeks. Interesting. I feel like it has not stopped raining since we arrived here. I can think of 3 or 4 days that were actually sunny and nice, without any intermittent rain, despite heat and humidity that causes severe sluggishness and depression. Sometimes, I just feel so desperate for fresh air from outside, to open the windows and let it come in with the breeze. Then I remember, there is no breeze here....it just doesn't happen.

Yesterday was a milestone, however, in that I turned off the air conditioning for one wing of the house. It actually was cool enough to open the windows in the kitchen and allow the air in from off the pool area. This did so much good for my attitude and feeling of AC claustrophobia. I am feeling so much more hopeful when I think the weather just may break one day soon. I don't care what people say or how "nice" everyone promises winter will be here. I will take chilly mornings and evenings of Southern California, because I just cannot live with the heat and humidity for much longer. It just does not make everything else worth it. My friend, Berta, likes to always say, "It's just weather, who cares?" But, really, I do care and I cannot pretend like it doesn't affect me.

I really enjoyed chatting it up with some characters poolside last night while Owen swam. There are some really nice swim team parents who genuinely care about how we are adjusting (or not so much) and how things are going in the school and otherwise. There are so very many nice people here who seem to like me, despite my wretched attitude about their town and state. They are still so warm and welcoming to me, and it feels good to be loved in that way. Tonight, Fall Festival where I am sure the kids will eat their weight in junk food and I will feel like a bad parent for allowing it to happen. Tomorrow morning, "The Killer Loop" of 21 miles again with some crazies who love it (including myself), then a costume parade for the kids, followed by a party at the house of a woman I met at tennis, who I just love. She is adorable and sweet, a petite pixie of a thing, with a huge beautiful smile and two beautiful girls who look just like her with their blond hair and clear blue eyes. Messina has gone to great lengths to plan her Halloween bash and we are ever so excited to participate in the festivities. Sunday is brunch with the neighbors across the street at their country club. This is apparently the en vogue thing to do; everyone seems to belong to one club or another around here, there are so many to chose from. After bunch, the pumpkin carving contest at another neighbor's big phat beach house up the street. There is a ton on the docket,which is how I like it since it keeps me distracted from things that concern me.

My buddies are running the Marine Corps Marathon this weekend, so we are sending them thoughts of cool weather and strength for the mountains they will face. Funny how in SD, everyone worries about what the weather will be doing on race day, "Is it going to be hot?" with never a thought of elevation. But here, all of my running friends never even mention the weather, but the obsession is, "Is there elevation? Will there be inclines?" and on and on. Isn't it funny the things we stress about? My concerns are not so much about elevation or running in the heat. My biggest concern is that my kids make it through this school district unscathed. We all need our issues to have an ulcer over.

More Of The Same

2007-10-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

Today was more humidity, more rain, more things to do on the never-ending list. We ran around and did a million errands, did gymnastics, made it to school for Pottery Night, finished homework, and on and on. The list of phone calls was endless, with people to connect with in both LA and SD. The house is far too big and never gets cleaned sufficiently (note to self: ask husband to get on board with the idea of a housekeeper)to my standards. There simply are not enough hours in the day to make it all happen.
My daughter and I always play the High and Low Game where we recount our day and tell each other our best and worst event of the day. Today my high was hanging out with the kids at the local smoothie place after school. My low was in the pool this morning when the coach was not quite so generous with compliments for my stroke. I was really off in my timing today....tired after the track workout we did and felt sluggish in the water. I've been cutting back on caffeine and it is killing me.

Grief

2007-10-22T18:24:00.000-07:00

I think I am still simply grieving the loss of my old life. Things here are fine. They are even nice at times. I think I know why people like it here so much in this beach community, but I still feel like no one truly understands me. Even my husband has completely tired of my depression and lacks any sympathy for my feeling of isolation. I know it is not intentional, but he has no way to relate to loss I feel, since we crave such different things most often. It was like a breath of fresh air to have my friend, Berta, here from Georgia this weekend. She grew up in LA and we are like sisters the way we communicate. We complete each others sentences and finish each others jokes. It was a great weekend, but it left me feeling empty and so homesick when she and her family had to fly out of here again. Life felt somehow bleak again.

The weekend was full of activities. One thing I can say about Vero, is there is no shortage of things to do here for families with kids. Saturday began with Marc and Owen running another 5K. Marc won overall (is this getting boring to you yet?) and Owen took third in the 14 and under age group with a PR of 41:05. I am so completely proud of her since she set her sights on a PR and, to use her words, "smoked that little girl" at the finish. In effect, she stalked a little girl who, was probably 7 or 8 years old, and was out in front of her the whole way. Owen took her in the very end because she ran a smart race. This sweet little towhead of a competitor, who kept looking over her shoulder the whole way, was passed by my girl in the last 1/2 mile or so. Basically, Owen took the medal right out of her hands and I know that cutie was disappointed. But, I have to admit, I was so proud of Owen for working hard to get her in the end, not knowing the age divisions or where they would place at the finish. Marc had a PR, too, which is so great, and we are so proud. Success for him seems to come so easily in sports. Success for me was the boy behaved in the jogging stroller and sat tight the whole way, happy to take in the sights and relax in the recline position.

After the 5K was a would-be carnival that was (what else?) rained out. We went out to lunch with our friends, instead, to a riverside cafe that is way overrated. Then it was onto the exhibit at the museum and the craft for kids that followed the tour. The evening was marked with dinner from Panera, carmel apples, and then the haunted house at the theatre. The haunted house was really cool, and since it was pouring rain outside, it seemed appropriate to be inside a dismal setting. There are always so many activities for the kids....and into this week is no different. In addition to all of the normal after school sports and extracurriculars, we have swim team pictures, sculpture night at school, 2 costume parties to attend, one brunch and one pumpkin carving party. Outside looking in, it seems our lives are so busy and full of really wonderful people and pastimes. This is true, but I still feel like no one quite gets me. I am really missing my girlfriends, so it was therapeutic to have Roberta here to fill the void, if only for 24 hours.

Today I woke up dreading another week ahead, but I had a huge high when my cranky swim coach used the word "perfect" to describe my stroke at the 6 am workout. He not only said it was "better", he actually told me the last 100 was "perfect". I could have walked on the water at that point, I was so happy. I got in the water a little late after the run, and was happy to see he was busy with another man, picking on that poor soul, telling him he needed a clam digger to go with his stroke. I slipped into my lane, but because the pool is small, there is no where to hide. Coach was hovered over my lane within minutes, barking instruction, but actually doling out praise, too. This was a first. The breakthrough for me seems to have finally happened now that coach Don has completely overhauled my stroke. My shoulders know a pain they have never known before, but at least I feel inspired to feel like I know how to swim properly. It has really motivated me in ways I never thought it would to get me to the pool. I have come to love that decrepit little old man as he hobbles along side the pool. Today, I looked at him and he looked so fragile, telling me the same story he always tells me....he was the "first person to go under a minute in the 100 fly" oh so many years ago. I looked at coach Don and saw a human under the rough exterior and for a fleeting moment, I really liked him, despite his rude demeanor and constant bragging. I felt a little twang of love and compassion for this man who is so difficult to enjoy being near under most circumstances. For a moment, I was terrified to think of him not showing up at the pool anymore and it made me pause to think that I must try to enjoy every moment I have with his coaching and really take in what he has to teach me. He is as mean as the day is long, but he knows swimming. Old, he may be, but sharp as a tack and completely verse in the most up-to-date techniques in the pool.

Once over my swimming high, I came back to the grief of feeling homesick in light of the fires destroying Southern Cal. I am so horribly sad to know that we are not among family and friends at home. I hate that fires are raging, and that San Diego is basically gone and we are not there to comfort and protect our parents. We are not there to commiserate and evacuate and gather belongings and hole up together. I am sad to learn our old neighborhood has been evacuated and the fire rages on with no signs of containment. I am grieved to see my old church (and preschool I attended) in Malibu burned to the ground. As demented as it sounds, wildfires are like an old acquaintance to me. I am comfortable with them, though I do not like them, and they are a way of life in Southern California. The idea of hurricanes or tornadoes terrifies me, but fires are not at all unexpected or terribly horrifying. As long as there is no loss of life, I am okay with fires. It doesn't make sense to me, but I wish we were there with my sister and Marc's parents, braving the storm together. At least we would be together.

Nature At Its Finest

2007-10-18T16:13:00.000-07:00

I hate nature. Really I cannot stand anything that is camping, bush-whacking, creepy-crawly, poisonous, sharp teeth related. I hate nature and I do not want it near me. When we would swim the La Jolla Cove, I would close my eyes and try not to look at what was lurking beneath me. As much as I hated getting tangled in the seaweed and having it slither under my belly, it was better left to close my eyes and leave it to the imagination than to see the creatures that live in that kelp.

Nature is at its finest here in beautiful Florida. One sight that is very common around here is the landscaping truck. There are several *several* landscaping companies and the trucks are always parked out in the middle of the streets. Apparently the driveways cannot withstand the weigh of trucks, so they all park smack in the middle of the street. So, people do the logical thing around here, of course: they all drive on the grass to go around. People drive and park on the grass all the time. Coming from a homeowners association that slapped fines on people for not having a perfectly manicured lawn, I still cannot make peace with this regular occurrence of tires on the grass. But the grass grows rapidly and completely out of control, so it seems cars do not affect lawns whatsoever. Yes, nature. Snakes love to hide in this thick grass, too. We have a disgusting black snake who lives in our backyard grass. I hate him.

Apart from alligators and sharks and sea lice all of the other ocean creatures one has to worry about here, perhaps the most disconcerting are the ones who live on land. Not just snakes, of course, but the insect variety. There is a wide range of lovely pests who inhabit these parts. Among these bugs are silverfish, mosquitoes, noseemes, and the most dreaded, the fire ant.

Today my sweet little boy wanted to go to the park at 2:00 pm. I dreaded this request, knowing it was 94 degrees out with one hundred percent humidity. Can we get some fall weather around here yet? I have all but given up on the idea that I will ever wear a long sleeved shirt (let alone a sweater), but an occasional breeze would be most welcome. The air was thick with not so much as a hint of wind, and we were at the park right on the ocean. Dreadful. Anyway, 8 minutes at the park and there was a shriek from my son. A blood curling scream that caused me to leap out from under the modest picnic area where I was conversing with a neighbor I just happened to run into, and sprint over to the swings where he was standing. Crying so much, he couldn't tell me what was wrong, until I saw him grabbing his feet, which were bright red and blowing up. Fire ants. He obviously walked over one of their ant hills on his way to the swing set. I hate all things nature.

Really, I will not miss the dreadful weather and how it impedes our outdoor lifestyle. I will not miss the animals and insects and creatures. I will not miss the smothering heat and sticky air. Hmmm, I guess I will miss how nice my skin has become in this humidity. Thankfully my hair is stick straight and I do not have to worry about frizz. My poor girl. She is doomed to have bad hair if we stay here for any length of time.

The Fish Bowl

2007-10-15T17:41:00.000-07:00

We live in one. A teeny tiny town where we bump into everyone all the time and somehow everyone knows everyone else's business and no one is anonymous. Annoying. I think I am peeved because I want to hate all these people so I can leave without severing any ties and go back to the life I want. I want to stop living like my life is on hold and have the kids in schools where I want them, and have the house and yard I want, and weather that is conducive to playing outside.

Today I wanted to take the kids to ride bikes, since our street is so nice and flat, but it was so hot, they were spent before we ventured out. They had no interest in going because it was hot. We did homework and read books instead. The weather is terrible, and no matter what people say about how nice the winters are here, it does not make up for the blistering heat of summer and now fall. I think they just do not know it any differently? People here are nice, but they move at the pace of molasses. I just got a call tonight from the company who is coming tomorrow to install the microwave that needs to be replaced in our house. I knew the woman was drunk the other night when she scheduled me for tomorrow at 9:00am. Her confirmation call tonight was, "Okay, I have you down for between 11 and 2 tomorrow." I said, "No, actually, you crack smoker, I am first on the docket tomorrow. Did you forget?" She quickly adjusted her day planner for me. I think in these parts, they have to allow for the drunk dial daily.

Are people really people wherever we go? I say no. There are some lifestyles that I will just never, never become accustomed to. Maybe it is because I grew up in LA that I can tolerate most anyone. I have nothing against any race, religion, gender, sexual preference or orientation. I was raised in a very open-minded home where off color jokes were not allowed. I genuinely appreciate differences in cultures. But, I cannot stand ignorant people, and that seems to be prevalent here. I really am coming to despise people who are just not educated and who are drunk before 9 am. Something is just wrong about that. Being hung over at that time is acceptable, but getting up and drinking with the sun? There are plenty of people like that in this town. It feels like a crazy chapter in a storybook from the sixties, except it is actually happening here.

Denial

2007-10-14T16:35:00.000-07:00

I think I have some about the pending marathon. I am running the mileage and moving along in training, but for some reason, I simply cannot believe I will be running a marathon in 6 weeks. Kind of funny. I signed up for the race to provide a distraction from life here in Florida, but now life here in Florida is distracting me from the race. I hope that means my priorities are in the right order?

I am very torn over whether or not to take the position as coach for the Team in Training group here. It sounds like a great opportunity and very rewarding in many ways. On the other hand, it will require a huge time commitment on the weekend that I am not sure I have to give if we decide to travel to Boston for the marathon or possibly begin training for a 50K. I wish there were more hours in the day....or that I might function better on less sleep?

Beyond these issues, I still despise the public school system here and wonder why we are tolerating it at all? If only there were an alternate private school that was decent. We are still contemplating homeschooling as an option, but that sounds like a scary undertaking in and of itself. I love my sweet girl and want for her to be safe and sound, unlike the incidents of being locked in the bathroom by some bused-in kids, or bullying in the classroom, or the absurd language that is spoken...I could go on and on. Should a six year old really have to contend with such things? It is a dilemma. I cannot wait to return to something more sane and humane.

So Tired

2007-10-12T18:10:00.000-07:00

Today we ran 20...maybe a little more. I love this group because they are so easily convinced to do anything. For a haphazard kind of Triple A group, they are all so happy to accomodate. I woke up at 3:20 am (after being up with the little guy a few times in the night...nightmares, you know) feeling exhausted. Walked out my front door to rain and lightening and Lori waiting in my driveway. We ran South to the Country Club to pick up Kimmie, Craig and Lisa, only too bad for me, I stepped in a puddle up to my knees. Because it was super dark, it was difficult to make out the road (read: swamp). We made a pit stop back at our house on our way back North to start loop one.

We made another stop an hour into the run at Barry's law office for potty and water break, back the bridge toward South again. At that point, we said goodbye to Lisa, Kimmie and Craig (who only needed 13 miles) and Lori and I continued on for another loop. That one hurt. The rain picked up, we were wet and tired. Finished at our house and parted ways. I walked in the revolving door, with Marc waiting for me to sunscreen him so he could get to his Jungle Trail for his 20 miler.

Tonight we are on a mini vacation and it is so fun to be seeing southern Florida. Cannot wait to fall into bed.....

He Won!

2007-10-06T17:59:00.000-07:00

Marc smoked them all...with very little effort on his part.

I got up and ran with crazy Dr. George and Lisa at 4:30 am. We picked up a few more girls (Lori, Laurie, Kimmie and Patti) at 5:00. It was already hot and humid with some annoying wind. I was going to run to the start from our house, but when I opened the front door and a bolt of lightning struck directly in front of me and across the street, I went to plan B: drive to run start and wait for people who are taller than I am to run with. Thankfully, the lightning subsided and we were left with high hunidity. Then came the rain around mile 11, dumping in buckets out of nowhere. It stopped as quickly as it started. That is the crazy thing about the rain here. It really is like how it is always depicted in movies set in the jungle: the sky is seemingly clear, and then it just starts coming down in droves. It was so loud, we couldn't carry on conversation for that 20 seconds.

Got home by 6:35 and we left for the Jungle Jog. It was very well organized with the pancake breakfast after for everyone. The kids loved all the syrup they ate with some pancakes on the side. Marc won the purse ($50) and the respect of the locals. Gotta love that he was so far ahead of everyone else, despite the fact that he made a wrong turn along the way (he didn't know the course)and the guy behind him yelled at him to come back. Not sure why he was looking over his shoulder in the last 200 because it was not even close. Not bad for a guy who hates to run on pavement.

Food For Thought

2007-10-04T18:16:00.000-07:00

I was cleaning out our refrigerator today and thinking it is much like my life. As dumb as metaphors are, I couldn't help but think this. I have arranged and rearranged our fridge at least 5 times since we have been in this house. I keep switching out drawers and shelves and re-categorizing food items until it feels just right. I have exercised this obsessive-compulsive behavior with other things in the house as well, but somehow the fridge needs constant maintenance. This is the same inventory I keep taking with how things are going overall here in Florida. I like my daughter's swim team,I despise her new school. Marc loves his new job responsibilities, I am so over the insects. I like the island we live on, I hate the surrounding area. I like the house and neighborhood, I detest the humidity and constant rain forest rain.

After a fun play date at the park yesterday with some other PTA moms, I decided I might even be okay with some of these women as friends....but how much do I want to relent, restructure, rethink what it is I look for in girlfriends to make it worth getting to know them? I mean, I never used to put flour and sugar and cereal in the fridge before, but here I am forced to do so because bugs like to visit the pantry. I never thought I would get along with Southern chicks, but some of them are pretty funny. How much of my attitude do I need to clean up and rearrange? Food for thought.

Funny thing happened this morning. It was the first morning in ages that is has not rained (has not, you read that correctly), and yet, I did not run early. I set the alarm and laid there for a minute with every intention of getting out of bed. The next thing I knew, it was an hour later and I had missed the group. I got email from most every single one of them, demanding my whereabouts.

"Where were you, Quad A? Did we sleep in???"
"AAAA, we waited and waited for you, but when the sun finally came up, we decided to leave without you" (the sun doesn't come up until nearly 7 am here).
"My grandma came out today to run with us and said she can take you, Quadruple."

And so on. I love that this group is this feisty and that they hand out garbage already to the new girl. I love the guilt they shovel on thick. I love that they have already given me a nickname. Mostly, I love that I feel completely at home with all of these perfect strangers. This is no surprise to me, since I think runners are runners wherever one travels. There is no fashion show, no makeup, no catty competition or discussion of material goods. Mostly, it is people who spit and sweat and tell off the cuff jokes and simply want to, well, run. It is the other part of my world, the mom world, that is so much harder to organize and categorize....to get to feel just right.

Our running group is putting on the annual "Jungle Jog" this Saturday. I hope Marc can clean up there and kick some humid ass. There is one guy around here who tends to run and win all the local 5Ks, so I am hoping Marc can get it in that extra gear and move it past this one skinny dude. I think Marc has it in him if he digs deep enough. All of my Sun Runner friends are running/cheering/eating pancakes there, so it should be fun. There are tons and tons of 5Ks around here, but not many fall marathons or half marathons locally, so everyone tends to travel for longer races. Crazy Dr. George is going to Baltimore next weekend for a marathon, Craig is traveling North to Jacksonville this weekend for a half, the group leaves in a few weeks for the Marine Corps Marathon. Marc's boss is wanting to put together a local race that the company will sponsor, so I was trying to convince him to do a half marathon with an optional 5K. I think he is on board.

Because I missed the alarm, I got my run in later, in sweltering heat, with the boy in the jogger and the girl on her bike. I have not ever *ever* sweat like I did on that run. Sunscreen burning my eyes, sun blistering hot off the pavement, it was a miserable experience. I cursed myself for missing my wake up call. Ry and I dropped Owen off at school 4 miles there and then 4 back the same way. When we got to her school, several people came up to me, people I do not know at all, "Hey, I just saw you running...." Or, "Hey, were you just running along...." At least four people commented on our lunacy for running in the heat. On the way home, someone pulled up next to me and rolled down his window, "Don't you get enough exercise in?" It was Owen's swim coach, Scott, making fun of my obsession. I crossed the street, almost home, and saw our realtor waving at me from her Beemer. She later sent me an email asking me why I am such a nut case. This island is just way too small sometimes.....just like my fridge, I think.

Catatonic

2007-10-01T18:42:00.000-07:00

I hate it here.

I just had to see it in black and white so I am not lying to myself or anyone else. I hope that in six months, I can look back at this blog and read this entry and feel differently. Really, I am miserable and for no good reason. People are nice, Marc loves his job, the kids are happy...how can I possibly be this glum? I never anticipated I could be this dark, but today I feel hopeless. I feel like I have given up finding the good in the dream. The one in which Marc is happy doing his Director of Chemistry thing, and the kids are perfectly adjusted, and I have found my niche.

It rained today in Biblical magnitude. Think Noah's Ark and you are close to imagining the day. The main issue is I navigate a Sequoia and not a boat, so this was problematic today. Like the case in which I almost ran over our six year old, when she darted in front of the car as I picked her up from school. She thought I was stopping, but I was rolling ahead to allow her more room to open the door on the rear passenger side. The torrential rain was so heavy, I could not even see her. It is by the grace of God that she is unscathed. His hand was on her today, and for that, I am so grateful. We drove carefully to North County for Swim Team pictures, that were (duh) cancelled due to weather conditions. She swam the workout there anyway.

I hate that I was soaked to the bone in the three seconds I crossed the parking lot to pick her up from swim team. Standing, once again, at the car to load her and laughing in spite of the situation: my hair plastered to my face, my clothes soaking wet, I laughed out of fear I might cry if I thought about the stupidity of it all. The wind was blowing gusts of sheets and sheets of rain. Rain so heavy, it blinded me as I opened her door to hustle her into her carseat. How do people live like this, anyway? I laughed a strange and eerie laugh that is not mine at all. I laughed until I had to lay my head on the steering wheel of the parked car in convulsions, with my kids looking at each other with uncertainty in the backseat.

I hate that the more people I meet, the more they tell me how "wonderful" it is here and all I want to do is run home and forget about it. They laugh and make fun of the lack of conveniences that exist, but how they love the "small town". How is it I am spearheading playgroups, joining the PTA, rallying neighbors for events, but I am miserable? I feel like Jackal and Hyde. I want to be part of the community and I am signing the kids on for everything and committing myself to everything, but my heart aches and my head hurts and I wish I could just sleep the day away. I feel like I am trying, but something is just not working...it is not fluid like it should be.

I ran bridge repeats this morning. I only planned on running six, and the wind nearly blew me off the top. The fury of it, whipping along, screeching its presence, nearly slowed me to a stop when I was heading into it going East. I only wanted to run six, but I ran eight simply to feel alive. The only time I feel like I am even a shell of who I was is when I am running. Everything else in my universe is so out of whack, I cannot bear to think about the details. I fold laundry in a daze and shuttle kids simply going through the motions. I nod and listen to my swim coach because he berates me and it stirs some emotion in me that reminds me I am human. Right now I mostly feel catatonic....except that I cannot be a hat rack. I have to live and move and breathe and carry on a household and feed children and kiss my husband.

Even if I never run a step with my old running partners, I cannot bear the thought of being so far away from everyone and everything that was the center of my universe before. Marc's mom sent another package today and I could barely stand to open it. I willed myself to do it because the kids were shrieking, pleading to see what was inside. It's like I cannot bear to really think about what I feel like we are missing from our old lives. I threw away the Zoo News publication from the San Diego Zoo that is forwarded to this address. I don't want to read about their hippos.

Yesterday was a good day. Today was very much something else. I hope tomorrow will be something that won't seem manic when I put it in print.

The Long and The Short of It

2007-09-30T18:07:00.000-07:00

"It" as in "the Run". Yesterday was the 21 mile "Killer Loop" with the group, and what a group it was. I think at our high point, there were 12 or 14 of us? Most of us began on the beach and headed West over the first bridge, in, what else? Rain. Thankfully, the rain ended as quickly as it came on, and we were hardly wet for the wear.

Over the first bridge and on to pick up a couple more runners, as well as Stephanie, our support crew. How cool is it that this woman (who is not running right now for some reason not clear to me), met us at various points on the loop for hydration. She had all kinds of nutrition in the back of her minivan. It was like being in a race. Very cool. Anyway, we picked up more runners at mile 11, I think, and as the group grew, so did the chatter, which was very cool. One thing I realize more and more is that there are so many great conversationalists in this crew, I would never have to speak a word if I chose not to. Actually, I am wise to keep my mouth shut, since the more I divulge, the more ammunition they have to use against me. Yesterday they bagged on me about how much I talk about California. Can I help it that I am from the Superior Coast? I need to remind them periodically.

Anyway, we continued to run, and many of these guys started complaining about the Wabasso bridge, how steep it is, how hard it is, on and on. I began feeling nervous about the incline the way they were talking, but I need not have worried: it was about as steep as anything else around here...not very. We caught part of the Jungle Trail and then headed South toward home. Around mile 16, we were desperate for Stephanie again, wondering where our water was. Turns out, she turned the North at Jungle Trail and was waiting for us in the wrong place. By mile 17, we were so parched, we stopped at John's Island (or JI, as the locals call it) and hit up the guard at the gate up for some water. We continued on another 4 miles back to the cars. A quick dip in the ocean to finish a great run. How is it possible I was stung again by another jelly? These little guys are nasty.

The day only got better from there. We spent it in West Palm Beach with lunch at Whole Foods and then a tour of Jupiter Island, looking for Tiger's house. The island is beautiful, *beautiful* with tons of greenery and even little rolling hills on the golf courses. On to the town of Tradition, where our family ran a 5K to raise awareness for Child Abuse and neglect. I ran along side Owen, with Ryan in the stroller to support her. Marc was second finisher overall, despite the heat, and Owen was third in the under 10 division. They both came home with trophies, which was grand. The kids played on the inflatable jumpers and ate junk food, while we spoke with the team that entered from Marc's work. It was all really enjoyable, until out of nowhere, the sky opened up and it began to POUR rain on us. Lightning in the sky, people running for cover, cars madly trying to get out of the parking lot all made for an interesting finish to the day. We left around 9:00 pm, exhausted, but happy.

So, I feel good about running the mileage, despite the fact the day started and ended in crazy moments of fleeting rain. The kind that is just enough to get one wet, but nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The 5K was really rewarding, to see Marc run strong and Owen place in her little division. It is all worth it, if we can encourage a love of exercise in our kids. Even little Ryan was happy running along in the stroller. He never complained once.

"The Rainy Season"

2007-09-26T17:07:00.000-07:00

This is every one's favorite response when I bemoan the weather. It rained all day today, only to stop to make way for more gray skies and then more rain. On and off all day long, it rained. I usually don't mind rain, I even quite like the rain. I think I used to love the rain when it was the oddity and novelty of Southern California. Here, I am coming to accept the rain as a random act at any given point in the day. That is one thing that I really underestimated about here. People told me it rained, but I never thought THIS much.

This morning we ran on the track, which was wet from last night's storm. Thankfully, we did not get any more downpour until I was leaving the workout. We ran a mile warm up, followed by 2 800s at 3:30 pace, a mile at 6:47 pace, and then 2 more 800s, 3:22 and then 3:17 to finish strong. I ran with Lori and Dr. George. There were some other suspects there, too, but they were doing a different workout. I left the track and did some legs in the gym, followed by a cool down swim. Luckily Don was giving a private lesson so he left me on my own today. I am grateful for the little things. We are booking our tickets tonight for Christmas home. You can't see me, but here I am dancing.

Bridge Repeats

2007-09-24T18:23:00.000-07:00

Alone. In the dark. In the rain. With just my alligator friend beneath the bridge.

Sound invigorating? I feel empowered. I did 6 hill repeats, each around 7 minutes, up the bridge and back down as one. They actually did not hurt too bad, though my legs were tired by the last one. I am still reeling that I saw a "gator", however, sleeping under the bridge along the shore. I did a double take, but it was a real live gator. Sent shivers up my spine, or maybe that was my reaction to the rain pelting my face so hard it hurt?

Anyway, did the workout I set out to do and then went to the pool for some abuse from Don. It was miserable in a satisfying kind of way. Today he told me my stroke was the best he has seen it yet. I will take that, coming from a cranky old man who never says anything nice about anyone. Most days I wish he would just ignore me like he does the man who got into the lane next to me. I wonder if that man just told Don to leave him be and let his stroke be imperfect? Maybe Don thinks that man is too old of a dog to learn any new tricks? Other days, I am hungry for his advice, eager to learn the stroke work and wanting to improve it all. Then he tells me to do backstroke and I think I might drown right there in my lane. Would the grumpy old coach jump in and save me? It is not likely.

I am excited about the possibility of going home for Christmas and seeing friends and family. Sharing a meal and sitting in front of the tree together. It sounds like a ton of effort to get there, but I think it might almost be worthwhile. I want San Diego so badly, I can almost taste it. I want to drink in the cold December air there, run Torrey Pines hill, and embrace old friends. I love the idea of celebrating the most magical time of the year with people I crave seeing again. Mostly, I want to stop feeling torn between two worlds and try to live a streamline life.

Jungle Run

2007-09-22T18:11:00.000-07:00

Today was the long run with the group on the dreaded "Jungle Trail". I wish I were kidding about the name, but it is actually posted as a landmark and a real destination for people from miles around. People travel to the Jungle Trail for mountain biking (which is funny, since it is as flat as everything else around here), running, walking and nature observation. The whole time we are out there, the only thing I can think is that I hope we do not observe any nature.

Lori picked me up at 5 am for the 5:30 start. When we got to the trail head, it was pitch black with no streetlights around for miles. Dr. George, Craig and Lori all had lights. Craig carried his flashlight, Lori had a small led light clipped to her hat, and geeky Dr. George was wearing-brace yourself-a head lamp. I asked him where the mine was. We did a small out and back and then picked up the rest of the group for a brighter 6:30 start. Patti asked Dr. George if he was heading into surgery with that dumb lamp. We ran out the north trail at that point, which is longer than the south trail we started on, but less scenic, unless you like huge blue pelicans and snakes. These are in abundance, but the snakes are "the good kind" I am told. Whatever. Anything in the snake family is not worth meeting on the trail if you ask me.

In the end, Lori and I continued after the other guys were done, and I think we finished with around 19 miles. She is doing West Palm Beach marathon in December. Atlanta is closing in fast for me, with Disney right around the corner after that. I am kind of thinking about West Palm beach, though. It sounds good to do another one along the way, just as a training run, of course.

I continue to meet new athletes and really like them. Everyone is so super welcoming and friendly. I am thrilled to death to have Thanksgiving in Georgia with old friends there. But, I continue to be homesick and miss all of the conveniences of our old lives. The little things that seem so trivial, but the things that add up to make life aggrivating here at times. Like, the fact that the grocery store does not open until 7:00 am, so when I am on the way home from track, I cannot just pop in and pick up milk for breakfast, since the doors are still locked. Or, the way getting my hair done yesterday cost almost $300. Who was this woman that she thought she could charge that? Frustrating to have to start all over with new everything, including finding the right hair person.

Mostly I miss the life we used to have in Carmel Valley with awesome neighbors and a wonderful school for the kids and beautiful parks we could go to in the middle of the day. While it is beautiful here, the parks remain vacant because it is too stiffling to go outside this time of year. My little guy keeps asking me to go to playgrounds every day. I can't help but feel my kids are missing out on some precious experiences while we are here. They are experiencing so many other new adventures here, it is true, but maybe I am just thinking it is not comparable to what I grew up with. Somehow, I still feel like California is superior in so many ways: the opportunities, the schools, the connections we have there. I wonder if I might ever come to feel like anything but a fish out of water here?

For Something New and Different...

2007-09-19T12:41:00.000-07:00

....rain today. What a surprise. Actually, when I left the house this morning, it was not yet raining. I arrived at the track, parked my car, climbed over the gate to get in, and saw Dr. George already running the workout. I ran one whole 200 before it began to drizzle. By the time I reached the start, it was a true rain. After a 2 mile warm up, the sky opened up and began to dump. I was drenched and dripping with both sweat and rain when my friend, Lori, arrived, a pathetic towel over her head, as if this were to protect her from the elements. She was already soggy just the short walk from her car. Because Dr. George had beat us to the track, he was almost done with his Yassos when I finished my warmup. He had to get to the hospital for an early surgery. That man is a lunatic.

Funny thing about this small town: the only thing the people love more here than their precious high school football team is the football field on which they practice. So, the gate is always locked and there are many signs posted to keep out. This, of course, does not deter the people I run with, rough crowd of runners. Apparently, just before my time here, there was a little run-in with the law, and some words were exchanged as to why some innocent runners could not carelessly run in circles. The police told them they were trespassing and would be arrested if they were to come back. Someone pulled some strings and used his teacher card to grant access to the Sun Runners with some imaginary key that I have not seen yet. Tom is supposed to pick up the key on Tuesday afternoons and return it Wednesday morning after the workout, but he cannot be bothered to trek over to the office to get it. I have since joined in the fun of running scared. It makes the workout interesting, when we are lurking in the shadows every time a cop car drives by and lingers just a little bit, watching and waiting. Even more interesting is the climb over the metal gate, as it tatters back and forth against its post, slick from the ever-present rain.I am not sure which is less appealing: running in fear of lightening or running in fear of getting arrested?

Anyway, we didn't have to worry about the cops this morning, since I guess they figured we are all stubborn but not stupid enough to run in the cats and dogs that were coming down. Isn't it amazing that these stupid people are surgeons and lawyers and engineers and financial planners? Yeah, there are some issues in this crowd. We ran a mile, followed by two 800s, another mile and then two more 800s, Lori's choice. I have come to really like her. Originally from some middle of America state I cannot recall, she relocated to New York, worked her tail off to become extremely successful, married a man 20 years her senior and then landed in Vero to raise their now 6 year old daughter. Lori has this real easy way about her, mild in speech and manner. Built like a runner, tall and lean with beautiful legs that carry her. She has a striking smile that is distracting, a brilliant mind, and is so real. Most people here are very real. I like that she is a transplant from a large city, too, because I think she feels my pain.

Anyway, another day of rain. I left with shorts that were so wet and heavy, I could barely walk to my car-or climb back over the gate- since they hung on my tired legs. Not sure which were heavier, the shorts or my legs. Now it is off to spin class. The spin teacher on Wednesday nights reminds me of a Barbie I once gave a bad haircut to as a child. Impossible dimensions with fake boobs and ridiculously tan, she has a beautiful face with tiny features. She is striking in appearance with her smoking figure, pastel blue eyes and high cheek bones. All things on her appear to be perfect, except for the hair detail...it is shorter than boy short, cropped carelessly close to her head and bleached a platnum I did not know existed on the color spectrum. She is a great spin instructor, though, and will kick us in gear. Her favorite thing to yell out in the middle of a steep set is, "Okay, those of you who are crazy, turn the knob another notch to the right....come on...come with me. I know you are all crazy. We are fitness addicts!"

Guess I won't have to worry about the rain inside the spin studio and, thankfully, the weather held off long enough yesterday for the kids to start tennis. Very cute. Tonight gymnastics...inside. We are going to be grateful for the little things around here.

Inclinate Weather

2007-09-18T11:29:00.000-07:00

I woke at 4:30 this morning to the sounds of pouring rain, which was very appropriate for my mood. I love that term "pouring". Here in Florida, I think the more accurate description for this morning's rain, would be thrashing, blowing, and heaving rain. Apparently the popular saying here is, "If you don't like the weather, wait 10 minutes." I have heard this several times in the four weeks we have been here.

When I looked out the bathroom window, the lightening was so bright, it filled the room with its rage. It was over the ocean, coming consistently, and because I couldn't tell how near or far it was, I pulled on my running clothes to see which crazies would be waiting on the curb. I desperately wanted to climb back into bed and sleep my troubles away. My troubles are many: the unhappiness I feel with the elementary school, the discontent and unrest in the future here, what our lives might have looked like if we staying in San Diego....I read more of THe Kite Runner last night to drown some of my sorrows. Getting lost in the characters in that book was the obvious escape, one that made my life seem a lot more appealing than it feels at times.

I tied my shoes and rolled out the large drive into the furious rain. The other interesting point of mention about weather here: though it may be thrashing rain at our house, it may not be raining at all 3 miles away at the park where the Sun Runners meet. I was hopeful, obviously, to be driving that direction, but the rain continued on. When I pulled into Riverside Park, Kimmie and Craig were holed up in her car, arguing like an old married couple, though they are young and not married to each other. She was insisting that the rain, plus, thunder and lightening was suicide; he was telling her it was no big deal and after quoting something he told me was from the movie "Caddy Shack" (I have never seen the movie, but I guess as Superintendent of one of the golf courses on the island, this is a staple to the DVD library), insisted that the rain was going a different direction than our run course.

Low and behold, who comes running over, but crazy Doctor George and his lovely wife, Lori. Having been in North Carolina for pleasure all weekend, Doc was amped up and ready to run, quadruple A personality he is. Anyway, we obviously did not get struck by lightening since I sit here writing this most gratefully now. George kept telling me as soon as we got over the bridges, we would be safe on lower ground. I am trying to put together a movement right now to get this group to run bridge repeats for hill training, the only elevation to speak of in these parts. So far, the enthusiasm has been minimal.

I think the hardest thing for me to adjust to is the way one's life really is dictated by weather. I am not accustomed to having to wait on the heat, wait on the rain, wait out the lightening. Here, it is simply life. Today, the kids are supposed to start tennis, but since it has been storming all day, on and off, with blue skies teasing us for fleeting moments, I think their lesson will be cancelled due to "inclinate weather". That is the nice term around here for weather that simply will not cooperate and allow us to go about our business as usual.