I cannot believe it has been a whole year that I have managed to keep somewhat of a blog. Not as regular as I would like, but I have maintained a few entries and gained some insight on training as a result, which is a beautiful thing. Somehow seeing it on the computer screen in front of me sorts through the varied emotions I tend to feel about my training and racing. I think I have more respect for people who race as professionals (the pressure!) and those who race with disadvantages (the physically challenged). Today was no different when it comes to the emotional gammet I rode on "race" day.
Jen and her husband, Todd, picked me up and he shuttled us to the start. The event was sold out this year and all of my friends were left with 2 options: run as bandits or try to get a coveted race number. I heard when I picked up my number yesterday that people were begging for entries, offering up to $200 for a number from someone else, or some asking to donate as much as $1,000 to the Kiwanis for entry. Anyway, Jen was lucky enough to have John on her side, as he scored 3 numbers from injured racers, one for himself, one for Mike and one for Jen. They felt it was evil to run as mere bandits and couldn't wear that title.
There we all were, together at the start. I just was not feeling it today. I was remembering my 1:39 from last year and how much it hurt at the end and somehow I just could not get my mind around wanting to push (and hurt)like that again. But, there I was under the "start" sign with the usual suspects. Jen and I are so petty, laughing at the people in garbage bags, snickering at the people who wore today's race shirt (rookies), and busting a gut over some of the outfits we witnessed in general.
Anyhoo, the gun went off and we were on our way. I ran on John and Mike's heels through the first 4 miles. I pace felt a little fast, about 7:15s, I think, and I felt a bit dizzy. I am not sure, but my belly was kind of off and my head was just not in the right place. All that kept plaguing me was that I better suck it up, since this was a training run for a distance TWICE as far in a mere 6 weeks.
So, we climbed the hill up Fourth Street in Del Mar and I pulled out in front, I guess, since Mike came trotting along after me into the dreaded Torrey Pines State Reserve. THE hill. THE climb. I really wasn't that worried, until I began the ascent. It was hard today, more so than it has been for the last 6 weeks when I ran it with Jen. Whatever. Mile 7 was at the top and I felt like the hard part was (mostly) over. I saw her husband there with one of their boys and I felt good to be moving on. John came up next to me at that point and said, "That was the tough part. Now we settle into a pace." He popped a Motivator or two. I swear that guy is addicted to those little pills. He fell back a little, or maybe I picked it up. I remember looking at the clock at mile 8 thinking I was still faster than 7:30 pace, though I cannot think of what it said now.
Mile 9 was uneventful and 10 was a grind down, down, down the more dreaded hill, as far as I am concerned. We lost hundreds of feet in elevation and my quads were feeling it, for sure. My friend Theresa jumped in with me and tried to pull me along. My legs did not want to go any faster. Along the beach and some guy yelled that I was top 20 women. "Keep it there," he said. I was losing steam fast and barely managed a pathetic smile for him. Down the boardwalk to mile 11 and then the WORST part of it all, mile 12. The climb up Spindrift to Prospect Street, and more of a climb into town. It was hell. I ate some Jelly Belly Beans, looking for a miracle. It didn't come. I choked on what I was eating and tried to take in some water at mile 12, but felt like I aspirated it. John passed me on that hill, while I walked and tried to regain some composure. It was a losing battle.
Up to Prospect and then down the brick street into the finish. I looked at my watch and realized that I was not going to match last year's time. It already read 1:39 and I knew the finish was too far away. I crossed the line in 1:40 and change and was truly disappointed in myself for giving it up that last mile. I just did not have it in me. I wish I knew how to dig deeper and gut it out and hold onto it. I just never seem to want it bad enough. I think I finished 15th in my age group and like 47th woman overall. So, either the guy down at the beach was off in his counting or I gave it up to 20 woman the last mile. The latter is very possible, based on how I felt. Why have I not figued out how to hone that competitive drive? Why can I not dig deeper and go for it when it really hurts? Why have I not learned how to be a true competetor after all of this time? Why am I such a quitter?
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Thursday, April 05, 2007
April Fools
That was Sunday, right? Yes, its has taken me this long to sit down at the computer and write about the tragedy I witnessed. Perhaps it had not all sunken in yet. I was still in disbelief until now. I could not really come to terms with it. My husband is mortal. He is mere human in the water. He wears a Speedo like the rest of us. He was defeated by his longtime rival and the rematch that was 16 years in the making was over in 2 minutes and 6 seconds. Marc lost??? April Fools, right? Nope. Read on.
From the moment we stepped onto that pool deck, Marc kept telling me, "Pea, I am not the world's fastest swimmer. You think I am, but I am not that fast compared to some of the people here." I still didn't believe it. Marc is very fast and I am sure he is top something percentile in the swimming world, I just don't know the stats, of course. I was just so happy to be there to see him, and even happier that all of my family was coming to witness the big event, too. Surely, defintely, Marc would beat Brian out of the water. He would catch him in the breaststroke and defeat him by a small but comfortable margin in the free.
Don't get me wrong. Brian is an amazing swimmer. He is super sleek and fast and determined in the water. He even wore that super cute speedsuit the real geeks wear to be faster. But Marc is, well, Marc. He is always the winner. Marc never loses at anything he does. He trains hard and he trains to be fabulous...not just to compete, but to go for the win. I am not used to anything but a podeum finish from that guy I sleep with. The outcome was totally unexpected for me.
The rematch was the 200 IM. He and Brian tied in high school and since there was only one medal, Brian took it with the idea they would someday come back to the rematch. The day had arrived and it was a bright beautiful one in Mission Viejo. The meet was much larger than I anticipated and the facility was super cool. The kids were loving the small pool they were allowed to swim in while waiting in between dad's events. I was grateful for the distraction, especially after the little one walked into the bleachers and put a hole in the top of his head. That was fun. Anyway....
Marc swam the 200 free first. By my standards, he is an Olympian, of course, going 1:57. He said he "took it easy". The unfortunate thing was that he pulled a rhomboid off the blocks. I think because he has not climbed up on a starting block in over a decade, he was simply out of practice, and he really injured something in his upper back and neck. This handicap secured the win, I was sure. Marc is so like that. If he is the underdog, if he has the disadvantage, if he is not the likely hero, he will win. He will dig and claw his way to the top and come out the winner. I knew he was in pain when he climbed out after that 200 free, but I thought little of it, knowing the big event was next. Surely he would smoke Brian. Our 6 year old told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to come home without that medal.
Guess what? She let him come home. It was his birthday, after all. The beep sounded and they were out. I wish I could give you the swim talk for the play by play, but I am not educated. It is a different dialect...one I am not verse in at all. This is how is was from my vantage point: both Brian and Marc came out in the fly very strong, but Marc looked like he was struggling shortly into it. Brian put some serious distance between them and didn't stop when it came to the backstroke. Marc closed a good portion of that gap in his favored stroke, the breast. But, Brian and he were equally matched in the free and that is where Marc gave it up. 2:10 to Brian's 2:06. I knew Marc was surprised. Not so much that Brian won, but more that his time read 2 seconds slower than what he thought he might go on a bad day.
Here is the thing...I am more inspired and awestruck by him now than ever before. To me, Marc is superhuman in the water. He smokes most of his competition and does it with confidence and ease. To see him swimming scared and looking for Brian in the lanes down from him during that breaststroke was to see my husband in a new vane. He is never uncertain. He never wavers in the pool. He is never rattled. But this day, he was.
At first it scared me. Then it shocked me. Then it transformed me. Marc lost with such humility and grace, we should all look that good when we come out second. Our daughter was in disbelief, too, but she learned a very valueable lesson...it was priceless. Winning is not everything. He worked very hard for a very long time to compete and be in the best shape possible for this meet. He dedicated the time and energy and gave everything he had. He simply did not have that extra gear in the pool that day. I think the reason I enjoyed the day so very much is that I finally had that little window into a world of his I never knew. For as long as we had dated and have been married, I have never seen him swim in a meet. I felt as though I was finally a small part of something that was such a huge part of who he was for so many years. Swimming defined his character for years, since he was a small child. When I came along, he was long since burned out and over competing. Here was my opportunity to catch a little glimpse of what that looked like. He looked like a hero to me. All he needed was the cape and he could be Speedoman.
So, it wasn't really a tragedy afterall. It was more of a comedy, or maybe even poetry. It was an amazingly fun weekend, with non-stop laughter with my family in town. The poetry came from the dose of humility and grace Marc provided. Nicely done, Pea. Brian, not bad for a swim geek in all your glory!
From the moment we stepped onto that pool deck, Marc kept telling me, "Pea, I am not the world's fastest swimmer. You think I am, but I am not that fast compared to some of the people here." I still didn't believe it. Marc is very fast and I am sure he is top something percentile in the swimming world, I just don't know the stats, of course. I was just so happy to be there to see him, and even happier that all of my family was coming to witness the big event, too. Surely, defintely, Marc would beat Brian out of the water. He would catch him in the breaststroke and defeat him by a small but comfortable margin in the free.
Don't get me wrong. Brian is an amazing swimmer. He is super sleek and fast and determined in the water. He even wore that super cute speedsuit the real geeks wear to be faster. But Marc is, well, Marc. He is always the winner. Marc never loses at anything he does. He trains hard and he trains to be fabulous...not just to compete, but to go for the win. I am not used to anything but a podeum finish from that guy I sleep with. The outcome was totally unexpected for me.
The rematch was the 200 IM. He and Brian tied in high school and since there was only one medal, Brian took it with the idea they would someday come back to the rematch. The day had arrived and it was a bright beautiful one in Mission Viejo. The meet was much larger than I anticipated and the facility was super cool. The kids were loving the small pool they were allowed to swim in while waiting in between dad's events. I was grateful for the distraction, especially after the little one walked into the bleachers and put a hole in the top of his head. That was fun. Anyway....
Marc swam the 200 free first. By my standards, he is an Olympian, of course, going 1:57. He said he "took it easy". The unfortunate thing was that he pulled a rhomboid off the blocks. I think because he has not climbed up on a starting block in over a decade, he was simply out of practice, and he really injured something in his upper back and neck. This handicap secured the win, I was sure. Marc is so like that. If he is the underdog, if he has the disadvantage, if he is not the likely hero, he will win. He will dig and claw his way to the top and come out the winner. I knew he was in pain when he climbed out after that 200 free, but I thought little of it, knowing the big event was next. Surely he would smoke Brian. Our 6 year old told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to come home without that medal.
Guess what? She let him come home. It was his birthday, after all. The beep sounded and they were out. I wish I could give you the swim talk for the play by play, but I am not educated. It is a different dialect...one I am not verse in at all. This is how is was from my vantage point: both Brian and Marc came out in the fly very strong, but Marc looked like he was struggling shortly into it. Brian put some serious distance between them and didn't stop when it came to the backstroke. Marc closed a good portion of that gap in his favored stroke, the breast. But, Brian and he were equally matched in the free and that is where Marc gave it up. 2:10 to Brian's 2:06. I knew Marc was surprised. Not so much that Brian won, but more that his time read 2 seconds slower than what he thought he might go on a bad day.
Here is the thing...I am more inspired and awestruck by him now than ever before. To me, Marc is superhuman in the water. He smokes most of his competition and does it with confidence and ease. To see him swimming scared and looking for Brian in the lanes down from him during that breaststroke was to see my husband in a new vane. He is never uncertain. He never wavers in the pool. He is never rattled. But this day, he was.
At first it scared me. Then it shocked me. Then it transformed me. Marc lost with such humility and grace, we should all look that good when we come out second. Our daughter was in disbelief, too, but she learned a very valueable lesson...it was priceless. Winning is not everything. He worked very hard for a very long time to compete and be in the best shape possible for this meet. He dedicated the time and energy and gave everything he had. He simply did not have that extra gear in the pool that day. I think the reason I enjoyed the day so very much is that I finally had that little window into a world of his I never knew. For as long as we had dated and have been married, I have never seen him swim in a meet. I felt as though I was finally a small part of something that was such a huge part of who he was for so many years. Swimming defined his character for years, since he was a small child. When I came along, he was long since burned out and over competing. Here was my opportunity to catch a little glimpse of what that looked like. He looked like a hero to me. All he needed was the cape and he could be Speedoman.
So, it wasn't really a tragedy afterall. It was more of a comedy, or maybe even poetry. It was an amazingly fun weekend, with non-stop laughter with my family in town. The poetry came from the dose of humility and grace Marc provided. Nicely done, Pea. Brian, not bad for a swim geek in all your glory!
Monday, March 26, 2007
"Are We There Yet?"
This is the typical sentence my kids aways seem to ask on the in the car on the road. Particually for my six year old, this question is the one that always comes when she simply cannot wait to get out and to the destination. Usually this is to Grandma's house in LA or, as was the case this past weekend, to a friend's house for a party or playdate. Sometimes it is because they have to use the potty or they are bored and anxious. This phrase about exactly sums up where I was this morning in the pool.
I have commited to moving back up to my "nomal" lane. Back in Decemeber when I had bronchitis, I moved down a lane slower since my lung capacity was about nothing. I fell right into the groove of swimming my newfound slower guys and it felt so good, I have never gone back. Comfort over effort. Call me lazy (some of my original lane mates have), but it was actually a relaxing experience to be at the workout. Instead of desperately clinging to the feet in front of me, I was able to causally float as caboose in this new lane.
However, I know a better swimmer this will not make me. So, I have asked the girls in the previous lane for some accountability, and this morning, they were all over that. I wanted very much to slink into the lane further North, but my girls were having none of that. Sadly for me, today a guy by the name of Ben, a former coach for the team, was in town visiting. He got in and he lead the lane...even faster than I anticipated.
Maybe it was because my shin was still throbbing from having kicked the tarp cart as we were pulling them off. (Is that the term, by the way? Tarp "cart"? What does one call the contraption we roll the tarps onto, anyway?)Maybe it was because I no longer come with latte in hand to the deck. Maybe it was because I didn't feel like getting out to pee (I held it, by the way). The set was awful and the whole time I was thinking, "Are we almost done yet? Are we there yet????"
100 swim, 75 stroke, 200 swim, 75 stroke, 300 swim, 75 stroke, 400 swim, 75 stroke.
The swims were supposed to be breath control, breathing every other side or something. Breath control for me was trying not to get hypoxic and control some breath...that is, actually get it to enter my lungs. I was clawing for the feet in front of me, trying desperately to hang on. That 400 loomed like a bad omen, but I was so happy to reach that final 75 at the very end.
This represents a set that is semi okay for me to handle, due to the fact that the stroke work in there is a much needed break. I still hyperventilate when I see a 400 on the board, but it would have been worse if it were all swim in a pyramid and then back down again. It just kills me to know that Marc's taper this week will "only" be 3000 a workout. For me, that would be an Olmypic standard. I don't know how those swim geeks do it? Lap after lap, turn after turn, as if it is nothing. I think I swam 2000 today and that was a huge day.
I really wanted out of that lane and to my final destination: the shower. Perhaps I need to be more sympathetic to my kids when they ask the predictable question. My lane mates were not so much with me. They chidded me for getting out when I did, chest still heaving and arms exhausted. I was so happy the clock read what it did: time to get out and get home to the little people.
I have commited to moving back up to my "nomal" lane. Back in Decemeber when I had bronchitis, I moved down a lane slower since my lung capacity was about nothing. I fell right into the groove of swimming my newfound slower guys and it felt so good, I have never gone back. Comfort over effort. Call me lazy (some of my original lane mates have), but it was actually a relaxing experience to be at the workout. Instead of desperately clinging to the feet in front of me, I was able to causally float as caboose in this new lane.
However, I know a better swimmer this will not make me. So, I have asked the girls in the previous lane for some accountability, and this morning, they were all over that. I wanted very much to slink into the lane further North, but my girls were having none of that. Sadly for me, today a guy by the name of Ben, a former coach for the team, was in town visiting. He got in and he lead the lane...even faster than I anticipated.
Maybe it was because my shin was still throbbing from having kicked the tarp cart as we were pulling them off. (Is that the term, by the way? Tarp "cart"? What does one call the contraption we roll the tarps onto, anyway?)Maybe it was because I no longer come with latte in hand to the deck. Maybe it was because I didn't feel like getting out to pee (I held it, by the way). The set was awful and the whole time I was thinking, "Are we almost done yet? Are we there yet????"
100 swim, 75 stroke, 200 swim, 75 stroke, 300 swim, 75 stroke, 400 swim, 75 stroke.
The swims were supposed to be breath control, breathing every other side or something. Breath control for me was trying not to get hypoxic and control some breath...that is, actually get it to enter my lungs. I was clawing for the feet in front of me, trying desperately to hang on. That 400 loomed like a bad omen, but I was so happy to reach that final 75 at the very end.
This represents a set that is semi okay for me to handle, due to the fact that the stroke work in there is a much needed break. I still hyperventilate when I see a 400 on the board, but it would have been worse if it were all swim in a pyramid and then back down again. It just kills me to know that Marc's taper this week will "only" be 3000 a workout. For me, that would be an Olmypic standard. I don't know how those swim geeks do it? Lap after lap, turn after turn, as if it is nothing. I think I swam 2000 today and that was a huge day.
I really wanted out of that lane and to my final destination: the shower. Perhaps I need to be more sympathetic to my kids when they ask the predictable question. My lane mates were not so much with me. They chidded me for getting out when I did, chest still heaving and arms exhausted. I was so happy the clock read what it did: time to get out and get home to the little people.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Am Runner
That is the title of this blog and that is who I am. I went to the gym and lifted today at 4 am, then raced over to the track to meet up with the group. The workout was 2 times 20 minutes at tempo pace.
What exactly is "tempo"? I am not even sure of what my pace should be, but I think I was running around 6:40, as far as I could tell. I lost the rest of the group because some decided to do 4 by 10 minutes at tempo instead. A few fell off the back in favor of hitting the pool. That left me running alone in the dark. Am runner. Yep. It was hard and it was early, but it was great. I had to adjust my attitude at first, and then I was there. My hamstring still aches, but I tried to ignore it. I am looking forward to a long Saturday run at a comfortable pace again. I miss Tracy terribly, but I must say, I love Jen and our pace.
My girl came home from school and told me how disappointed she was that no one would run with her at lunch. They have a group called "Road Runners" that encourages the kids to run laps around the field during lunch. She mostly loves it and looks forward to participating. Usually she runs with her friend, Mason. Today she was sad that she did not have a "running buddy". This is funny, because I shared with her my same delimma hours earlier. It occured to me that anything is more fun with friends, including exercise, but sometimes, it is nice to blow off some steam in the silence of our own heads.
Is this a universal thought? Are we trained from a very young age to do everything in a partnership or group? Why do we feel at a loss or shunned if we are running solo? I must admit, I eventually got into a groove, but I still felt a little self-conscious running alone when I passed by random people from track coming the opposite direction. Why? Ridiculous. I tried to adjust my attitude to believe that I was ultra cool and completely comfortable in my isolation. I almost convinced myself by the time I caught up with one of my "running buddies" in the trails with 8 minutes left of the second set.
What exactly is "tempo"? I am not even sure of what my pace should be, but I think I was running around 6:40, as far as I could tell. I lost the rest of the group because some decided to do 4 by 10 minutes at tempo instead. A few fell off the back in favor of hitting the pool. That left me running alone in the dark. Am runner. Yep. It was hard and it was early, but it was great. I had to adjust my attitude at first, and then I was there. My hamstring still aches, but I tried to ignore it. I am looking forward to a long Saturday run at a comfortable pace again. I miss Tracy terribly, but I must say, I love Jen and our pace.
My girl came home from school and told me how disappointed she was that no one would run with her at lunch. They have a group called "Road Runners" that encourages the kids to run laps around the field during lunch. She mostly loves it and looks forward to participating. Usually she runs with her friend, Mason. Today she was sad that she did not have a "running buddy". This is funny, because I shared with her my same delimma hours earlier. It occured to me that anything is more fun with friends, including exercise, but sometimes, it is nice to blow off some steam in the silence of our own heads.
Is this a universal thought? Are we trained from a very young age to do everything in a partnership or group? Why do we feel at a loss or shunned if we are running solo? I must admit, I eventually got into a groove, but I still felt a little self-conscious running alone when I passed by random people from track coming the opposite direction. Why? Ridiculous. I tried to adjust my attitude to believe that I was ultra cool and completely comfortable in my isolation. I almost convinced myself by the time I caught up with one of my "running buddies" in the trails with 8 minutes left of the second set.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
I'm A Spaz, I'm A Spaz, I'm A...
...Spaz, Spaz, Spaz.........
But I am so happy because my coach gave me a new calendar to follow and it feels like crack. I am already totally addicted to it. Like heroin, I cannot stop thinking about the new plan and I am already dreaming about running the marathon in 10 1/2 weeks. I love the idea of long, EASY runs on the weekends. As sad as I am to say good bye to Tracy (and she is injured with a hamstring overuse deal right now), I am looking forward to the solace and low-key runs I will be partaking in.
OHHHHHHHHHHH, I'm a Spaz, Spaz, Spaz!
But I am so happy because my coach gave me a new calendar to follow and it feels like crack. I am already totally addicted to it. Like heroin, I cannot stop thinking about the new plan and I am already dreaming about running the marathon in 10 1/2 weeks. I love the idea of long, EASY runs on the weekends. As sad as I am to say good bye to Tracy (and she is injured with a hamstring overuse deal right now), I am looking forward to the solace and low-key runs I will be partaking in.
OHHHHHHHHHHH, I'm a Spaz, Spaz, Spaz!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
I Defeated Myself, More Accurately
This is the word from the coach and her word is the law, right? My track coach told me I left my race on the training course by running a 26 mile marathon 5 weeks out, followed by 18 miles at pace, 22 miles at pace, 22 miles faster than race pace, and then 8 miles where I felt dead but dragged myself along at pace. She was not surprised to learn my LA time.
I ran too fast on those long runs. The mileage was acceptable, but not the pace. Interesting. I ruined my race with my training that I felt so good about. I felt so good while training. How can something that feels so right be so wrong? Dunno. We cannot always operate on emotions, I guess. Sometimes we need to face the consequences of our actions and take responsibility for the repercussions. The marathon didn't beat me. I beat myself (or, beat myself up?).
I think I feel better about this. It is not as scary of a prospect. I am more in control of my destiny, not the Monster that I thought was behind the wheel. It seems more tangable and maybe even fixable. It is not this huge enigma now. There might actually be an equation I can work out. Can I really maybe fix it? I simply cannot put my mind around the fact that I have to give up my Kenyan running partner and run 45 to 60 seconds slower per mile for my long runs. That sounds, well, slow. Bummer. I am willing to try, however, and see where it takes me for Rock N Roll and maybe even Long Beach? I am thinking about kissing the idea of the CAF Half Ironman goodbye and making this a marathoning year. Something about that sounds very romantic. My love affair with 26.2 continues.....
I ran too fast on those long runs. The mileage was acceptable, but not the pace. Interesting. I ruined my race with my training that I felt so good about. I felt so good while training. How can something that feels so right be so wrong? Dunno. We cannot always operate on emotions, I guess. Sometimes we need to face the consequences of our actions and take responsibility for the repercussions. The marathon didn't beat me. I beat myself (or, beat myself up?).
I think I feel better about this. It is not as scary of a prospect. I am more in control of my destiny, not the Monster that I thought was behind the wheel. It seems more tangable and maybe even fixable. It is not this huge enigma now. There might actually be an equation I can work out. Can I really maybe fix it? I simply cannot put my mind around the fact that I have to give up my Kenyan running partner and run 45 to 60 seconds slower per mile for my long runs. That sounds, well, slow. Bummer. I am willing to try, however, and see where it takes me for Rock N Roll and maybe even Long Beach? I am thinking about kissing the idea of the CAF Half Ironman goodbye and making this a marathoning year. Something about that sounds very romantic. My love affair with 26.2 continues.....
Sunday, March 04, 2007
It Defeated Me
The monster defeated me. The marathon. It is an enigma. Why? How can one person be so inconsistent? I did everything the same as I did 5 weeks ago....except, my heart was not into it this morning. I wanted to quit before I began and that was only the beginning.
We arrived at the start by 6:30 am for an 8:15 race start. Things were chaotic and crazy from the beginning. Apparently it was my responsibility to double check at the expo that I was assigned the right bib color to be in the correct corral. Hmmm. I did not know this, nor did I think there would be an error, since I had long ago mailed in proof of past sub 4 hour marathon times. There I was, regular white bib and not the green one I was told I needed to be in the front corral. They turned me away, so there I stood in the back with the 11 minute milers. This, I would soon learn, was the highlight of my long and grueling day.
8:24 am we started, 9 minutes longer in the clauserphobic mass of stinky people, crammed into the chaotic start and baking in the already searing sun. The man I was having a conversation with called it: "I wish this f*#@%ing thing was over already." When I protested that it had no yet even begun, he replied, "Yes, I know. It will be whatever it will be. We always know early on what kind of day we are going to have out there, regardless of the training." This was foreshadowing at its best, applicable to my real life senario to come.
I had met another young guy who was aiming for a 3:25 marathon. He was very relaxed and composed and I liked his approach to the beast before us. He was not at all stressed about the corral situation, nor did he care. He had 6 GUs on a special belt, flapping behind him as we took off. I dubbed him "GU Man" and ran on his heels until mile 8. We came through right at one hour, exactly. It was at this mile marker, I knew it was going to have to be a training run for me. Right off the bat, I had a side stitch. Why? I rarely EVER get side cramps, and here this one was jumping back and forth from left to right side, making itself at home in my ribcage. So, by mile 8, it was no surprise to me that I felt terrible. I began drinking fluids. I drank and I drank and I drank and was amazed that I had no desire to visit a port-a-potty. I was dumping cup after cup over my head by mile 10, and yet I was bone dry by the next water station....these stations were at every single mile.
I was actually surprised to think how quickly the aid stations kept rolling by, but more dismayed that my legs were toast. I literally had nothing in them. It was an out of body experience. These were not my legs...they felt tired and heavy. I was literally exhausted, beat, defeated by mile 10. I considered quitting. I couldn't decifer which was worse: running a 4 hour marathon or stopping? I decided it would be worse in the eyes of my little people if I came home with no medal. I braced myself for a very long day. I have never, ever, never walked as early as mile 10 in a marathon until this day. I walked through the water station at mile 10 and took in more water still. The advice that was given to me by a running friend was to "run contently". For me on this day, "contently" meant walking. There was no way around that.
Did I mention it was hot? It was dreadful. The pavement seemed to reflect the glare times ten. I was wishing for a pair of sunglasses and I never run in shades. Running along Rossmore Street was the only repreve from the sun under the big, beautiful trees that lined the community. Miles 11 through 13 dragged on forever. I crossed the half marathon in 1:44, I think, still sub 3:30 pace, but I knew I was slowing by the minute. I think it might have been mile 17 that the 3:30 pace group passed me. Some guy yelled to me to jump on. "Yeah, right," I was thinking. My only objective at that point was to hold on to some dignity and perhaps cross the finish line under 4 hours. I felt like my legs were simply dead weight. My right hamstring felt as though someone was taking a sledge hammer to it repeatedly. Mile 18ish was novel in that Sprint Phone company was on the course, offering to allow runners to call family and friends. People in yellow shirts were literally running up next to us with phones in hand, offering to dial the digits. I gave my yellow guy Marc's digits. "Honey, I am off pace. I am going to be late," I reported. It felt good to let him know I was alive, but I felt bad he would have to wait that much longer for me at the finish. At least that pressure was off.
My mile 20, I still had some hope to run 3:40, but that dream was quickly squashed when I was reduced to walking through yet another water station. I knew it was over. The dream was fading fast. I was delirious, at best. Then I saw GU Man. He was way off pace and fading even faster. "Come on, GU Man!" I yelled as I shuffled by him on my stick legs. He kind of mumbled back, "I'm, I'm, I'm not well. I can't...I really can't..." He was crusty with white salt all over his face. I ran along side him until I realized his pace was even slower than my shuffle and that I had to combat the misery in my own mind without taking on any more from someone else. My own private agony was overwhelming, so I was forced to keep moving without him.
I began to realize there were fire trucks and firemen everywhere, attaching apparatuses to every fire hydrant and turning on the water. The spray was a welcome break. I could not get enough water into and onto my body fast enough. The little kids lining the streets of the poorest neighborhoods with their Dixie cups of water drove me to tears. I am such a fool to think I should even be sad about my poor marathon time. Did it really matter looking at their little faces? How tragic that I should even care about something so trivial as a time when I was faced with the conditions they live in? These awful neighborhoods we were trying to survive running through were the conditions of their every day survival. How shallow am I? Could I get a grip on some perspective here? Was the marathon even a challenge now?
I basically ran/walked from mile 21 to the finish. I have never been reduced to walking as much of a marathon as I did today. I felt like I was in a foreign body and I did not even care. I was numb. My only goal was to get to the finish and sit down in the car waiting for me there. Mile 25 was a beautiful banner to behold. I found my legs and RAN the last 1. 2 in, crowd going wild along the sidelines for all of us on cramping stick legs up the last dreaded hill. Truth be told, I got my one wish: it was a vomit-free marathon and I am so grateful for that. It meant little to me that the clock read 3:57 at the finish. 20 freaking minutes slower than the marathon 5 weeks ago. Why? Are my legs tired? Am I over-trained? Am I not a warm weather runner? I am tired of even trying to analyze the situtaion, and I really do not even care. I was never so happy to see my sweet husband smiling at me as I pushed my way through the mobbed shoot past the finish line. He looked at me in such a way, that I knew it didn't matter. None of this matters. He is the love of my life and my greatest support. I cried when I saw him. Not because I was completely disappointed in myself, but more because seeing him reminded me of what is most important in the grand scheme of things.
Now I can cross this marathon off my list and never consider running it again. I really did not enjoy anything about the course and would not recommend it to anyone. I mostly felt sad for any virgin marathoners out there. I felt like the whole experience did not represent the beauty of what a race could be. Not just because I had a bad day, but because the whole time felt hostile and hot and dirty. The volunteers were hostile, the air was hot and the streets were dirty. I cannot wait to go soak all of the filth of the day off in my family's hot tub tonight. These are the experiences that make us stronger. We are better athletes because we can chalk anything up to a learning experience. I still love the marathon. I will never give up on the distance. It is one of the more complicated things in my life of which I cannot let go.
We arrived at the start by 6:30 am for an 8:15 race start. Things were chaotic and crazy from the beginning. Apparently it was my responsibility to double check at the expo that I was assigned the right bib color to be in the correct corral. Hmmm. I did not know this, nor did I think there would be an error, since I had long ago mailed in proof of past sub 4 hour marathon times. There I was, regular white bib and not the green one I was told I needed to be in the front corral. They turned me away, so there I stood in the back with the 11 minute milers. This, I would soon learn, was the highlight of my long and grueling day.
8:24 am we started, 9 minutes longer in the clauserphobic mass of stinky people, crammed into the chaotic start and baking in the already searing sun. The man I was having a conversation with called it: "I wish this f*#@%ing thing was over already." When I protested that it had no yet even begun, he replied, "Yes, I know. It will be whatever it will be. We always know early on what kind of day we are going to have out there, regardless of the training." This was foreshadowing at its best, applicable to my real life senario to come.
I had met another young guy who was aiming for a 3:25 marathon. He was very relaxed and composed and I liked his approach to the beast before us. He was not at all stressed about the corral situation, nor did he care. He had 6 GUs on a special belt, flapping behind him as we took off. I dubbed him "GU Man" and ran on his heels until mile 8. We came through right at one hour, exactly. It was at this mile marker, I knew it was going to have to be a training run for me. Right off the bat, I had a side stitch. Why? I rarely EVER get side cramps, and here this one was jumping back and forth from left to right side, making itself at home in my ribcage. So, by mile 8, it was no surprise to me that I felt terrible. I began drinking fluids. I drank and I drank and I drank and was amazed that I had no desire to visit a port-a-potty. I was dumping cup after cup over my head by mile 10, and yet I was bone dry by the next water station....these stations were at every single mile.
I was actually surprised to think how quickly the aid stations kept rolling by, but more dismayed that my legs were toast. I literally had nothing in them. It was an out of body experience. These were not my legs...they felt tired and heavy. I was literally exhausted, beat, defeated by mile 10. I considered quitting. I couldn't decifer which was worse: running a 4 hour marathon or stopping? I decided it would be worse in the eyes of my little people if I came home with no medal. I braced myself for a very long day. I have never, ever, never walked as early as mile 10 in a marathon until this day. I walked through the water station at mile 10 and took in more water still. The advice that was given to me by a running friend was to "run contently". For me on this day, "contently" meant walking. There was no way around that.
Did I mention it was hot? It was dreadful. The pavement seemed to reflect the glare times ten. I was wishing for a pair of sunglasses and I never run in shades. Running along Rossmore Street was the only repreve from the sun under the big, beautiful trees that lined the community. Miles 11 through 13 dragged on forever. I crossed the half marathon in 1:44, I think, still sub 3:30 pace, but I knew I was slowing by the minute. I think it might have been mile 17 that the 3:30 pace group passed me. Some guy yelled to me to jump on. "Yeah, right," I was thinking. My only objective at that point was to hold on to some dignity and perhaps cross the finish line under 4 hours. I felt like my legs were simply dead weight. My right hamstring felt as though someone was taking a sledge hammer to it repeatedly. Mile 18ish was novel in that Sprint Phone company was on the course, offering to allow runners to call family and friends. People in yellow shirts were literally running up next to us with phones in hand, offering to dial the digits. I gave my yellow guy Marc's digits. "Honey, I am off pace. I am going to be late," I reported. It felt good to let him know I was alive, but I felt bad he would have to wait that much longer for me at the finish. At least that pressure was off.
My mile 20, I still had some hope to run 3:40, but that dream was quickly squashed when I was reduced to walking through yet another water station. I knew it was over. The dream was fading fast. I was delirious, at best. Then I saw GU Man. He was way off pace and fading even faster. "Come on, GU Man!" I yelled as I shuffled by him on my stick legs. He kind of mumbled back, "I'm, I'm, I'm not well. I can't...I really can't..." He was crusty with white salt all over his face. I ran along side him until I realized his pace was even slower than my shuffle and that I had to combat the misery in my own mind without taking on any more from someone else. My own private agony was overwhelming, so I was forced to keep moving without him.
I began to realize there were fire trucks and firemen everywhere, attaching apparatuses to every fire hydrant and turning on the water. The spray was a welcome break. I could not get enough water into and onto my body fast enough. The little kids lining the streets of the poorest neighborhoods with their Dixie cups of water drove me to tears. I am such a fool to think I should even be sad about my poor marathon time. Did it really matter looking at their little faces? How tragic that I should even care about something so trivial as a time when I was faced with the conditions they live in? These awful neighborhoods we were trying to survive running through were the conditions of their every day survival. How shallow am I? Could I get a grip on some perspective here? Was the marathon even a challenge now?
I basically ran/walked from mile 21 to the finish. I have never been reduced to walking as much of a marathon as I did today. I felt like I was in a foreign body and I did not even care. I was numb. My only goal was to get to the finish and sit down in the car waiting for me there. Mile 25 was a beautiful banner to behold. I found my legs and RAN the last 1. 2 in, crowd going wild along the sidelines for all of us on cramping stick legs up the last dreaded hill. Truth be told, I got my one wish: it was a vomit-free marathon and I am so grateful for that. It meant little to me that the clock read 3:57 at the finish. 20 freaking minutes slower than the marathon 5 weeks ago. Why? Are my legs tired? Am I over-trained? Am I not a warm weather runner? I am tired of even trying to analyze the situtaion, and I really do not even care. I was never so happy to see my sweet husband smiling at me as I pushed my way through the mobbed shoot past the finish line. He looked at me in such a way, that I knew it didn't matter. None of this matters. He is the love of my life and my greatest support. I cried when I saw him. Not because I was completely disappointed in myself, but more because seeing him reminded me of what is most important in the grand scheme of things.
Now I can cross this marathon off my list and never consider running it again. I really did not enjoy anything about the course and would not recommend it to anyone. I mostly felt sad for any virgin marathoners out there. I felt like the whole experience did not represent the beauty of what a race could be. Not just because I had a bad day, but because the whole time felt hostile and hot and dirty. The volunteers were hostile, the air was hot and the streets were dirty. I cannot wait to go soak all of the filth of the day off in my family's hot tub tonight. These are the experiences that make us stronger. We are better athletes because we can chalk anything up to a learning experience. I still love the marathon. I will never give up on the distance. It is one of the more complicated things in my life of which I cannot let go.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Oh No. Here I Go...
..into the taper. I love it and despise it. I want to tear my hair out from feeling so ancy, but I am relieved the long miles have been put in. I felt tired and extremely unenthusiastic about this morning's run. Not sure if I am burnt or that it was the feeling 8 miles is hardly worth lacing up the running shoes for?
Other than that, in taking inventory on the body, my broken toe from October is still bothering me post runs and my arches are reluctant and whiney after the shoes come off. My calves are a little tight and my right knee sore. I hope these are all good signs for a happy marathon in 8 days.
I have really made peace with the idea that LA will be whatever it will be. I am totally unfamiliar with the course and I am going with the attitude that ignorance is pure bliss. I am hoping that I can just click the miles away and roll with it without being a slave to the watch and the clocks. My sweet friend, Tracy, gave me a card this morning with advice that read: "Just flow". I think that is a good thought and I may even leave the watch behind race day. I mean, I am not a Kenyan, afterall. Who cares, right? Really, if I have one dream, one goal, one desire, my hope and prayer is that I can be GI issue-free. Please, God, let me know another marathon without vomit involved. Maybe this is a syndrome? Bulimiarathoning? Hmmm. I hope I am not destined to always fall into that diagnosis.
Other than that, in taking inventory on the body, my broken toe from October is still bothering me post runs and my arches are reluctant and whiney after the shoes come off. My calves are a little tight and my right knee sore. I hope these are all good signs for a happy marathon in 8 days.
I have really made peace with the idea that LA will be whatever it will be. I am totally unfamiliar with the course and I am going with the attitude that ignorance is pure bliss. I am hoping that I can just click the miles away and roll with it without being a slave to the watch and the clocks. My sweet friend, Tracy, gave me a card this morning with advice that read: "Just flow". I think that is a good thought and I may even leave the watch behind race day. I mean, I am not a Kenyan, afterall. Who cares, right? Really, if I have one dream, one goal, one desire, my hope and prayer is that I can be GI issue-free. Please, God, let me know another marathon without vomit involved. Maybe this is a syndrome? Bulimiarathoning? Hmmm. I hope I am not destined to always fall into that diagnosis.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Saturday Rave Run into Sick Week
Last Saturday was my last 22 mile run before LA. It was great. I felt great, minus the last 2 miles where my legs felt cooked. My friend, Jody, graciously offered to ride her bike next to me the whole way so I could start in the dark. I was most grateful. 3 hours total, just shy of, actually, with a negative split. I am elated I am in the taper now.
Sick kids vomiting kept me home this morning and now I am feeling a little off. I hope I don't have to take another morning off tomorrow. I am craving the treadmill and hoping to get in the water, too. Ugg. I hate illness. It is such a bummer. Makes me appreciate the well days.
Sick kids vomiting kept me home this morning and now I am feeling a little off. I hope I don't have to take another morning off tomorrow. I am craving the treadmill and hoping to get in the water, too. Ugg. I hate illness. It is such a bummer. Makes me appreciate the well days.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
My Lazy Mind
I think I have truly, finally, at last really come to terms with why I am such an awful swimmer: my mind is just simply too lazy. It is as straight forward as that. When one does not think in the pool, one gets sloppy and that is what I am! Sloppy swimmer girl.
I ran 22 miles this morning, out and back course threw in some tough hills and went solo. I was content and even happy with my situation about 99 percent of the time. I think the only time I was a little concerned was when I was wishing I had brought extra nutrition and worn less clothing. Because I was solo, I went out a little later. Therefore, I was warmer than usual and felt more hungry than usual, too.
As I was en route back with still about 9 miles to go, I was in a groove. I felt strong and genuinely happy. It occured to me that I don't ever think about running. This, after I almost tripped coming up on a curb because I was visualizing stepping up on it too much. Sound crazy? Maybe, yes. I was thinking as I came upon this curb at the top of La Jolla Shores, a good climb and my legs were tired, that maybe it would be my right foot to lead me over the curb first. Then, as I got closer, I thought, no, it will be my left that leads. I literally almost tripped over-thinking this ridiculous senario and so I had to remind myself that I never think when I run. That is, I get lazy and allow my thoughts to wander wherever they may.
I think about my daughter's homework assignments for the week. I think about her birthday rapidly approaching and what the party favors will be. I think about how adorable my son was digging in the sand at the park, despite kids playing around him with monsterous behavior. I think about my husband and his desire to heal his foot and get back to where he was so he is not a prisoner to the pool...and then I thought of swimming. Maybe this is the heart of the matter. Maybe, though my form is far from perfect on pavement, I run with such passion and ease because it just comes more naturally to me. I think most people would agree we are not built for water. Swimming is an acquired skill, no doubt. Maybe my running is smooth because I can enjoy it while I enjoy some quiet time-alone. Often I am with friends, yes. But we are not chatting when we are racing or running track workouts or tempo miles. We are together, but totally alone in our heads.
Swimming does not allow me that same grace. Swimming is just hard. Swimming is so much work. Swimming never feels good or graceful or fun. I am still not sure why I even go? I love the people at the workout. I love the coaching staff. I love the smell of the chlorine on my skin when I get out. But, really, the whole time I am in the pool, I am thinking about the getting out and into the shower. I think I allow my mind to wander too much in the pool to pass the time, and I do not think about my stroke. I think I use the quiet of the pool as another venue for quiet in my head. No talking, no ipod, just thoughts....and now, I guess they will be thoughts of bringing my left elbow up higher and rasing my head up a bit, and all the other issues I have. Now, that really kills the fun.
I ran 22 miles this morning, out and back course threw in some tough hills and went solo. I was content and even happy with my situation about 99 percent of the time. I think the only time I was a little concerned was when I was wishing I had brought extra nutrition and worn less clothing. Because I was solo, I went out a little later. Therefore, I was warmer than usual and felt more hungry than usual, too.
As I was en route back with still about 9 miles to go, I was in a groove. I felt strong and genuinely happy. It occured to me that I don't ever think about running. This, after I almost tripped coming up on a curb because I was visualizing stepping up on it too much. Sound crazy? Maybe, yes. I was thinking as I came upon this curb at the top of La Jolla Shores, a good climb and my legs were tired, that maybe it would be my right foot to lead me over the curb first. Then, as I got closer, I thought, no, it will be my left that leads. I literally almost tripped over-thinking this ridiculous senario and so I had to remind myself that I never think when I run. That is, I get lazy and allow my thoughts to wander wherever they may.
I think about my daughter's homework assignments for the week. I think about her birthday rapidly approaching and what the party favors will be. I think about how adorable my son was digging in the sand at the park, despite kids playing around him with monsterous behavior. I think about my husband and his desire to heal his foot and get back to where he was so he is not a prisoner to the pool...and then I thought of swimming. Maybe this is the heart of the matter. Maybe, though my form is far from perfect on pavement, I run with such passion and ease because it just comes more naturally to me. I think most people would agree we are not built for water. Swimming is an acquired skill, no doubt. Maybe my running is smooth because I can enjoy it while I enjoy some quiet time-alone. Often I am with friends, yes. But we are not chatting when we are racing or running track workouts or tempo miles. We are together, but totally alone in our heads.
Swimming does not allow me that same grace. Swimming is just hard. Swimming is so much work. Swimming never feels good or graceful or fun. I am still not sure why I even go? I love the people at the workout. I love the coaching staff. I love the smell of the chlorine on my skin when I get out. But, really, the whole time I am in the pool, I am thinking about the getting out and into the shower. I think I allow my mind to wander too much in the pool to pass the time, and I do not think about my stroke. I think I use the quiet of the pool as another venue for quiet in my head. No talking, no ipod, just thoughts....and now, I guess they will be thoughts of bringing my left elbow up higher and rasing my head up a bit, and all the other issues I have. Now, that really kills the fun.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Rituals
Rituals. We all have them. Are our rituals interchangable with superstitions or are they something independent? Do we wear the same outfit we wore to a previously successful race or event with the hope of a similar outcome? Rituals often are ceremonious. They can feel like an obsessive compulsive behavior if we insist on practicing such rituals as we have done in the past to get it "just right". Rituals can be like traditions, too, right? We often like to participate in rituals so that it feels familiar, something we are accustomed to, something that reminds us of the past and creates another memory. I like to think of rituals as the little acts that help prepare us to be better athletes. Maybe these rituals help create better people in us if we are repeating positive behaviors and shring our insite with others?
I know someone who does a little Shakkira dance at the start of a race, hip rotation and all. People, this is not pretty. I know someone else who always recites the same thing standing at that line: "Trip the standing and hurdle the fallen." He still thinks it is funny everytime, and honestly, I do, too. I have yet another friend who goes into seclusion in the days and weeks leading into an event to clear her head. She is like a hermit pre-marathon. Another spazy friend tunes into his ipod and tunes the rest of the world out as he sets up his bike and lays out his nutrition for a triple event. We make fun of him, but it clears his head in a way nothing else can. It is my ritual to bring my grande soy latte to the pool on these frigid mornings so I can slide in the water with a little better attitude (less cursing as I dangle my toes in the pool to check the temperature initially). I dare not think of my monthly allowance in coffee. I justify it by telling myself I am healthier for going with coffee than skipping the swim altogether.
So, what will my ritual be for LA Marathon? I am not sure. I would like to just have a repeat performance of what happened here in Carlsbad: a nice, strong marathon where I didn't come undone at mile 20. The fear of the marathon is creeping back into my feeble and unforgiving brain. My wonderful husband keeps telling me that I am "back" to my marathoning ways, yet my negative intuition wants to repeat over and over that Carlsbad was a fluke. A perfect day, with great weather and the right balance of fluid and nutrition. I realize I am talking about that day as though I ran a 2:37, as opposed to the added hour I truly ran it in. I think I have just been so paralyzed by negative thoughts and discouraging times, I would be elated to think I could climb somewhere closer to the 3:30 range in which I used to run the marathon.
Rituals? I know I have them. These are as common as OCD among the triple A triple sport athlete. Maybe I will repeat what I did that day for Carlsbad: Slimfast shake at 4:30 am, followed by a cup of McDonalds coffee (they were the only establishment open at 5 am on Sunday, and yes, I was fearful someone I knew would see me in the drivethru....how embarassing!), half a bagel one hour before and a banana with 30 minutes to the start. And, how can I forget? The little green Jelly Bellies in my belly along the way. The time now seems to be dragging to raceday, with still two 22 mile runs to go, including this weekend when I have to do one solo. Yet, somehow, I know March 4th will be here all of a sudden, like the last 100 feet in the drop from an airplane. I am ready to pull the ripcord. And, I am going to wear the same outfit I wore in Carlsbad. Not so much because I am superstitious, but I love wearing something new to a race. This is my ritual.
Kudos to my swim geek husband who did the one hour swim at the noon Masters workout today. He did the best overall at the workout, with 5025 yards in 60 minutes. I love that I am married to a true swimmer. What is the attraction? It could be the speedo, or maybe I fell in love with his little ritual of the squirmy little dive he does into that end of the pool every time he begins. He claims he has a sloppy stroke, but I would take it if I could do five grand in that time, too.
I know someone who does a little Shakkira dance at the start of a race, hip rotation and all. People, this is not pretty. I know someone else who always recites the same thing standing at that line: "Trip the standing and hurdle the fallen." He still thinks it is funny everytime, and honestly, I do, too. I have yet another friend who goes into seclusion in the days and weeks leading into an event to clear her head. She is like a hermit pre-marathon. Another spazy friend tunes into his ipod and tunes the rest of the world out as he sets up his bike and lays out his nutrition for a triple event. We make fun of him, but it clears his head in a way nothing else can. It is my ritual to bring my grande soy latte to the pool on these frigid mornings so I can slide in the water with a little better attitude (less cursing as I dangle my toes in the pool to check the temperature initially). I dare not think of my monthly allowance in coffee. I justify it by telling myself I am healthier for going with coffee than skipping the swim altogether.
So, what will my ritual be for LA Marathon? I am not sure. I would like to just have a repeat performance of what happened here in Carlsbad: a nice, strong marathon where I didn't come undone at mile 20. The fear of the marathon is creeping back into my feeble and unforgiving brain. My wonderful husband keeps telling me that I am "back" to my marathoning ways, yet my negative intuition wants to repeat over and over that Carlsbad was a fluke. A perfect day, with great weather and the right balance of fluid and nutrition. I realize I am talking about that day as though I ran a 2:37, as opposed to the added hour I truly ran it in. I think I have just been so paralyzed by negative thoughts and discouraging times, I would be elated to think I could climb somewhere closer to the 3:30 range in which I used to run the marathon.
Rituals? I know I have them. These are as common as OCD among the triple A triple sport athlete. Maybe I will repeat what I did that day for Carlsbad: Slimfast shake at 4:30 am, followed by a cup of McDonalds coffee (they were the only establishment open at 5 am on Sunday, and yes, I was fearful someone I knew would see me in the drivethru....how embarassing!), half a bagel one hour before and a banana with 30 minutes to the start. And, how can I forget? The little green Jelly Bellies in my belly along the way. The time now seems to be dragging to raceday, with still two 22 mile runs to go, including this weekend when I have to do one solo. Yet, somehow, I know March 4th will be here all of a sudden, like the last 100 feet in the drop from an airplane. I am ready to pull the ripcord. And, I am going to wear the same outfit I wore in Carlsbad. Not so much because I am superstitious, but I love wearing something new to a race. This is my ritual.
Kudos to my swim geek husband who did the one hour swim at the noon Masters workout today. He did the best overall at the workout, with 5025 yards in 60 minutes. I love that I am married to a true swimmer. What is the attraction? It could be the speedo, or maybe I fell in love with his little ritual of the squirmy little dive he does into that end of the pool every time he begins. He claims he has a sloppy stroke, but I would take it if I could do five grand in that time, too.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Ode To The Green Beans
Today was the Carlsbad Marathon and I knew all I wanted out of it was a strong training run in prep for LA. What I ended with was a lesson in humility and gratitude, and it was great practice with nutrition and fluids, to boot. I made the decision pretty early on to forgo the Gus in place of the Jelly Belly electrolyte beans and I am so happy I did! No GI distress and no vomit with those little green wonder beans. This is a victory in and of itself for me. I know it is not polite conversation to discuss the intermost workings of the GI track, but I really detest vomit, so to skip it altogether was a beautiful thing for me.
Miles 1-10 were uneventful. It was a beautiful day, clear and crisp, with little wind until the end of the race. The marathon and the half began together this year, so it was super fun to have the company of other runner friends. We went our seperate ways around mile 3, however, and I realized just how all alone I was. Up the hill, Palomar Airport Road and into what felt like the abyss with other strangers. I came in mile 10 just under 1:20 and decided then and there to back off the pace, for fear I might repeat the dreaded experience of Long Beach Marathon when I hit the wall hard. I am grateful that today did not bring fantasies about being hit by a car in order to end my misery. I felt realtively (this term is used very loosely) comfortable the whole time (until about mile 21). After mile 10, the next I looked at my watch was the half marathon point, 1:45:00 exactly, 3:30 pace. I thought this was comical, considering the 3:30 pace guy seemed so far ahead of me. I kept catching glipmses of that group when we did the little out and back fingers. I had been admiring the grace of their stride and unbreakable, blank stares of determination. No chatting going on there at all. I backed off the pace again. I knew the 3:40 pace group was somewhere behind me and I wanted to stay right around that place.
Mile 15 brought a full range of emotion. I was a little discouraged thinking about the fact that I still had 11 miles, and some serious rolling hills, to go. But then, per my ipod, I was sucked into a song "Indescribable". It literally brought me to tears when I was thinking about the lyrics, "Indescribribable, uncontainable. You place the stars in the sky and You know them by name. You are Amazing, God. All powerful, untamable, You see the depths of my heart and You love me the same. You are amazing, God." The part that choked me to nearly a walk was thinking about the fact that I am a small and dispicable human being. Who am I that the Lord would care for me? He knows my heart, yet He loves me the same. The song culminated in "Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee, how great Thou Art, how great Thou Art." I really felt like I was just leveled by feeling my frailty in the universe.
Now, here came the lesson: for the last few marathons, I have been chasing after breaking the 3:40 mark again. For some reason, I have not been able to do this post two kids and it has plagued me. Yet, here I was, trotting along up the hill to mile 18, and it hit me. It is not at all about me. I was running under someone else's name and number. I know this can be objectionable, but really, my friend who gave the number up due to illness, had already paid the fees and simply offered it as a token to my road to LA. I think the lesson I took from this is, even if I could qualify for Boston again and it was not in my name, it doesn't matter. If I could run 3:40, all that matters is that I know I can do it again. I really wanted that little boost of confidence again. I NEEDED it to feel like a true marathoner again, that I had somehow lived up to my potential. Regardless of the name or number, I felt so incredibly humbled by the thought of feeling like I understood this and accepted it. I may very well have left my legs on the course today, but LA is almost irrelavant now. Does Boston even matter? In a word, no. I want to glorify the One who makes it all possible. He has stirred my heart to revisit this and it feels so good to run for a greater purpose.
Mile 18 was the turn around. Here I popped a few more green bean wonders and sipped a little water. The other commitment I made early on was not to overdue the fluid. I rarely drink anything before mile 15 on training runs, and while I would not advise this for everyone, for me, it seems to work. Without the slushy slush in my belly, I felt so much better, coupled with the fact that the day was cool and I felt like my core stayed the same temperature. Most of the water cups I grabbed were to simply toss over my head.
By mile 20, I was feeling my legs. A stitch chewed away at my side, which actually distracted me from the pain in my right hamstring. My calves were tight and my quads ached. At mile 21 I decided to walk through the aid station for the first time and take in some more beans and water (doesn't that sound like a strange prison diet?). Back into some kind of pace, really a little bit of a shuffle, until I got to the top of the next hill. Around mile 23, I was so happy to have some spectators shouting at us and to think we were only a 5K away. This gave me new legs and I passed some runners, thinking about the finish. The wind had picked up now off the ocean and was blowing onshore. I gave myself permission to walk the final hills, at mile 24 1/2ish and then mile 25. I passed some guy in tights. He had passed me around mile 11 and I remember thinking he was a nut for being in tights and long sleeves. He body was flawless as it moved along earlier, but now he looked like he was suffering, slurping his Gu. I felt sorry for Under Armor Man.
Walking those hills renewed my spirit and I felt alive and ramped to run again. I was afraid it might be the death of me to walk, but I think it really did help. Thank you, little green beans! Thank you God, because mile 26 was a beautiful sight, and then on around the corner to the finish. The announcer said, "I can't see her number, but she is obviously a marathoner with a strong finish like that. She's in the blue top, come on people, help me bring her in." That was all I wanted to hear. I felt like a marathoner again. Not because the clock read 3:37 and change, but because I had regained the confidence to go the distance. Two bad marathons in recent past had really killed my self-esteem in the 26.2, but today, I felt confident in a humbled sort of way. I was defintely in touch with my humanity, but in a driven sort of way. The scripture I was recently reminded of that I carried with me today:
"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving." Colossians 3:23-24
God is the author and finisher of my race, my life.
Miles 1-10 were uneventful. It was a beautiful day, clear and crisp, with little wind until the end of the race. The marathon and the half began together this year, so it was super fun to have the company of other runner friends. We went our seperate ways around mile 3, however, and I realized just how all alone I was. Up the hill, Palomar Airport Road and into what felt like the abyss with other strangers. I came in mile 10 just under 1:20 and decided then and there to back off the pace, for fear I might repeat the dreaded experience of Long Beach Marathon when I hit the wall hard. I am grateful that today did not bring fantasies about being hit by a car in order to end my misery. I felt realtively (this term is used very loosely) comfortable the whole time (until about mile 21). After mile 10, the next I looked at my watch was the half marathon point, 1:45:00 exactly, 3:30 pace. I thought this was comical, considering the 3:30 pace guy seemed so far ahead of me. I kept catching glipmses of that group when we did the little out and back fingers. I had been admiring the grace of their stride and unbreakable, blank stares of determination. No chatting going on there at all. I backed off the pace again. I knew the 3:40 pace group was somewhere behind me and I wanted to stay right around that place.
Mile 15 brought a full range of emotion. I was a little discouraged thinking about the fact that I still had 11 miles, and some serious rolling hills, to go. But then, per my ipod, I was sucked into a song "Indescribable". It literally brought me to tears when I was thinking about the lyrics, "Indescribribable, uncontainable. You place the stars in the sky and You know them by name. You are Amazing, God. All powerful, untamable, You see the depths of my heart and You love me the same. You are amazing, God." The part that choked me to nearly a walk was thinking about the fact that I am a small and dispicable human being. Who am I that the Lord would care for me? He knows my heart, yet He loves me the same. The song culminated in "Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee, how great Thou Art, how great Thou Art." I really felt like I was just leveled by feeling my frailty in the universe.
Now, here came the lesson: for the last few marathons, I have been chasing after breaking the 3:40 mark again. For some reason, I have not been able to do this post two kids and it has plagued me. Yet, here I was, trotting along up the hill to mile 18, and it hit me. It is not at all about me. I was running under someone else's name and number. I know this can be objectionable, but really, my friend who gave the number up due to illness, had already paid the fees and simply offered it as a token to my road to LA. I think the lesson I took from this is, even if I could qualify for Boston again and it was not in my name, it doesn't matter. If I could run 3:40, all that matters is that I know I can do it again. I really wanted that little boost of confidence again. I NEEDED it to feel like a true marathoner again, that I had somehow lived up to my potential. Regardless of the name or number, I felt so incredibly humbled by the thought of feeling like I understood this and accepted it. I may very well have left my legs on the course today, but LA is almost irrelavant now. Does Boston even matter? In a word, no. I want to glorify the One who makes it all possible. He has stirred my heart to revisit this and it feels so good to run for a greater purpose.
Mile 18 was the turn around. Here I popped a few more green bean wonders and sipped a little water. The other commitment I made early on was not to overdue the fluid. I rarely drink anything before mile 15 on training runs, and while I would not advise this for everyone, for me, it seems to work. Without the slushy slush in my belly, I felt so much better, coupled with the fact that the day was cool and I felt like my core stayed the same temperature. Most of the water cups I grabbed were to simply toss over my head.
By mile 20, I was feeling my legs. A stitch chewed away at my side, which actually distracted me from the pain in my right hamstring. My calves were tight and my quads ached. At mile 21 I decided to walk through the aid station for the first time and take in some more beans and water (doesn't that sound like a strange prison diet?). Back into some kind of pace, really a little bit of a shuffle, until I got to the top of the next hill. Around mile 23, I was so happy to have some spectators shouting at us and to think we were only a 5K away. This gave me new legs and I passed some runners, thinking about the finish. The wind had picked up now off the ocean and was blowing onshore. I gave myself permission to walk the final hills, at mile 24 1/2ish and then mile 25. I passed some guy in tights. He had passed me around mile 11 and I remember thinking he was a nut for being in tights and long sleeves. He body was flawless as it moved along earlier, but now he looked like he was suffering, slurping his Gu. I felt sorry for Under Armor Man.
Walking those hills renewed my spirit and I felt alive and ramped to run again. I was afraid it might be the death of me to walk, but I think it really did help. Thank you, little green beans! Thank you God, because mile 26 was a beautiful sight, and then on around the corner to the finish. The announcer said, "I can't see her number, but she is obviously a marathoner with a strong finish like that. She's in the blue top, come on people, help me bring her in." That was all I wanted to hear. I felt like a marathoner again. Not because the clock read 3:37 and change, but because I had regained the confidence to go the distance. Two bad marathons in recent past had really killed my self-esteem in the 26.2, but today, I felt confident in a humbled sort of way. I was defintely in touch with my humanity, but in a driven sort of way. The scripture I was recently reminded of that I carried with me today:
"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving." Colossians 3:23-24
God is the author and finisher of my race, my life.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Base
"We have to build a bigger base so the whole thing doesn't fall apart."
This is what I was telling my three-year old yesterday as we built a huge, tall, rather skinny and shakey Lego tower. The rainbow bricks were taller than he is, and I knew the frustration that would follow if it all came down, so I was gingerly trying to coax him to increase the base before the meltdown. He wasn't going for the pitch, so I tried again, "If we don't make the foundation larger, the tower will come crashing down." He seemed to better understand this concept and agreed to add some thickness to the bottom.
It occured to me, this is the essence of our training, too. We try to build a solid base so we do not fall apart come race day. But how much base is really enough? Do we really know how many miles we need to log on the bike, in the pool and in our running shoes? We follow schedules and compute the outcomes, but how much base do we need to survive? How much to thrive? We analyze nutrition and read various programs and books, but how much is enough? Too much?
Today at the memorial for Mike's mom, it became clear that base is so much more than just a training base. We have all come from a foundation. Some of us, maybe from shakey foundations, some from rich and solid foundations, but nonetheless, our parents are our foundations. Listening to complete strangers share beautiful stories about Mike's mom, Pat, was truly touching. I sat there, my vision blurred by tears, absorbing details of a woman I never had the pleasure of knowing, but realizing that she was the base for my running friend. I had nothing to share, since I did not have the privledge of meeting her, but something in me stirred. I almost wanting to stand up and tell that room of mourning people that her legacy of kindness and positive thinking will live on because I know Mike. His character speaks volumes of the foundation she was in his life. I knew I wouldn't, but I wanted to speak out just how much he loved her because she was such a driving positive force in his life, and she will continue to be, of course. Our parents teach us how to survive and when we lose one or both, the world just never looks the same. We never quite get over it. There is a vulnerability that becomes so real when we realize how fragile we are without mom or dad.
I would like to be grounded in all things. I would like to be able to continuously lean more on God and on my husband and family and friends for support and the base I so desperately need. Not just for races, but for my character and who I profess to be. I want to be an accurate representation of the love that was instilled in me and the love I have found from my faith. I want my kids to grow up with a solid base for life.
My son's lego tower grew taller than I anticipated. And, more impressive, it stood all day long. I think that was a record in our house.
"Where can I go from Your Spirit? Where can I flee from Your presence? If I go up to the Heavens, You are there; if I make my bed in the depths, You are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast." -Psalm 139:7-10
This is what I was telling my three-year old yesterday as we built a huge, tall, rather skinny and shakey Lego tower. The rainbow bricks were taller than he is, and I knew the frustration that would follow if it all came down, so I was gingerly trying to coax him to increase the base before the meltdown. He wasn't going for the pitch, so I tried again, "If we don't make the foundation larger, the tower will come crashing down." He seemed to better understand this concept and agreed to add some thickness to the bottom.
It occured to me, this is the essence of our training, too. We try to build a solid base so we do not fall apart come race day. But how much base is really enough? Do we really know how many miles we need to log on the bike, in the pool and in our running shoes? We follow schedules and compute the outcomes, but how much base do we need to survive? How much to thrive? We analyze nutrition and read various programs and books, but how much is enough? Too much?
Today at the memorial for Mike's mom, it became clear that base is so much more than just a training base. We have all come from a foundation. Some of us, maybe from shakey foundations, some from rich and solid foundations, but nonetheless, our parents are our foundations. Listening to complete strangers share beautiful stories about Mike's mom, Pat, was truly touching. I sat there, my vision blurred by tears, absorbing details of a woman I never had the pleasure of knowing, but realizing that she was the base for my running friend. I had nothing to share, since I did not have the privledge of meeting her, but something in me stirred. I almost wanting to stand up and tell that room of mourning people that her legacy of kindness and positive thinking will live on because I know Mike. His character speaks volumes of the foundation she was in his life. I knew I wouldn't, but I wanted to speak out just how much he loved her because she was such a driving positive force in his life, and she will continue to be, of course. Our parents teach us how to survive and when we lose one or both, the world just never looks the same. We never quite get over it. There is a vulnerability that becomes so real when we realize how fragile we are without mom or dad.
I would like to be grounded in all things. I would like to be able to continuously lean more on God and on my husband and family and friends for support and the base I so desperately need. Not just for races, but for my character and who I profess to be. I want to be an accurate representation of the love that was instilled in me and the love I have found from my faith. I want my kids to grow up with a solid base for life.
My son's lego tower grew taller than I anticipated. And, more impressive, it stood all day long. I think that was a record in our house.
"Where can I go from Your Spirit? Where can I flee from Your presence? If I go up to the Heavens, You are there; if I make my bed in the depths, You are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast." -Psalm 139:7-10
Sunday, January 14, 2007
And The Funk Goes On
I am in complete disbelief that the weekend is already over. Not for everyone, of course. As in the case of my 5 year old, she will enjoy one more day of rest tomorrow. But, it is back to the grind stone for most, including myself, and that goes for the training, as well.
I have officially decided to run/jog/walk to the finish of the Carlsbad Marathon next weekend. It will be an interesting day, to say the least, but I am excited to get a really long run in, with aid along the way. I love support on a long run and to "race" without any expectation or pressure. The best part is, I am not even running under my name, not that anyone but me cares anyway, so there is really no expectation to produce any kind of respectable time. I am completely discouraged that marathon finish times are such a mystery to me now. I am never quite sure what the day will bring.
I have many theories, but none I can base concretely as to why I cannot run a "successful" and consistent marathon anymore. Before having two kids, I was able to consistently run sub 3:30 (or right around that time) marathons void of any GI issues. Now, I cannot seem to break the 3:45 barrier, and always with GI distress. I am not sure exactly what has changed in my training program or my chemistry, other than perhaps I am really not running as many miles as I used to log before motherhood responsibilities. Whatever the case may be, I have to continuously remind myself that finish time is not really the main objective. I am grateful to have a husband who supports my habit (or, more accurately, my addiction) to running and exercise, and that I am so happy for the opportunity to live in a beautiful place and "race" with the Pacific Ocean as my backdrop. Overall, I think it is very safe to say I would not ever trade motherhood (or the havoc it caused on my body) for faster marathons. I love my little people and feel so very grateful to have and hold them.
Yet, pregnancy is a funny thing. It was a long, hard, dreadful road. I will never understand the woman who exclaims she loves being pregnant. Some would argue that there is little to truly celebrate, until the baby actually arrives. I know that sounds awful. Of course, there is the excitement of a little life fluttering in the belly. But does it outweigh the morning sickness, swollen feet, and constant heartburn? It is not often talked about, but I think many women who have had the privledge to experience pregnancy would agree that it is difficult and was a time of survival, a means to an end for something greater. There were so many sacrifices along the way. Adjusting to non-caffinated mornings, trying to maintain stellar nutrition, giving up the vanity thing and losing all control to a body that was unrecognizable to me. I had to quit long runs, then running altogether for a non-impact morning in the dreaded pool, then on to bedrest, which meant no exercise at all. If I sound selfish, I guess I am. But, I would not change any of it. I truly think that pregnancy was the first step in preparing for parenthood. It was a lesson in selflessness, an act of courage, and the very first taste of realizing what it truly means to have to be flexible. And when those 40 weeks of trial were over, there was a tiny little creature, a living, moving miracle, and all of the doubts and promises of "never again" faded away. I did, aferall, do it twice, and with no regrets!
Marathoning is not all that different. The 16-20 weeks of training are grueling and come with many sacrifices, as well (long runs in 30 degree darkness come to mind first). Then race day comes, and I am never really sure what it will look like. The finish always brings emotion, no matter what the outcome, and all of the thoughts along the way, promises sworn that I will never run one again, are immediately replaced by thoughts of planning for the next venture when I see people passing out the phamplets for upcoming races.
So, which came first, the chicken or the egg? Am I a better, more dedicated mom because I was first a marathoner? Or am I a better(albeit slower) marathoner because I am a mom? If I tell myself it is not all about the finish time, then what is it really about? I think it is still the journey. Growing a human or growing a training program, the journey is never boring. There is so much to experience and learn all of the time. If I were advising my 5 year old before a swim meet, I would tell her to just do the best she can, knowing she will take away a lesson from her experience, regardless of where she finishes. I think I may have to give myself the same advice. Not for this upcoming weekend, of course, but more for the LA marathon. I want to enjoy the journey of 26.2 miles and learn from the experience and maybe be touched by some people along the way. I have loved the training and pushing myself to new limits with faster training partners. I just hope it translates into a beautiful birth of a day March 4th.
I have officially decided to run/jog/walk to the finish of the Carlsbad Marathon next weekend. It will be an interesting day, to say the least, but I am excited to get a really long run in, with aid along the way. I love support on a long run and to "race" without any expectation or pressure. The best part is, I am not even running under my name, not that anyone but me cares anyway, so there is really no expectation to produce any kind of respectable time. I am completely discouraged that marathon finish times are such a mystery to me now. I am never quite sure what the day will bring.
I have many theories, but none I can base concretely as to why I cannot run a "successful" and consistent marathon anymore. Before having two kids, I was able to consistently run sub 3:30 (or right around that time) marathons void of any GI issues. Now, I cannot seem to break the 3:45 barrier, and always with GI distress. I am not sure exactly what has changed in my training program or my chemistry, other than perhaps I am really not running as many miles as I used to log before motherhood responsibilities. Whatever the case may be, I have to continuously remind myself that finish time is not really the main objective. I am grateful to have a husband who supports my habit (or, more accurately, my addiction) to running and exercise, and that I am so happy for the opportunity to live in a beautiful place and "race" with the Pacific Ocean as my backdrop. Overall, I think it is very safe to say I would not ever trade motherhood (or the havoc it caused on my body) for faster marathons. I love my little people and feel so very grateful to have and hold them.
Yet, pregnancy is a funny thing. It was a long, hard, dreadful road. I will never understand the woman who exclaims she loves being pregnant. Some would argue that there is little to truly celebrate, until the baby actually arrives. I know that sounds awful. Of course, there is the excitement of a little life fluttering in the belly. But does it outweigh the morning sickness, swollen feet, and constant heartburn? It is not often talked about, but I think many women who have had the privledge to experience pregnancy would agree that it is difficult and was a time of survival, a means to an end for something greater. There were so many sacrifices along the way. Adjusting to non-caffinated mornings, trying to maintain stellar nutrition, giving up the vanity thing and losing all control to a body that was unrecognizable to me. I had to quit long runs, then running altogether for a non-impact morning in the dreaded pool, then on to bedrest, which meant no exercise at all. If I sound selfish, I guess I am. But, I would not change any of it. I truly think that pregnancy was the first step in preparing for parenthood. It was a lesson in selflessness, an act of courage, and the very first taste of realizing what it truly means to have to be flexible. And when those 40 weeks of trial were over, there was a tiny little creature, a living, moving miracle, and all of the doubts and promises of "never again" faded away. I did, aferall, do it twice, and with no regrets!
Marathoning is not all that different. The 16-20 weeks of training are grueling and come with many sacrifices, as well (long runs in 30 degree darkness come to mind first). Then race day comes, and I am never really sure what it will look like. The finish always brings emotion, no matter what the outcome, and all of the thoughts along the way, promises sworn that I will never run one again, are immediately replaced by thoughts of planning for the next venture when I see people passing out the phamplets for upcoming races.
So, which came first, the chicken or the egg? Am I a better, more dedicated mom because I was first a marathoner? Or am I a better(albeit slower) marathoner because I am a mom? If I tell myself it is not all about the finish time, then what is it really about? I think it is still the journey. Growing a human or growing a training program, the journey is never boring. There is so much to experience and learn all of the time. If I were advising my 5 year old before a swim meet, I would tell her to just do the best she can, knowing she will take away a lesson from her experience, regardless of where she finishes. I think I may have to give myself the same advice. Not for this upcoming weekend, of course, but more for the LA marathon. I want to enjoy the journey of 26.2 miles and learn from the experience and maybe be touched by some people along the way. I have loved the training and pushing myself to new limits with faster training partners. I just hope it translates into a beautiful birth of a day March 4th.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
In A Funk
This is how I feel today. Funky, but not in a cool way. I am as gray as the sky is outside my window. I am not sure why. I really cannot explain the whole melancholy thing. I am finally over bronchitis, which laid me out for 10 days. I have not taken that much time off exercise since bedrest with pregnancy. It was ugly around here through Christmas and New Years. But even running the track workout this morning, something was amiss.
Perhaps it was the weight I carried on my chest, running behind our friend, Mike, who lost his mom to cancer on Tuesday morning. It was hard to breathe, replaying the conversation in my mind about how he took with him her chemo hat to hold on to the smell of her. He spoke of how he gave her his Ironman Germany Medal at the viewing yesterday. It is never easy to watch a grown man cry, or to know what to say to comfort him. We all just stood there, paralyzed by his words, not having many of our own to return to him. We were helpless. What can one really say? It was completely depressing to think of that ache in his heart, mostly because I am able to relate. I can remember the emptiness when my own dad died. Even 9 years ago, those feeling are raw. To think of those dark days, and to know a friend is enduring that now, is surreal.
Whatever the cause of my mope, my legs felt like concrete blocks today when we ran 2 by 12 minutes @ tempo pace, though mine did not accurately reflect it. I shouldn't say, I really have no idea on the pace, since we didn't follow mile markers today. We simply ran on time, and somehow the air would just not flow into the lungs. My legs lumbered along and my mind was screaming at me to stop and just give it all up. Chasing Mike and Traecy down the center of campus toward the fountain, I really wanted to quit and walk back to the car. Something in me just wouldn't do it, though. I couldn't stop. I had to keep running, though I was hating it. I tried to find a song to sing in my head, but nothing would stick.
Then there was the thought of the marathon, and yet another marathon. LA is a sure thing, March 4th, but there is this nagging marathon that does not want to be ignored, in just 10 days. I am not signed up for Carlsbad, but I have an entry, should I want it. All reason in me tells me to walk away. The voices of reason in my head tell me not to even consider running it, but this funk, this emptiness, this little shadow that is following me, tells me to stir the pot and go for it. This little lonely ache in my heart that is looking for validation is just hanging around and sometimes a race is just what I need to supress that hollow feeling. A reasonable athlete would ignore the funk and pass up the entry to follow her schedule for the race on calendar. March 4th is really only weeks away.
I guess I am not reasonable, because I really want to run Carlsbad. I think I will just have to say, "What the funk".
Perhaps it was the weight I carried on my chest, running behind our friend, Mike, who lost his mom to cancer on Tuesday morning. It was hard to breathe, replaying the conversation in my mind about how he took with him her chemo hat to hold on to the smell of her. He spoke of how he gave her his Ironman Germany Medal at the viewing yesterday. It is never easy to watch a grown man cry, or to know what to say to comfort him. We all just stood there, paralyzed by his words, not having many of our own to return to him. We were helpless. What can one really say? It was completely depressing to think of that ache in his heart, mostly because I am able to relate. I can remember the emptiness when my own dad died. Even 9 years ago, those feeling are raw. To think of those dark days, and to know a friend is enduring that now, is surreal.
Whatever the cause of my mope, my legs felt like concrete blocks today when we ran 2 by 12 minutes @ tempo pace, though mine did not accurately reflect it. I shouldn't say, I really have no idea on the pace, since we didn't follow mile markers today. We simply ran on time, and somehow the air would just not flow into the lungs. My legs lumbered along and my mind was screaming at me to stop and just give it all up. Chasing Mike and Traecy down the center of campus toward the fountain, I really wanted to quit and walk back to the car. Something in me just wouldn't do it, though. I couldn't stop. I had to keep running, though I was hating it. I tried to find a song to sing in my head, but nothing would stick.
Then there was the thought of the marathon, and yet another marathon. LA is a sure thing, March 4th, but there is this nagging marathon that does not want to be ignored, in just 10 days. I am not signed up for Carlsbad, but I have an entry, should I want it. All reason in me tells me to walk away. The voices of reason in my head tell me not to even consider running it, but this funk, this emptiness, this little shadow that is following me, tells me to stir the pot and go for it. This little lonely ache in my heart that is looking for validation is just hanging around and sometimes a race is just what I need to supress that hollow feeling. A reasonable athlete would ignore the funk and pass up the entry to follow her schedule for the race on calendar. March 4th is really only weeks away.
I guess I am not reasonable, because I really want to run Carlsbad. I think I will just have to say, "What the funk".
Monday, November 20, 2006
Miracles
Miracle: an extraordinary or unusual event that is considered to be a manifestation of divine or supernatural power. -American Heritage Dictionary
How does that saying go again? It is some quote from somewhere that the miracle was not that one finished what he set out to do. The miracle was that he had the courage to begin or something like that?
I just read our friends' blog about their son, Corey, who was a victim of a drunk driving crash in August. He was not given a good prognosis. They were told he would not survive. But by all accounts, now reading the update blog tonight, I say he is a miracle. He went from ICU on life support to now walking with PT support. Over and over I am reminded how very fragile life is and how we need not overlook any of the miracles in our everyday life. It is a miracle my husband married me. How did he know I needed him? HOw did he know no one else would be able to tolerate my antics? My children are a miracle. Seeing them run on the park fields today in the glorious sun, they are little miracles.
It was a miracle I was able to get out of bed this morning. I was so tired (I still am), yet I dragged my tired body into the gym for a 5 mile treadmil run and lift. I then drove very slowly to the pool for a swim. There, I was met in the lane by another man who just recently survived a boating accident. He was hit by a boat as he emerged from the depths below scuba diving. He almost lost his life, and was lucky to have been spared his limbs. 2 months after that incident, or 3 weeks ago, he endured pins put into his femur after a freakish accident on the bike. Miracle. His life is a living testament to miracles. He is a bionic man and he is still in training. How is this possible?
Last Friday, a friend of a friend's 13 month old son was left alone for 2 minutes too long. It was enough time for him to find the rain water that was in the bottom of a huge plant pot in their back yard. The baby leaned in for a closer look and when mom found the boy, he was blue. He survived because a passing stranger administered CPR after frantic mom flagged someone down on the street. Huge miracle in a tiny package. That baby boy's life is not a mistake. He will go on to do great things.
We are in the season of miracles. They are happening all around us everyday. The miracle is in the colors I saw on the mountains this morning as I drove to the pool. The sun was just peeking over and the color was something I cannot even describe. Miraculous. All of this. We are. Believe it.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Soma Emotions Run High
I did it. I actually completed it. A Half Ironman. Does that mean I am half a man...or woman? I am not sure. But I cried when I crossed the line. That beautiful, blue inflatable FINISH might as well have read: FABULOUS, because that is how I felt. And I still am reveling in that emotion. I wish the high would last forever, but knowing it will not, I will have to sign up for another race before the blues set in.
Soma is the Half Ironman in Tempe, Arizona. Tempe is a cute little town with tons of eateries and bars and endless entertainment. The day before the race in Tempe was hot. Not like Florida hot and humid (we were there days before), but hot and sunny. I was worried. After spending half the day at the Urgent Care in town on Saturday (a long and longer story), I was really worried about race day. I felt nervous and agitated. My patience was short and my mood becoming less jovial into Saturday night. I ate a ton of food that night with Marc and our friends, Susan and Steve, who made the trip, as well. It was a wonderful weekend of hanging and being social, but I had that nagging worry about the swim the next day. I was convinced I might drown. I questioned my motives for even being there at all.
Sunday morning wake up call came with the sound of all the other athletes slamming hotel doors around us, dragging out bikes and trampling down the halls. We met at Starbucks for coffee with Team S and S (Steve and Susan), and headed over to the transition area. It was all so new and exciting for me. All I have really ever done are the little Tri Club races. I loved the idea that the first real deal for me was a Half. How perfect. How seemingly important. How crazy was I?? It was dark at 6 am and the air was temperate. Music playing, athletes talking, taping, eating and dressing. I went over to get marked, 918.
Marc was in the first wave after the pros. I was sad and scared to kiss him goodbye. He looked so confident in his navy cap and sleeveless suit, all sleek and unconcerned. "Just have fun, Pea. Remember, it is for fun." Then he was gone. All of a sudden, I really was all alone in the world. The sunrise was beautiful as I went to line up along Lake Tempe with my fellow white caps. The water looked so nasty the day before, debris floating in the murky water. I tried not to think about what was not living in there. I talked with a few girls in the line. One was from Mission Valley. She commented on my black and blue toe. The color had conveniently now spread to the top of my foot. "It's broken," I explained. "But at least it is just a toe and not my leg."
All of a sudden, we were being moved along like cattle to the bleachers that lead down into the sludge. I was really regretting my decision and wondering if it was too late to back out. I wonder how many people have done that? Backed out of a race at the starting moment? Floating start, we got in and swam over to the green bouy. I felt like a helpless cork in the water. Then suddenly, all too suddenly, we were off as the horn bellowed. Apart from the water tasting like oil, the swim was so much better that I had imagined. I was happy to be in a wetsuit (also something new for me), and simply counted my strokes (a trick a real swimmer taught me) when I felt nervous or stressed. The swim never thinned out. There were bodies everywhere all of the time. I caught up to many caps of different color from earlier heats, which did my confidence good, but I still was being kicked and clawed the whole way. Everytime someone grabbed my leg, I made sure to kick extra hard. I loved the fact that I really felt like I was making some progress and, really, only when I was about 100 yards from the finish, did I feel like I was ready to get out of the water. As good as the swim felt, it was still a slow 40 minutes. I expected nothing more.
On to the bike. I knew it would be pathetic and it was. I am not coordinated enough to eat and ride. I cannot even drink while I ride, so I planned to stop every loop (there were 3 total) to take in fluid and nutrition. It felt so good to eat, I decided to stop twice on each loop. I made friends with the volunteers in the aid stations. They even offered me their pizza they were eating, in addition to bananas and GUs and Gatorade. I declined, knowing I had a run ahead of me. They knew my name by the end of the third loop. Mile48 on the bike was the first time little negative thoughts began to creep in my mind. "What if I do not finish? How will I still run so far?" At least there was still cloud cover, so I pressed on. The course was so beautiful with cactus and red rocks and mountains. For having to do it 3 times on the bike, the loops were scenic and enjoyable the whole way. I saw Marc when he was at mile 50 and I still had 24 miles to go. I yelled at him from the aid station, as I was eating pretzels, but he was too focused to notice. As I came around the bike loop to finish my second, I was able to see him head out on the first loop of the run. He looked somewhat happy, which is a great thing, considering he has not run in months with plantar still plaguing him. I was relieved to know he was off the bike and still moving (read: without a crash incident), after seeing one of his water bottles roadside. I had already witnessed a casualty on the bike in front of me. A man had hit a metal sign that read: Keep Right, directing the traffic. He went down hard, and I heard afterward he had totalled his bike and tore up his leg and side with roadrash. I would have stopped, had he not already had a mob of people around him. 3:20 was my final time. Ridiculous, I know, but I loved having lunch with all those people. It was so low pressure.
The run. I was dreading how it would feel. All of my brick training (which was all of about 4 runs off the bike) felt like I was running on sticks after a ride. I knew it would hurt. Amazingly, I got my bike into transition, took my time getting all I needed, ate some more pretzels and even wandered to the trash can to throw away some garbage. I reapplied sunscreen and lip balm. I grabbed a hat and a few GUs, reserved only for desperate times ahead. It felt so good to walk off the bike. As I ran through to the start of the course, I could not believe how fabulous I felt. Miles 1 through 3 were 7:30 pace. I passed two tri geeks running together and I heard one say, "That chick just made us look like we are standing still." They were truly shuffling along, but I decided to back off my pace a little, knowing it would hurt later. I decided not to look at my watch again until mile 6, and settled into something that felt very confortable.
I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to take a GU at mile 6, though I was dreading it. I came through mile 6 at 50 minutes and felt great. Mile 8, I hit a little wall. I had needed to pee for so long, but did not want to break my stride. Now, feeling tired, I decided to hit the port a potty and was surprised how much lighter I felt afterward. My clothes were soaking wet to pull back on from all the water I had dumped over my head at each aid station. The beauty of this course was the water and food at each mile. The big question for me would be if I took in too much fluid and drenched myself too many times. I hit the ground running after the potty and took the GU, just before water at mile 9. By mile 10, I was still feeling my legs, sipped some Coke and moved forward by what felt like inches at a time. Some woman in the sidelines yelled at me, "You look great! You don't even look like you are working!" Why do they lie like that? I could only muster up a smile. I did not even have the wind to thank her, but I was so determined, I felt like a soldier. I couldn't stop running. I knew if I walked, even for a minute, that would be the beginning of the end. So, I kept going. I thought about how I always tell my 5 year old to never give up. What kind of role model would I be if I quit when it got hard?
The Gu must have kicked in, because by mile 11, I was passing people again, picking them off one at a time. I noticed a few were in my age group, but I didn't even care. I didn't need to pass people to move my way up in the age group. I simply wanted to move my way closer to the finish and it felt like I was doing this at last. This was a part of the course that was a little trail of a dogleg that is added on for the needed mileage and the surface felt fabulous. Marc pointed out that it would not have been so fab if it were a hot day. Lucky for us, the cloud cover hung around and I even got a few sprinkles from one rain cloud. Mile 12, and all I could think was, "How do people do a FULL Ironman? Now that I have done this, I don't think I ever need to go down this road again.." Mile 13 and I passed a man who yelled at me, "Less than one minute of work left. Good job." And that is when it hit me. The whole day had been about counting down the miles to get closer to the goal and now I was really going to finish. I was going to be part of the Club. I really had made it. I crossed the line and cried like a baby. Shameless, I know, but at least I had dark glasses on. I hope it wasn't too obvious. The run was 1:48, which put my finish at 5:58, all that much sweeter that I finished in under 6 hours. Barely.
Things I am glad I did:
Wore a wetsuit for the swim, since I had borrowed it and debated it, feeling like a stuffed sausage. I needed all the help I could get.
Took tons of time in transition to be prepared for the next segment. I even put on extra sunscreen and lip balm for added comfort.
Took even more time at aid stations on the bike for the sake of nutrition. My run after the fact would not have felt as smooth as it did had I not eaten the way I needed to off the bike. Maybe someday I will be pro and be able to eat bananas without going down, but for now, this is the reality of it.
Dumped water over my head at every station. Though the sun was not blazing, it was not a cool day either. I felt better even time I cooled myself to the core.
Talked to people along the way and really enjoyed the time. The support and volunteers were amazing. The other athletes were inspiring. The day was a total success. I care nothing about my time, but I will boast for the others:
Marc finished in 4:41, his fastest yet
Steve finished in 5:04, a PR, too
Susan finished in 5:13, another PR. She is a quick chick.
All blazing fast and awe inspiring. I am so proud of them. Mostly, I have such respect for anyone who attempts the distance, knowing what I know now. It was not easy and I took it "easy". I tried to race smart, but my legs still smart. I felt the pain at the end, and wanted to end it. I loved every minute of it, simply because the minutes did not matter to me. The experience was the ticket. I recommend the journey to anyone. I learned so much about me for the six hours of quiet I had in my head. I think that is what I love most about this sport.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Just What I Needed
5 am wake up call, late for me , but it is Saturday. Met the girls at Starbucks with their plan of running 22 miles to La Jolla Cove and back. I felt nervous, having not run with them since AFC Half Marathon training, and with each of them having a marathon on the horizon, I felt a little anxious to know if I could still hang. I did not need to go that far, so I thought I would just run about 2 hours. Of course we started at the Kenyan pace that defines those women who run 3:30 marathon pace and under, but it actually felt good. Even down the long, rutted, dark stretch of Carmel Valley Road, as we tripped on and jumped over the pot holes, I was happy to be there, happy to be with them, happy to be running.
My groin ache was chewing on me today, with the hamstring talking a little bit, as well. I am not sure where it came from, but I wish it would go away. I first noticed it a few weeks ago after a speed workout at the track and it has not yet subsided. On and on we gabbed until we climbed the mountain of Torrey Pines. Up and up we went, into the darkness and the fog of the morning. The miles flew by and we just moved forward into more stories of kids (new schools) and husbands (mine just got hooked 4 days ago by a fisherman's hook while running on the same beach!), mother-in-laws (challenges Tracy faces) and carpools (swim team, karate, etc). These girls are my lifeline as far as being a female. These are the women who understand what exactly works and does not work in relationships, communication, and the female brain, in general.
I said good bye at the top of La Jolla shores, 1:01 into the run, and reluctant to see them go as I turned around to head back to our cars solo. The time did me well, with so much to think about and reflect on. I often forget how great it is to run solo. It was the perfect combination: friends and chatter on the way out, the quiet of my head on the way back. I am still moved everytime I see the ocean below Torrey Pines cliffs. Where else can one enjoy the scenery of such beautiful trees, mountains and sea? I know the Northern California coast is equally as beautiful, having lived in Santa Cruz for a stint, but something about this particular course is magical. The ocean here is not dark and forboding. It almost seemed enticing, though I know it has gotten cold as of late. I fell into a groove and even wearing an ipod, I was able to hear the rhythym of my feet and the heaving of my chest as I hurled myself down the grade. I felt sorry for the guys on bikes I saw climbing the mountain as I was effortlessly going down. The fishermen were out in force (was the same guy there who is responsible for hubby's battle wound?) on the shore and the groups of Team in Training and others were loading up on their nutrition and strapping on their water belts. I was so happy to bein the home stretch with maybe 2 miles to go, give or take. Back to the car and my watch read 1:55:56. Close enough, I decided, to 2 hours and ready to quit.
There were the other usual suspects at Starbucks: the geeks on their bikes heading out to the coast and the ultra runners' cars who had gathered there a little earlier, as well. I love this community and this circle I call friends. I love that we all understand each other and support each other. We ask about races and we challenge each other to greater things. It used to be running a marathon was an accomplishment. Now that is old news. Now we need to compete in three sports to feel worthy of our morning cup of coffee.
I headed off to the gym and lifted legs and shoulders. My legs were shaking under the weight of squats and lunges. I think I might pay for it tomorrow, but today it was just what I needed.
My groin ache was chewing on me today, with the hamstring talking a little bit, as well. I am not sure where it came from, but I wish it would go away. I first noticed it a few weeks ago after a speed workout at the track and it has not yet subsided. On and on we gabbed until we climbed the mountain of Torrey Pines. Up and up we went, into the darkness and the fog of the morning. The miles flew by and we just moved forward into more stories of kids (new schools) and husbands (mine just got hooked 4 days ago by a fisherman's hook while running on the same beach!), mother-in-laws (challenges Tracy faces) and carpools (swim team, karate, etc). These girls are my lifeline as far as being a female. These are the women who understand what exactly works and does not work in relationships, communication, and the female brain, in general.
I said good bye at the top of La Jolla shores, 1:01 into the run, and reluctant to see them go as I turned around to head back to our cars solo. The time did me well, with so much to think about and reflect on. I often forget how great it is to run solo. It was the perfect combination: friends and chatter on the way out, the quiet of my head on the way back. I am still moved everytime I see the ocean below Torrey Pines cliffs. Where else can one enjoy the scenery of such beautiful trees, mountains and sea? I know the Northern California coast is equally as beautiful, having lived in Santa Cruz for a stint, but something about this particular course is magical. The ocean here is not dark and forboding. It almost seemed enticing, though I know it has gotten cold as of late. I fell into a groove and even wearing an ipod, I was able to hear the rhythym of my feet and the heaving of my chest as I hurled myself down the grade. I felt sorry for the guys on bikes I saw climbing the mountain as I was effortlessly going down. The fishermen were out in force (was the same guy there who is responsible for hubby's battle wound?) on the shore and the groups of Team in Training and others were loading up on their nutrition and strapping on their water belts. I was so happy to bein the home stretch with maybe 2 miles to go, give or take. Back to the car and my watch read 1:55:56. Close enough, I decided, to 2 hours and ready to quit.
There were the other usual suspects at Starbucks: the geeks on their bikes heading out to the coast and the ultra runners' cars who had gathered there a little earlier, as well. I love this community and this circle I call friends. I love that we all understand each other and support each other. We ask about races and we challenge each other to greater things. It used to be running a marathon was an accomplishment. Now that is old news. Now we need to compete in three sports to feel worthy of our morning cup of coffee.
I headed off to the gym and lifted legs and shoulders. My legs were shaking under the weight of squats and lunges. I think I might pay for it tomorrow, but today it was just what I needed.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Second Best
Who decided that first is best? Why is it from a very young age, we decide we need to be first? My kids "race" each other to the top of the stairs and say, "I'm gonna win! I'm first!" Today at the park, 3 year old Dillon tells me ,when my boy was running ahead of us, "I need to be first." He sprinted as fast as his little legs would carry him to catch up. The reward at the "finish" was a pinata at the party we crashed. It didn't matter who was out in the front, since all of the park kids got a turn to hit Scooby Doo and collect the treats that fell from his innards. What have these little boys seen, what have we already taught them, knowingly or silently, about first being superior?
I have been reflecting on Soma like a looming deadline, a dark curse closing in on me. It feels as though a rush judgement was made to sign up for the half Ironman. It feels like a huge final I kind of half studied for, hoping I can simply fake my way through. I am hoping that I know the material, that I have retained the important information to pull off an acceptable result. What is acceptable to me? Well, I know I am not going to be first in anything there, certainly not my age group. Chances are, I may end up last, knowing how little I studied the bike. And, now, the crash course tutorial in swimming. It is kind of humorous, really. My only hope is a decent run with all of the miles I have logged, but I am terrified that my legs just will not carry me through after the workout that will preceed it that day.
First is not all that, I know. But "first" in my mind is working as hard as I possibly can to prepare, and I don't feel like I have really done that. Why have I not been more serious about the time on the bike? Why did I think I could do this with such a poor stroke? Why did I think my love of running would conquer all things Half Ironman? Silly. Oh, well. I will be the first to laugh at myself when it is said and done.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Remedial apple
Plucked like a bad apple out of the batch....I was the bad apple. Me. In the swim workout Monday and told I cannot return to the regular workout because I need to "retrain" my muscle memory, my stroke is so poor. Here I was feeling so good about myself and the swim. I got right in with my head down and did a long warmup. I trailed as caboose (what else is new) in the lane and felt like I actually liked what was on the dry erase board. It was a pyramid of sorts: 100, 200, 300, 400, 300, 200, 100 for warm up and I was hanging. I mean, I had lifted chest and back earlier in the gym and was tired, but I was right in there on the interval.
"How patient are you?" Came the coach's voice from above me. I looked up to see his silhouette against the bright lights on deck. The morning sky was still dark and cold, but the pool felt okay, surprisingly.
"Very patient," I answered, somewhat hesistantly.
He plucked me out of my lane and kicked me down to the sandbox lane! Me, I had to get out of my comfortable 1:40 interval (I even chose to get in with some faster girls that day, so we may have been pushing it a little more than that) and go swim in the remedial lane! I felt like the kid who had to leave the regular reading class to go in the remedial group (of course, I have never actually experienced this, but always felt so sorry for those outcasts...). I actually looked around to see if the coach was pulling anyone else into this "special" workout. Nope. Just me. Then I looked to see if anyone else was watching me. A few. Ouch. So, I swallowed my pride and strutted down to the very slowest end of the pool, as proud as I could pretend to be. I pretended it was a unique Half Ironman prep workout and I was getting all of the attention. Turns out, it kind of was.
I am lame for being so arrogant and above it, because the help was really very useful. My attitude inside was so flippant, though I tried my best to appear gracious. There I was, bitter that I was missing out on all the meters in the pool while everyone else was grinding away, and I had to go practice stupid catchup drills! My hubby tells me all the time my stroke is catchup, so how was this suppose to help me again? Hmmm? It did! It was a triffle challenging, even, and coach told me by the end of the drill, I had already improved my stroke. Seems it was turned upside down. My catch and pull is too slow and my recovery and entry is fast and sloppy. Actually, there are a few more things wrong with it, but that is what we focused on Monday. He made me stop and hold my hand for a count before allowing it to re-enter the water into the catch and pull. Interesting....it really worked. Am I missing out on a few good swims before Soma, or will this really benefit me in 4 weeks? I have to hope for the latter.
I am still a little sad that I will not be in the thick of things at tomorrow's workout. But, in a tri geeky kind of way, I am actually looking forward to the private tutoring I am receiving. Sometimes being a remedial apple is okay, as long as I am not rotten with an attitude, I suppose.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Baby Liam 4/21/06-9/19/06
I have not visited this site for so long, mostly because I have felt so uninspired. Somehow, the days have all meshed together and the workouts were taken for granted. I have been consistent with the schedule, running, tracking, swimming, even cycling here and there. I cannot believe Soma Half Ironman is only weeks away now, as it feels like a bad dream. It sounded like a good idea when we signed up for it months ago. Now, it does not even seem real. The events of this past week have made training feel so superficial, that I care nothing about the pending race.
The call came Monday night. Our friend Doug's voice was shakey and far away. "Liam was put to sleep on his stomach his first day at daycare today, " he said. "He stopped breathing and they are calling it SIDS." He told all of this to my husband at first, who then recounted it to me. I had to hear it for myself. Coming from Marc, it was something out of a dream, a bad joke. I could not even wrap my mind around the words that came out of his mouth.
My mind was racing and I could not even comprehend what he was telling me. SIDS? Do kids really die from SIDS? I thought that was only a statistic and that the medical professionals only advised against putting children on their bellies to sleep as a spazy, precautionary measure. Baby Liam was healthy, despite the rough start he had coming into this world, he was given a clean bill of health. He was a chubby, happy, adorable baby...how can he have suffered from SIDS? I called Doug back. Surely there was some misunderstanding...there had to be.
"Wait, what?" It was all I could say at first, when Doug repeated what he had already shared with Marc. It sounded so lame leaving my mouth.
They were at Childrens Hospital and baby Liam, just shy of 5 months old and not quite rolling over on his own, was on life support. He had no brain activity. He had been without oxygen for too long and the mere fact that the paramedics who had arrived at the scene earlier that day were able to revive his heart was astounding. That, in and of itself, was a miracle, so maybe...
"We need a miracle, " Doug choked through tears. " We need a modern day miracle. It's not good. The doctors are telling us it is not good..." and he broke down.
Baby Liam was taken off of life support 24 hours later, Tuesday night, as his little organs were failing him. How can any of this be real? How can he really be dead? We prayed for him, pleaded for his life. We wanted desperately for him to live. We all clung to the hope that he would make it somehow. It was almost ridiculous, I thought, that we held on to that hope, but what else could we do? What else did we have? If we don't have hope, what do we have?
The service was yesterday. We all needed to hear something to make it all make sense. Nothing about it makes sense. No one can understand this loss. No one understands when a child dies. This was not abuse or neglect. It was a stupid accident that did not belong there on that day. This event should not have happened. No one can bare to think of Doug and Kelly walking by his empty crib, or how they can justify it to their other two children. As a parent, no one wants to suffer the guilt and questions that plague our minds after the fact. "What if Kelly hadn't returned to work that day? What if Liam had still been in the care of his grandparents? What if he had not been fussy and not been put to sleep on his stomach? What if he had not been in that daycare situation? What if they had checked on his 10 minutes earlier?" As parents, we bear the burden of living with every decision that affects our children's lives. We want so much to do right by them, and not unknowingly put them in harms way. If only we could take back the moment.
Now it feels as though we are frozen in time; we can't move forward because the past is so repulsive. We want to relive it the proper way, have the day that should have been. Kelly would drop off her precious bundle, work the day, and then return to her content and happy baby to take him home to the rest of the family. Liam was supposed to be safe and sound in that setting. How can he possibly be d-e-a-d?? We cannot move forward without it feeling as though it is disrespectful to Liam. How can we all possibly go on living where we left off? How can we simply return to our job responsibilities, and school work, and social promises? Do we pretend that his short chapter of a life was just that? Something that was part of the story, but now through it, seemingly forgotten for all the rest of the book that is to come? What can possibly come next and feel okay? He wasn't even my baby to hold, and yet, I am devastated by the loss and in need of more answers.
We implored God for a miracle. Why was God's answer, "No" when we all so desperately needed it to be "Yes"? "Yes, baby Liam is going to be okay. Yes, he will live to see the fall and experience his first Halloween costume. He will cut teeth and he will crawl. He will see his first Thanksgiving maybe even eat some turkey and mashed potatoes. He will drool and giggle and pull himself up. And he will have Christmas and gifts and joy. He will see the lights and experience the love the season has to offer. Yes, he will learn how to walk and talk and be a little boy. " My heart aches to think how little he knew of this world. He was born in Spring, thrived in the summer and then died just before the fall. Why do things in autumn die so quickly? He will never know all four seasons. He will never know so many things. How can this be real? If I am this empty with no words to even describe the loss I feel, his family's grief is unfathomable. I want to scream and be angry and distraught, but I try to be calm and look for peace and gratitude anywhere I can find it. There is no understanding or accepting yet. Perhaps the only thing that brings me comfort is what my 5 year old stated so matter of factly.
"Mom, maybe God just thought it was time for baby Liam to go to Heaven."
Maybe, and I guess we will not know any of the answers that evade us until we get there, too. Heaven is going to be an amazing place. Our hope is in that. Little baby Liam's life and death puts things into perspective fast. Live every day. Love every minute. Cherish those you love.
"You give and take away,
You give and take away,
My heart will choose to say,
Blessed be the name of the Lord."
The call came Monday night. Our friend Doug's voice was shakey and far away. "Liam was put to sleep on his stomach his first day at daycare today, " he said. "He stopped breathing and they are calling it SIDS." He told all of this to my husband at first, who then recounted it to me. I had to hear it for myself. Coming from Marc, it was something out of a dream, a bad joke. I could not even wrap my mind around the words that came out of his mouth.
My mind was racing and I could not even comprehend what he was telling me. SIDS? Do kids really die from SIDS? I thought that was only a statistic and that the medical professionals only advised against putting children on their bellies to sleep as a spazy, precautionary measure. Baby Liam was healthy, despite the rough start he had coming into this world, he was given a clean bill of health. He was a chubby, happy, adorable baby...how can he have suffered from SIDS? I called Doug back. Surely there was some misunderstanding...there had to be.
"Wait, what?" It was all I could say at first, when Doug repeated what he had already shared with Marc. It sounded so lame leaving my mouth.
They were at Childrens Hospital and baby Liam, just shy of 5 months old and not quite rolling over on his own, was on life support. He had no brain activity. He had been without oxygen for too long and the mere fact that the paramedics who had arrived at the scene earlier that day were able to revive his heart was astounding. That, in and of itself, was a miracle, so maybe...
"We need a miracle, " Doug choked through tears. " We need a modern day miracle. It's not good. The doctors are telling us it is not good..." and he broke down.
Baby Liam was taken off of life support 24 hours later, Tuesday night, as his little organs were failing him. How can any of this be real? How can he really be dead? We prayed for him, pleaded for his life. We wanted desperately for him to live. We all clung to the hope that he would make it somehow. It was almost ridiculous, I thought, that we held on to that hope, but what else could we do? What else did we have? If we don't have hope, what do we have?
The service was yesterday. We all needed to hear something to make it all make sense. Nothing about it makes sense. No one can understand this loss. No one understands when a child dies. This was not abuse or neglect. It was a stupid accident that did not belong there on that day. This event should not have happened. No one can bare to think of Doug and Kelly walking by his empty crib, or how they can justify it to their other two children. As a parent, no one wants to suffer the guilt and questions that plague our minds after the fact. "What if Kelly hadn't returned to work that day? What if Liam had still been in the care of his grandparents? What if he had not been fussy and not been put to sleep on his stomach? What if he had not been in that daycare situation? What if they had checked on his 10 minutes earlier?" As parents, we bear the burden of living with every decision that affects our children's lives. We want so much to do right by them, and not unknowingly put them in harms way. If only we could take back the moment.
Now it feels as though we are frozen in time; we can't move forward because the past is so repulsive. We want to relive it the proper way, have the day that should have been. Kelly would drop off her precious bundle, work the day, and then return to her content and happy baby to take him home to the rest of the family. Liam was supposed to be safe and sound in that setting. How can he possibly be d-e-a-d?? We cannot move forward without it feeling as though it is disrespectful to Liam. How can we all possibly go on living where we left off? How can we simply return to our job responsibilities, and school work, and social promises? Do we pretend that his short chapter of a life was just that? Something that was part of the story, but now through it, seemingly forgotten for all the rest of the book that is to come? What can possibly come next and feel okay? He wasn't even my baby to hold, and yet, I am devastated by the loss and in need of more answers.
We implored God for a miracle. Why was God's answer, "No" when we all so desperately needed it to be "Yes"? "Yes, baby Liam is going to be okay. Yes, he will live to see the fall and experience his first Halloween costume. He will cut teeth and he will crawl. He will see his first Thanksgiving maybe even eat some turkey and mashed potatoes. He will drool and giggle and pull himself up. And he will have Christmas and gifts and joy. He will see the lights and experience the love the season has to offer. Yes, he will learn how to walk and talk and be a little boy. " My heart aches to think how little he knew of this world. He was born in Spring, thrived in the summer and then died just before the fall. Why do things in autumn die so quickly? He will never know all four seasons. He will never know so many things. How can this be real? If I am this empty with no words to even describe the loss I feel, his family's grief is unfathomable. I want to scream and be angry and distraught, but I try to be calm and look for peace and gratitude anywhere I can find it. There is no understanding or accepting yet. Perhaps the only thing that brings me comfort is what my 5 year old stated so matter of factly.
"Mom, maybe God just thought it was time for baby Liam to go to Heaven."
Maybe, and I guess we will not know any of the answers that evade us until we get there, too. Heaven is going to be an amazing place. Our hope is in that. Little baby Liam's life and death puts things into perspective fast. Live every day. Love every minute. Cherish those you love.
"You give and take away,
You give and take away,
My heart will choose to say,
Blessed be the name of the Lord."
Monday, August 28, 2006
Sunday Tri, Monday Sick
That's it. Yesterday I was spinning in my garage at 4 am for an hour and then ran 12 miles, followed by a little dip in the ocean at Fletcher Cove. Today, I am laid out with the flu of sorts. I felt a little tired yesterday, but not terrible. We even went to watch our neighbor play polo at the polo fields. The horses are so graceful and beautiful. Really, it is an amazingly aggressive but graceful sport. There certainly was a lot of testosterone on that field.
Today was not as enjoyable since I feel like I have been hit by a bus. I am hoping I get over this flu fast because I cannot stand a day off.My 3 year old has it, too, and it is ugly around these parts.
Today was not as enjoyable since I feel like I have been hit by a bus. I am hoping I get over this flu fast because I cannot stand a day off.My 3 year old has it, too, and it is ugly around these parts.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Brick Friday
"Brick workout". Don't you all just love that term? It sounds so intense and meaningful. I think that is what I did today. Up just before 4:00 am and hit the gym...legs and some uppers...my tukis is killing me right now. Off to met the run group at 5:30 for a 3 mile warm up before the turbo spin from 6-7 and then ran again, 3 more miles to finish by 7:20 ish.
Marc was off work today to get ready and rest his legs before the 50K tomorrow in LA. I opted out of the race, knowing this weekend has to be about our 5 year old and prepping for the big first day of Kindergarten Monday. I know, too, that it is probably not my cup of tea...bush wacking trhough some overgrown trail doesn't really appeal to me as much as it did when I considered it 2 months ago. I am sad to send him off solo, however. He makes me so proud, bringing home the silver last night from the Aquathlon at the beach, second only to pro Jim Vance. My man is one talented man in his sport. I love watching him race like he means it. I knew he was sad Jim showed up, but Marc never gives up. Gotta love that in an athlete.
Finished the day tonight with a little (very little) Cove swim and then another 3 mile run. The water was as clear and as beautiful as it gets and teaming with sea creatures. There were about a million divers out there tonight inspecting all the species. I always feel better when there are lots of bodies around. Someone said he saw a big thresher shark, supposedly more aggressive than the leopards that are always around. Personallly, I am not excited to see anything in the shark family. I try to just put my head down and swim, but when it is crystal clear, it is difficult not to see what is lurking below.
I am exhausted thinking of those boys driving up to Malibu for the night. Cannot wait to fall into bed and sleep like I mean it. Hoping the kids stay quiet so that dream can be a reality tonight.
Marc was off work today to get ready and rest his legs before the 50K tomorrow in LA. I opted out of the race, knowing this weekend has to be about our 5 year old and prepping for the big first day of Kindergarten Monday. I know, too, that it is probably not my cup of tea...bush wacking trhough some overgrown trail doesn't really appeal to me as much as it did when I considered it 2 months ago. I am sad to send him off solo, however. He makes me so proud, bringing home the silver last night from the Aquathlon at the beach, second only to pro Jim Vance. My man is one talented man in his sport. I love watching him race like he means it. I knew he was sad Jim showed up, but Marc never gives up. Gotta love that in an athlete.
Finished the day tonight with a little (very little) Cove swim and then another 3 mile run. The water was as clear and as beautiful as it gets and teaming with sea creatures. There were about a million divers out there tonight inspecting all the species. I always feel better when there are lots of bodies around. Someone said he saw a big thresher shark, supposedly more aggressive than the leopards that are always around. Personallly, I am not excited to see anything in the shark family. I try to just put my head down and swim, but when it is crystal clear, it is difficult not to see what is lurking below.
I am exhausted thinking of those boys driving up to Malibu for the night. Cannot wait to fall into bed and sleep like I mean it. Hoping the kids stay quiet so that dream can be a reality tonight.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Athlete: 0, Mom: 1
This is my scorecard for the day. As an athlete, I am tired. I lifted bis and tris and then I ran an easy 5 ish miles at the track workout. My arch is a little achey in my left foot. I got on the trainer tonight, too, upon my hub's encouragement, for about 40 minutes. It wasn't as dreadful as I thought it was going to be.
So, my workouts felt flat and menial, but as a mom, I felt high. My baby, my three-year-old baby boy was a joy to watch. My clumbsy, 2 left footed little guy must have grown overnight developmentally. We were at the park with other kids and he wanted to ride his scooter there. Picture a rickety little red scooter with three wheels. His older sister was tearing around on her razor like a pro. The boy desperately wanted to keep up with her. A few leg strokes and he gave up on the incline to the park. But once we got there, with a little coaxing, he rode it around the basketball courts. He actually looked coordinated for the first time in his short life, though his huge black skater helmet whispered otherwise. He looked so top heavy with that thing on his mellon. But, he wasn't tripping over his feet or falling down. He was riding the scooter and he had the right rhythm even. He ventured up a little incline on the bike path from the hoops and when he realized he was on his way back down the other side, it was too late to stop with the momentum behind him. His little blue eyes were as big as baseballs when he felt the wind in his face. My knee jerk reaction was to run over and rescue him, but I saw the short incline was leveling off just 3 feet in front of him, so I let him go. Amazingly, he totally pulled it off and the look of accomplishment on his face was beyond words. He totally made it and he knew it.
"Wet's do that again, mommy!" Up he went on the loop again, 3 more times and each time he was a little gutsier. He found a little glipse of not just what it means to be brave, but to push himself out of his comfort zone, something he never does. He was so proud and I learned that I need to let him go a little more often. I need to let go a little more often. I still want to push him around in the stroller and cuddle him and caudle him. Really, he wants to ride with the big kids and he showed me just how today.
So, my workouts felt flat and menial, but as a mom, I felt high. My baby, my three-year-old baby boy was a joy to watch. My clumbsy, 2 left footed little guy must have grown overnight developmentally. We were at the park with other kids and he wanted to ride his scooter there. Picture a rickety little red scooter with three wheels. His older sister was tearing around on her razor like a pro. The boy desperately wanted to keep up with her. A few leg strokes and he gave up on the incline to the park. But once we got there, with a little coaxing, he rode it around the basketball courts. He actually looked coordinated for the first time in his short life, though his huge black skater helmet whispered otherwise. He looked so top heavy with that thing on his mellon. But, he wasn't tripping over his feet or falling down. He was riding the scooter and he had the right rhythm even. He ventured up a little incline on the bike path from the hoops and when he realized he was on his way back down the other side, it was too late to stop with the momentum behind him. His little blue eyes were as big as baseballs when he felt the wind in his face. My knee jerk reaction was to run over and rescue him, but I saw the short incline was leveling off just 3 feet in front of him, so I let him go. Amazingly, he totally pulled it off and the look of accomplishment on his face was beyond words. He totally made it and he knew it.
"Wet's do that again, mommy!" Up he went on the loop again, 3 more times and each time he was a little gutsier. He found a little glipse of not just what it means to be brave, but to push himself out of his comfort zone, something he never does. He was so proud and I learned that I need to let him go a little more often. I need to let go a little more often. I still want to push him around in the stroller and cuddle him and caudle him. Really, he wants to ride with the big kids and he showed me just how today.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Malibu, the Beautiful versus America's Finest City
So, last weekend we were in Malibu. The kids were running through my family's vineyard and riding scooters in the circular drive. We threw the football until after dark and played ping pong in the front, as any good trailer trash Malibu family should. It was a fabulous time. I ache to be with them again.
I realized last weekend as I ran along Malibu Beach just how out of touch with reality these locals really are. I think it is kind of funny that my fam has all of these crazy comforts in their home. The huge house equipt with pool and spa, the rolling vineyard overlooking the pacific, the ocean views and Murphy beds all come with the territory, I suppose (though the elevator is a little over the top). I have always taken these things for granted growing up in the hood. Now being out of that element for 10 years and raising a family of my own, I see just how surreal that part of my life was. It was totally normal to babysit for people who had media rooms and bowling allies in their homes. It was a given that these people had huge sprawling properties with verandas and palapas galore. I knew no other way of life outside of indulging beside the pool and beach....enter my life presently.
Here I am, a decade later last weekend, running down Malibu Road reading the signs people hang on their beachfront homes. Signs that read: "Mermaid Crossing". It was 5:45 am and I witnessed what looked like a beautiful painting: one single fisherman standing out on the reef with his fishingpole and tack, enjoying the morning of solitude. Even if he caught nothing, he caught the beautiful sunrise and enjoyed the ocean air. The waves were calm and the sand was smooth, mine were the only footprints moving forward. The wind was quiet and so was my mood. My feet were gliding over the beach. It was almost emotional, really, when I think of it. We really are living in a dream, right? I consider the fact that I am existing on a serious budget in San Diego with a hardworking husband, trying to make the dream a reality. The dream is that of being able to own a home and still have food on the table, plus lead the kind of quality life we want to lead. All of these races are getting expensive!
Today was America's Finest City Half Marathon, and I had to consider the possibility that as much as I love and miss my home town, perhaps San Diego lives up to this claim of being the Finest. It sure felt that way, as we charged down from Cabrillo National Monument. Marc and I were fortunate enough to gain free entry into the race, courtsey of the Tri Club of San Diego. The day began with us boarding the Charter buses from Balboa Park, the race finish. We, unfortunately, got on the bus with the rockin' out driver from hell. I am pretty sure he was convinced he was in the race himself, driving that shuttle. He roared around the turns in Point Loma graded for 30 miles per hour at about 60. All the while, music blaring so loudly we could barely carry on conversation. We made it to the start with an hour to wait. Thankfully the weather was a pleasant 70 degrees and we chatted it up with fellow runners. The music was rolling at the start, Cool and the Gang, "Celebrate Good Times" . Tracy and I joined in. We didn't care that we looked ridiculous. I was still dying laughing about how she talked about passing the cornish game hen she ate for dinner the night before. We runners are disgusting, I know. A few minutes after 7:00 am and we were off.
My plan was to hold 7:30 pace, knowing the danger of going out too fast with the first 4 miles of the race all downhill. I always dread going down, both on bike and on foot, and today was no exception. Mile one was 7:14 pace, followed by another mile even faster, 7:11, then 7:15. I knew I had to back it off if I were to survive the killer uphill finish from mile 10 and on. Mile 4 came and I was sick of the downhill already. We hit the flats at mile 5 and I tried to get into some kind of normal pace. The flat felt akward and simply uncomfortable, really. We ran around Harbor Island, out a little loop. Just before mile 7, I decided to take a GU. Mile 8 came. I felt like I was shutting down. My legs were sore, my head was aching, I really was questioning my reason for wanting to do this race afterall. I thought of my friend, Jen, who I knew would be calling for the race report and I knew I had to do something about my negative attitude. That in conjunction with the GU, I was feeling more alive between mile 9 and 10. I was thinking that my sweet husband was already done and enjoying the fisnish. I was simply happy that I actually had turned the corner on that death feeling and I felt victorious as a result. I still cannot say I was in a rhythm, but I was beginning to pass people who had passed me at mile 8. Maybe it was the gradual uphill that began at mile 10, I was happy to be utilizing different muscles, at last. the race climbed and then at mile 12, it really began to climb into the park finish. I looked up to see a little bald headed baby in a baby carrier, strapped to the woman whose face I recognized as my friend Jen! She didn't call....she showed up at the race finish with her two beautiful boys! It was just the lift I needed to carry me up that long and dreadful last hill, though I was passing people left and right and it felt great. Up the hill, over the bridge and to the finish, I looked at my watch. It read 1:36 and change. I really wanted to be in the 1:37 range, but the finish line was just a little further than I anticipated. 1:38:24 was my finishing time, 7:30 pace exactly. I can live with that.
San Diego is, indeed, a fine city. On days like today, I am blessed and honored to live here and call it my residence. I still think of the Mermaid Sightings often, however. i long for the carefree and fleeting feeling life brings in LA. I think of that lonley fisherman I saw that early morning in Malibu, I think of the ocean up North and wonder if my kids will ever know that lack of reality. I am not even sure that is what I want for them, for my family. Maybe I just crave it myself from time to time.
I realized last weekend as I ran along Malibu Beach just how out of touch with reality these locals really are. I think it is kind of funny that my fam has all of these crazy comforts in their home. The huge house equipt with pool and spa, the rolling vineyard overlooking the pacific, the ocean views and Murphy beds all come with the territory, I suppose (though the elevator is a little over the top). I have always taken these things for granted growing up in the hood. Now being out of that element for 10 years and raising a family of my own, I see just how surreal that part of my life was. It was totally normal to babysit for people who had media rooms and bowling allies in their homes. It was a given that these people had huge sprawling properties with verandas and palapas galore. I knew no other way of life outside of indulging beside the pool and beach....enter my life presently.
Here I am, a decade later last weekend, running down Malibu Road reading the signs people hang on their beachfront homes. Signs that read: "Mermaid Crossing". It was 5:45 am and I witnessed what looked like a beautiful painting: one single fisherman standing out on the reef with his fishingpole and tack, enjoying the morning of solitude. Even if he caught nothing, he caught the beautiful sunrise and enjoyed the ocean air. The waves were calm and the sand was smooth, mine were the only footprints moving forward. The wind was quiet and so was my mood. My feet were gliding over the beach. It was almost emotional, really, when I think of it. We really are living in a dream, right? I consider the fact that I am existing on a serious budget in San Diego with a hardworking husband, trying to make the dream a reality. The dream is that of being able to own a home and still have food on the table, plus lead the kind of quality life we want to lead. All of these races are getting expensive!
Today was America's Finest City Half Marathon, and I had to consider the possibility that as much as I love and miss my home town, perhaps San Diego lives up to this claim of being the Finest. It sure felt that way, as we charged down from Cabrillo National Monument. Marc and I were fortunate enough to gain free entry into the race, courtsey of the Tri Club of San Diego. The day began with us boarding the Charter buses from Balboa Park, the race finish. We, unfortunately, got on the bus with the rockin' out driver from hell. I am pretty sure he was convinced he was in the race himself, driving that shuttle. He roared around the turns in Point Loma graded for 30 miles per hour at about 60. All the while, music blaring so loudly we could barely carry on conversation. We made it to the start with an hour to wait. Thankfully the weather was a pleasant 70 degrees and we chatted it up with fellow runners. The music was rolling at the start, Cool and the Gang, "Celebrate Good Times" . Tracy and I joined in. We didn't care that we looked ridiculous. I was still dying laughing about how she talked about passing the cornish game hen she ate for dinner the night before. We runners are disgusting, I know. A few minutes after 7:00 am and we were off.
My plan was to hold 7:30 pace, knowing the danger of going out too fast with the first 4 miles of the race all downhill. I always dread going down, both on bike and on foot, and today was no exception. Mile one was 7:14 pace, followed by another mile even faster, 7:11, then 7:15. I knew I had to back it off if I were to survive the killer uphill finish from mile 10 and on. Mile 4 came and I was sick of the downhill already. We hit the flats at mile 5 and I tried to get into some kind of normal pace. The flat felt akward and simply uncomfortable, really. We ran around Harbor Island, out a little loop. Just before mile 7, I decided to take a GU. Mile 8 came. I felt like I was shutting down. My legs were sore, my head was aching, I really was questioning my reason for wanting to do this race afterall. I thought of my friend, Jen, who I knew would be calling for the race report and I knew I had to do something about my negative attitude. That in conjunction with the GU, I was feeling more alive between mile 9 and 10. I was thinking that my sweet husband was already done and enjoying the fisnish. I was simply happy that I actually had turned the corner on that death feeling and I felt victorious as a result. I still cannot say I was in a rhythm, but I was beginning to pass people who had passed me at mile 8. Maybe it was the gradual uphill that began at mile 10, I was happy to be utilizing different muscles, at last. the race climbed and then at mile 12, it really began to climb into the park finish. I looked up to see a little bald headed baby in a baby carrier, strapped to the woman whose face I recognized as my friend Jen! She didn't call....she showed up at the race finish with her two beautiful boys! It was just the lift I needed to carry me up that long and dreadful last hill, though I was passing people left and right and it felt great. Up the hill, over the bridge and to the finish, I looked at my watch. It read 1:36 and change. I really wanted to be in the 1:37 range, but the finish line was just a little further than I anticipated. 1:38:24 was my finishing time, 7:30 pace exactly. I can live with that.
San Diego is, indeed, a fine city. On days like today, I am blessed and honored to live here and call it my residence. I still think of the Mermaid Sightings often, however. i long for the carefree and fleeting feeling life brings in LA. I think of that lonley fisherman I saw that early morning in Malibu, I think of the ocean up North and wonder if my kids will ever know that lack of reality. I am not even sure that is what I want for them, for my family. Maybe I just crave it myself from time to time.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Tuesday Track
16 x 90 seconds speed, 4 times through. This was the track workout today and it was painful. Jonathan and I decided we needed to clear at least a lap in those 90 seconds, so we basically ran quarters in around 87 seconds, or so. Not super fast, but my legs were tired. My body is tired. I dragged myself through all 16 of them and we congratulated ourselves for finishing. The rest of the group joined in on our second set, we had just started with the earliest group. It was good to be done when most everyone else had to finish the final set of four. By the end, I felt like vomiting within the first few steps of stopping. That is a good workout.
I made it to the turbo spin for a quicky on the bike before I had to get home so hubs could be off to waterpolo. It was a good little sweat. My bike is filthy from the rain. I often wonder if time were not the enemy, how much more could I accomplish in a day? Today seemed to run away from me at 9:00 pm. Tomorrow's 4 am wake up call will come much too soon, and I still have so much to do as I look around the house. I think I am getting in bed.
I made it to the turbo spin for a quicky on the bike before I had to get home so hubs could be off to waterpolo. It was a good little sweat. My bike is filthy from the rain. I often wonder if time were not the enemy, how much more could I accomplish in a day? Today seemed to run away from me at 9:00 pm. Tomorrow's 4 am wake up call will come much too soon, and I still have so much to do as I look around the house. I think I am getting in bed.
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