Spring Swing

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

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

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"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

...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)

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

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

"Run for the Buns"

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

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

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

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

What's "fair" about an Affair?

I think it should be an affarce.

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

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

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

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

Reluctant Redneck

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


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

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

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

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

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

A Run Down Memory Lane

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



Defying Logic to Find Heart




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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

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

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

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

"About six blocks," his reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Horizon

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

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

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

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