Or so it was named if you lived here in college, as opposed to "The Jewel", but I love Del Mar. It is magical and majestic, serene and quaint. I love running the cliffs along the railroad tracks and breathing in the Pacific gray air. Our friend Barry in FL refers to me as a "Pacific Dweller" and I think he nailed it- of the Atlantic, I am not.
Owen continues her Junior Guards every day on the beach and life is good, drinking Starbucks and taking in the many tourists from Arizona while killing time at the park. I am nothing short of exhausted, still living as a single mommy and running from one end of San Diego to the other for parks, play dates, swim team, and guards, lunch and dinner dates, birthday parties and everything in between...I fall into bed exhausted but elated.
70 degrees and no bugs. Did I mention life is good? I love a storybook day- I hope tomorrow's chapter brings more joy and adventure. How can I take for granted even one day of pure goodness? I really try not to, knowing it is drawing to a rapid close. 4:15 am for some punishment from Susan tomorrow.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Weekend Warriors
Today was absolute bliss along the coast. We met at our old stomping grounds at one of many Starbucks in the hood. Jen and Susan carpooled and met Tracy and me at our starting point. None of us had done this particular 15 mile course north along the coast in ages.
We headed our in total darkness (for something new and different) and freezing air (this is still nothing short of amazing and miraculous to me) up the hill and into Del Mar, a magical place. What I thought might be an awkward and uncomfortable run, trying to settle into a pace with three other girls who had not been together in a year, turned into pure bliss. It was as if not a day had passed between us, loping along the highway, waiting for the sun to come up. I am never sure how pace and conversation will sort themselves out after time away from each other, but somehow we managed to roll right into a beautiful run.
We weaved in and out of my favorite streets of Del Mar, hardly aware of the million dollar homes around us, almost taking for granted again the hills above and cliffs below. The sound of the waves under us whispered their peaceful presence against the cliff side and sky was pitch black, though dotted with stars.
We headed toward the scene of the terrible cartilaginous crime, the sea monster who attacked the unsuspecting triathlete last year. I still shudder every time I pass that surf spot and wonder how his family is coping now, how they might continue to love the ocean that took their beloved. If I think about it too long or too much in depth, I think I may never swim in that sea again. So I push down the negative thoughts and try to calm my frayed nerves, reminding myself we are on land at the moment, in awe of the endless blue of unknowns.
After passing Blood Alley (named for the bikers and runners who have been hit by cars with careless drivers checking the surf), we stopped for a quick squat break and dodged one sleeping homeless man. I told Tracy she could just as easily squat behind a No Parking sign and still be hidden, her slight frame all of maybe 86 pounds. She was not amused and quite annoyed that the bathrooms were still not open yet for business as usual. This coast or that, runners are still the same, ducking in bushes and jumping behind trees to tend to nature that calls at the most inopportune times.
We turned around and traced our footing back, though failing to account for the added steps in looking for an open restroom, and falling just short of 15 once in the Starbucks parking lot. Susan made us run laps around the parking lot until her Garmin read the official number ("Are you for real?") and the onlookers inside were amused by this senseless act. I am glad we did, however, because in killing that time (and our feet), we bought the necessary minutes to catch Sue, Kathleen, and Jan who were rolling in from the other direction from their early morning run, and jumping in cars to get to the swim workout. I was elated to see them and catch up for a few minutes, as well, until I felt faint as though I might fall over. I think it had something to do with the torrid pace Susan set for us coming home (even Jen gave up on that), and upon abruptly stopping, my mind had not yet caught up with the program. I think my brain was still in fast jiggle mode- nothing a latte couldn't fix, however.
How happy I am to know a group of strong and self-assured women, who each bring something unique to the run and the conversation. Why was I worried? Why did I think we would somehow not connect again? How could all of the miles and roads and races shared between us not forever connect us? Why would I even doubt that bond? Maybe because time does change people and circumstances- I am a different person than I was two years ago, with different expectations and different dreams. But under all of the layers, I am still a runner to the core, and so are my girls.
We headed our in total darkness (for something new and different) and freezing air (this is still nothing short of amazing and miraculous to me) up the hill and into Del Mar, a magical place. What I thought might be an awkward and uncomfortable run, trying to settle into a pace with three other girls who had not been together in a year, turned into pure bliss. It was as if not a day had passed between us, loping along the highway, waiting for the sun to come up. I am never sure how pace and conversation will sort themselves out after time away from each other, but somehow we managed to roll right into a beautiful run.
We weaved in and out of my favorite streets of Del Mar, hardly aware of the million dollar homes around us, almost taking for granted again the hills above and cliffs below. The sound of the waves under us whispered their peaceful presence against the cliff side and sky was pitch black, though dotted with stars.
We headed toward the scene of the terrible cartilaginous crime, the sea monster who attacked the unsuspecting triathlete last year. I still shudder every time I pass that surf spot and wonder how his family is coping now, how they might continue to love the ocean that took their beloved. If I think about it too long or too much in depth, I think I may never swim in that sea again. So I push down the negative thoughts and try to calm my frayed nerves, reminding myself we are on land at the moment, in awe of the endless blue of unknowns.
After passing Blood Alley (named for the bikers and runners who have been hit by cars with careless drivers checking the surf), we stopped for a quick squat break and dodged one sleeping homeless man. I told Tracy she could just as easily squat behind a No Parking sign and still be hidden, her slight frame all of maybe 86 pounds. She was not amused and quite annoyed that the bathrooms were still not open yet for business as usual. This coast or that, runners are still the same, ducking in bushes and jumping behind trees to tend to nature that calls at the most inopportune times.
We turned around and traced our footing back, though failing to account for the added steps in looking for an open restroom, and falling just short of 15 once in the Starbucks parking lot. Susan made us run laps around the parking lot until her Garmin read the official number ("Are you for real?") and the onlookers inside were amused by this senseless act. I am glad we did, however, because in killing that time (and our feet), we bought the necessary minutes to catch Sue, Kathleen, and Jan who were rolling in from the other direction from their early morning run, and jumping in cars to get to the swim workout. I was elated to see them and catch up for a few minutes, as well, until I felt faint as though I might fall over. I think it had something to do with the torrid pace Susan set for us coming home (even Jen gave up on that), and upon abruptly stopping, my mind had not yet caught up with the program. I think my brain was still in fast jiggle mode- nothing a latte couldn't fix, however.
How happy I am to know a group of strong and self-assured women, who each bring something unique to the run and the conversation. Why was I worried? Why did I think we would somehow not connect again? How could all of the miles and roads and races shared between us not forever connect us? Why would I even doubt that bond? Maybe because time does change people and circumstances- I am a different person than I was two years ago, with different expectations and different dreams. But under all of the layers, I am still a runner to the core, and so are my girls.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Friday Eve
Running the Lake with Jen was great. Uncle John even came out for the occasion and ran with us, or, in front of us. I must admit, I am impressed with my brother-in-law's running stamina right now. We were running around 7:40 pace for the five mile loop and he was a few yards ahead of us. It was nice having a big guy running out in front to take on any random wild animals and all the cobwebs, particularly after he told me a story about his friend's dog being attacked by a coyote right in front of them on a walk around a neighboring lake.
Counting the days until Marc gets here and we can relax together. Tomorrow is another busy day of dual play dates, a birthday party and dinner date. Ahhhh.
Counting the days until Marc gets here and we can relax together. Tomorrow is another busy day of dual play dates, a birthday party and dinner date. Ahhhh.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
California Therapy
I love this time of the night. The kids are snuggled down into their warm comforters and they are reading books or watching sweet videos. They are exhausted from an invariably crazy day of running from this play date to that park, to another commitment and then the pool. I look forward to bed all day after freezing in the June Gloom, clipping around in flip flops with toes frozen. I love it. I think the high today was 64 at one point, but most of the day along the coast where we spent was in the fifties. I love it. I love being bundled in cozy sweat pants and zipping up in a favorite hoodie after a well-deserved hot shower. All is peaceful and delicious.
Tracy came over at 4:30 this morning and we ran our favorite Tour De Poway loop: ten miles of lovely rolling hills with some serious steep climbs in there, as well. Kimmie would die, if only she could see the mountains now. My quads were burning and my calves hated me, but I refused to ask Trace to back off the pace. I refused to give into the hills that have become unfamiliar strangers to me because that would be admitting weakness and slacking off. I had to ask Tracy all the questions near the end of our time together so that she would talk more and I could dedicate all of my concentration toward breathing. It's a beautiful life.
Running with girlfriends is always therapeutic, but something about running here with girlfriends is pure Prozac. They are like a shot of adrenaline to me, fueling the rush and leaving me wanting ever more (I had to corner Jen at the park today and line up the Lake Miramar run for tomorrow). I think Tracy and I solved most of our childhood issues, marital woes, and even touched on world peace- all in an hour and ten minutes this morning. Not bad considering the sun was just up and we had not had but even one cup of Joe yet. Tracy and I share a love for a great many things, but we venerate our main man, Joe, above all else. We love Joe. I am already dreaming about him on my lips tomorrow after the lake run. I love it.
Now off to snuggle my kids and read to them. I l-o-v-e it.
Tracy came over at 4:30 this morning and we ran our favorite Tour De Poway loop: ten miles of lovely rolling hills with some serious steep climbs in there, as well. Kimmie would die, if only she could see the mountains now. My quads were burning and my calves hated me, but I refused to ask Trace to back off the pace. I refused to give into the hills that have become unfamiliar strangers to me because that would be admitting weakness and slacking off. I had to ask Tracy all the questions near the end of our time together so that she would talk more and I could dedicate all of my concentration toward breathing. It's a beautiful life.
Running with girlfriends is always therapeutic, but something about running here with girlfriends is pure Prozac. They are like a shot of adrenaline to me, fueling the rush and leaving me wanting ever more (I had to corner Jen at the park today and line up the Lake Miramar run for tomorrow). I think Tracy and I solved most of our childhood issues, marital woes, and even touched on world peace- all in an hour and ten minutes this morning. Not bad considering the sun was just up and we had not had but even one cup of Joe yet. Tracy and I share a love for a great many things, but we venerate our main man, Joe, above all else. We love Joe. I am already dreaming about him on my lips tomorrow after the lake run. I love it.
Now off to snuggle my kids and read to them. I l-o-v-e it.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Jailed
As I sit and listen to the happy squeals from my kids in the backyard, loving their game of "Jail" with Gramps, I wonder how it has come to this. How am I sitting on a fluffy bed with my beloved husband on the other side of the country? How did we come to agree what is best for our family is to be separated two months out of a year? While I admit being back in my home state rejuvenates me like nothing else, I have to reflect on the obvious: is this the best choice for all involved? In so many ways, I still feel stuck- a prisoner in my own life.
Certainly Marc is alone and, well, lonely in the 4,000 square feet around him back in the inferno. The kids and I are cozy and loving our accommodations here where someone cooks and cleans and caters to our needs. Is this a fair shake? Of course I can justify anything when I think of the "sacrifice" of living ten months over there. Admittedly, Florida feels less and less of an out-of-body experience and more of a deliberate act of endurance. But I never like anything that was not my choice by design and I never like to be told no, therefore, how could I possibly have liked our move from the start?
I ran with the old group here on Sunday. We traced the hills of San Dieguito with our feet, up and down the rolling hills along the golf course. I am pleased to report that I was freezing in 54 degree temps. Some people simply never change, and I think I prefer that to those who have left their spouses and moved on from their jobs. I guess I really don't like change, and yet, with only one life to live, how can we possibly remain stagnant and do the same thing forever? Do I really want to move back to CA so desperately? Not so much when I go out with a realtor and look at houses-it is difficult to assign a value to four walls of grotesque old architecture. How can people really ask for -and get- the numbers they are for what is included? The price of living in Paradise has really not dropped that much. Of course, when I watch my son swim here under the watchful eye of his dad's old swim mates, I think I would do whatever it takes to get back home again. My heart could burst with pride, I am so happy to watch them coach my kids- the cycle starts over again. Just like the kids I used to babysit are now watching my own kids-where did the time really go?
The time I am most homesick is around Halloween when I long for the air that has turned cool and school is back in full swing and fall is all around. Then I am homesick at Christmastime when I long for the mountains and hot chocolate of Julian and caroling with neighbors. Then sometimes I am homesick when I think of all the variety there is here with regard to EVERYTHING (running routes, gyms, swim team, restaurants, parks and recreation) and I feel as though we have nothing on the other coast. But do I really want to move home, the paragon for the good life? Does it have to be here?
Sometimes I think no. I think what purpose would it serve us to run home? We have moved on and settled in and recreated a life that is ours. We have made great friends, and found a new routine and locked the kids into sports and classes and buddies. We can't simply fall back into what used to be our lives. I grieved that loss a long, long, long, long time, but now I think I am looking to what comes next. With only one life to live, why not live as much and as many places as possible? Why not dream the dream of the acreage in Oregon with an apple orchard and horses for the kids? Why not consider the possibility of doing something totally different and off the wall- unexpected. I am a California girl to the core. Every fiber in me lives and breathes the Pacific, but somewhere in there discontent has gotten hold of my heart and it is struggling to make a name for itself. Discontent wants to evolve into Great Expectations and make something bigger happen.
I am applying for Grad school finally. It has taken me this long, but here I stand at the crossroads. Our kids are getting older and more independent, some days so much so that it breaks my heart. At her last swim meet, Owen asked me why I was sad.
"Mom, are you sad because I am getting bigger all the time?"
"No, lovely, I am sad because you have almost closed in on my swim interval."
Their shrieking continues outside. Poor Gramps- chasing them and dragging them back to "Jail", the relentless "Judge". My kids never tire of this game, running back and forth under the eves of the house, their little bare feet slapping along the bricks where the birds have scattered their mess of seed from the feeders above. All the while, the dogs chasing the kids, never ceasing to be just at their heels-they seem to wear smiles, too. Then they all come inside and the Goldens collapse under the table, where the little people drop crumbs of after dinner delights. These are the memories my kids will grow up with, as mere visitors to California, not the residents I always wanted- assumed- they would be. Just as I was a traveler to New York and Michigan when I visited my grandparents every summer, my own kids will be transversing the States to see family each year. I am not sure how that makes me feel anymore. A prisoner to another state? A slave to our current economy, locked into a promising job that feeds our family?
Jailbreak. My time is up.
Certainly Marc is alone and, well, lonely in the 4,000 square feet around him back in the inferno. The kids and I are cozy and loving our accommodations here where someone cooks and cleans and caters to our needs. Is this a fair shake? Of course I can justify anything when I think of the "sacrifice" of living ten months over there. Admittedly, Florida feels less and less of an out-of-body experience and more of a deliberate act of endurance. But I never like anything that was not my choice by design and I never like to be told no, therefore, how could I possibly have liked our move from the start?
I ran with the old group here on Sunday. We traced the hills of San Dieguito with our feet, up and down the rolling hills along the golf course. I am pleased to report that I was freezing in 54 degree temps. Some people simply never change, and I think I prefer that to those who have left their spouses and moved on from their jobs. I guess I really don't like change, and yet, with only one life to live, how can we possibly remain stagnant and do the same thing forever? Do I really want to move back to CA so desperately? Not so much when I go out with a realtor and look at houses-it is difficult to assign a value to four walls of grotesque old architecture. How can people really ask for -and get- the numbers they are for what is included? The price of living in Paradise has really not dropped that much. Of course, when I watch my son swim here under the watchful eye of his dad's old swim mates, I think I would do whatever it takes to get back home again. My heart could burst with pride, I am so happy to watch them coach my kids- the cycle starts over again. Just like the kids I used to babysit are now watching my own kids-where did the time really go?
The time I am most homesick is around Halloween when I long for the air that has turned cool and school is back in full swing and fall is all around. Then I am homesick at Christmastime when I long for the mountains and hot chocolate of Julian and caroling with neighbors. Then sometimes I am homesick when I think of all the variety there is here with regard to EVERYTHING (running routes, gyms, swim team, restaurants, parks and recreation) and I feel as though we have nothing on the other coast. But do I really want to move home, the paragon for the good life? Does it have to be here?
Sometimes I think no. I think what purpose would it serve us to run home? We have moved on and settled in and recreated a life that is ours. We have made great friends, and found a new routine and locked the kids into sports and classes and buddies. We can't simply fall back into what used to be our lives. I grieved that loss a long, long, long, long time, but now I think I am looking to what comes next. With only one life to live, why not live as much and as many places as possible? Why not dream the dream of the acreage in Oregon with an apple orchard and horses for the kids? Why not consider the possibility of doing something totally different and off the wall- unexpected. I am a California girl to the core. Every fiber in me lives and breathes the Pacific, but somewhere in there discontent has gotten hold of my heart and it is struggling to make a name for itself. Discontent wants to evolve into Great Expectations and make something bigger happen.
I am applying for Grad school finally. It has taken me this long, but here I stand at the crossroads. Our kids are getting older and more independent, some days so much so that it breaks my heart. At her last swim meet, Owen asked me why I was sad.
"Mom, are you sad because I am getting bigger all the time?"
"No, lovely, I am sad because you have almost closed in on my swim interval."
Their shrieking continues outside. Poor Gramps- chasing them and dragging them back to "Jail", the relentless "Judge". My kids never tire of this game, running back and forth under the eves of the house, their little bare feet slapping along the bricks where the birds have scattered their mess of seed from the feeders above. All the while, the dogs chasing the kids, never ceasing to be just at their heels-they seem to wear smiles, too. Then they all come inside and the Goldens collapse under the table, where the little people drop crumbs of after dinner delights. These are the memories my kids will grow up with, as mere visitors to California, not the residents I always wanted- assumed- they would be. Just as I was a traveler to New York and Michigan when I visited my grandparents every summer, my own kids will be transversing the States to see family each year. I am not sure how that makes me feel anymore. A prisoner to another state? A slave to our current economy, locked into a promising job that feeds our family?
Jailbreak. My time is up.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Run, Not Race
Today was time to pay the Piper after all the long miles on the pavement in the small town we call home. But, before I get to that, let me get back to my blond roots here in Cali and share a story about a lapse in brain power.
We arrived in Los Angeles Thursday morning, ahead of schedule and with a fabulous pilot who landed our 747 on a dime. We got our rental car and sailed down to San Diego with no traffic and empty stomachs, but we pushed the pace to get South before we decided to stop for food. After lunching at Kai's on the beach in Cardiff By the Sea, it was on to the in-laws for what Abbe is now calling the "Spa Accommodations". I cannot remember being so happy and in love with life in recent memory. The houses on the hillside were glorious in the afternoon sunlight as we reached Poway.
Abbe and I decided to run Friday morning and take Saturday off before the marathon. We agreed on a 5:30 am start time so we might sleep in a little and stock up on rest before D Day. It is funny, because I really have had zero stress or preparation for the race. Of course, I ran long training runs, but I have not had the usual butterflies or apprehension that usually precedes a long race. I hadn't thought about outfit or replacing my well-worn soles, or planned the pre-race dinner. Regardless, for the last junk mile training run, I set the alarm Thursday night for 5:25 (to squeak in every last minute of sleep before heading out the door) and fell into bed after a long day of travel. I must have been exhausted, because it felt like I had just put my head on the pillow when the alarm jolted me out of bed. Ugg. I was tired.
I crept down the dark hallway on cold tile to get Abbe out of the bedroom she was sharing with Kimmie and coaxed her out of the billowing covers. The house was cold. We are having unusually cold weather right now with May gray not even burning off by its usual midday disappearance. Abbe reluctantly dragged herself out of the room and echoed my sentiment of being exhausted. After dressing in shorts and long sleeves, we walked up the first mountain and then slowly began a jog down the decent. We were freezing in the damp morning and agreed on about three miles, just to turn the wheels and loosen up after being on a plane and in a car for the day prior. The air smelled sweet of jasmine all around and in the darkness, the sycamore trees looked foreboding and eerie- something right off the pages of a storybook. The streets were soaked with the marine layer that hung heavy in the air, a chilly 57 degrees. Though tired and cold, I felt so alive and thrilled to be sharing my California joy with a Florida friend. I was home again.
The streets were so slick, we slid right along, up another long climb toward the high school on top of the ridge ahead. After cresting that hill and following the rolling hills to level ground, we decided we had already exceeded our three mile easy run limit and decided to turn around.
"Why am I so tired?" Abbe kept saying. I promised her it was a sign of a good taper, or so Marc has told me when I have complained of the same ailment in the past leading into a marathon. It sounded good at the time, anyway. As we headed back up the hill toward Marc's old high school, the fog swooned in the light of the street lamps and the heavy mist seemed to dance around them, as well. I couldn't help but notice how very dark it still was and how few cars were on the road- we had seen two altogether. Wasn't this a work day? It was Friday, after all. No matter, and we continued down the hill.
Just then, head lights came from behind. The morning was black as night and I told Abbe I thought we might be better off jumping over the guard rail on the trail that paralleled the street since we were without reflectors or blinker lights. Despite the fact that it sounded great to get hit by a car and not have to race Sunday, I didn't want to be maimed for life. She obliged and we swung a tired leg over the cold metal and the other followed. The car that approached from behind came to a screeching halt. Were we going to be abducted out in the middle of horse country? It was a cop. A cop? What did he want with us?
The young cop, who was very easy on the eyes, asked if we were okay. Abbe wasted no time in telling him our life stories about training for the marathon, visiting from Florida, and hanging with Marc's family. His response was he thought we were teenagers coming in from a late night. "Oh, I love you! May I have your badge number?" Abbe said. He told us to be careful and wished us luck for the marathon. His partner was in the marked car behind him and over the PA the second cop said, "Have a nice days, girls."
"Wow! Your California Cops are so friendly and helpful!" Abbe remarked. We trudged up the last hill and then down a long stretch into the driveway. When we got into the light of the driveway, Ab looked at her watch and said, "Oh schmutz. My watch must have broke. It reads 3:40 in the morning." All at once my stomach hurt and I knew why those cops stopped us. As Abbe began to change her watch, I had to report the dreaded realization-it was 3:40 in the morning. No wonder the sun had not woken up yet. I set my alarm the night before, but forgot to adjust the real time to West Coast. We had left the house at 2:30 in the morning. Sometimes my brilliance astounds me.
We slinked into the kitchen and checked the time on the oven in the kitchen. Yep. 3:42. It was confirmed- I am a genius.
Fast forward to today, race day. I am thrilled there is no vomit to report. While a time of 3:52 is nothing to write home about, the fact that it was not preceded by any unwelcome bodily fluid is a victory for me. I had anxiety walking up to corral three this morning when I thought about how painful last year was. I could not put my mind around hurting like that again for the sake of some numbers on the clock. I did not want history to repeat itself, and so I truly gave myself permission to let go of any expectation of time. I have told myself this before, but then reneged on it in my mind. Today, when I saw the 3:40 pace group in front of me still at mile 9, I dropped back and let them go. I couldn't bear to even think about the possibility.
There was such joy and freedom in running in ignorant bliss. While I do admit to looking at my time at the half way point (1:50 high), I can honestly say I never did read a clock again until I saw the numbers at the finish. It is amazing when I run and don't try to race how much more fun it really is. I stopped and chatted with old friends at mile 17 and again at mile 19. The social became more important than the end product and it was as though I really were no longer captive to the idea of the "race". I was enamored with the beauty around me. I dare say there was a tear in my eye as I came down the backside of the 163 freeway and specifically turned around to drink in the sea of people chasing me down the hill. The mountains were *are* spectacular and to be running among them made me feel like a speck of dust in the universe. All of a sudden, I felt very small and grateful and I knew I had to acknowledge the marine layer and 59 degree temps as a gift. The whole day was nothing short of a gift- to be running on two legs, to celebrate life with friends, to have four hours to myself, alone in my head, to think about everything I have- these are all gifts.
The smells of the marathon were all around me- the sharp, gingery smell of some one's muscle relief ointment, the sticky orange Gu the man next to me was slurping down, the distasteful smell of the woman who chose not to wear deodorant this morning, the scent of someone else's shampoo now that her hair was damp with sweat.
Crossing the line was bitter sweet, knowing I had let go of working for a respectable time, but free from the bondage that comes with that effort. My feet hurt, my calves were sore from the hills, but I rejoiced to see our ride home, Tracy and her sweet husband who chauffeured us to the start, as usual. It made me realize just how fabulous it is to have friends on both coasts.
I could recount all the miles and emotions. I could try to articulate the beauty of the day. I could try to paint the cold, gray picture of happiness in the midst of 20,000 runners, but I won't. There are no words to describe the relief I feel now that the race is over and the contentedness I feel having completed it as a runner and not a racer. That was huge in and of itself.
We arrived in Los Angeles Thursday morning, ahead of schedule and with a fabulous pilot who landed our 747 on a dime. We got our rental car and sailed down to San Diego with no traffic and empty stomachs, but we pushed the pace to get South before we decided to stop for food. After lunching at Kai's on the beach in Cardiff By the Sea, it was on to the in-laws for what Abbe is now calling the "Spa Accommodations". I cannot remember being so happy and in love with life in recent memory. The houses on the hillside were glorious in the afternoon sunlight as we reached Poway.
Abbe and I decided to run Friday morning and take Saturday off before the marathon. We agreed on a 5:30 am start time so we might sleep in a little and stock up on rest before D Day. It is funny, because I really have had zero stress or preparation for the race. Of course, I ran long training runs, but I have not had the usual butterflies or apprehension that usually precedes a long race. I hadn't thought about outfit or replacing my well-worn soles, or planned the pre-race dinner. Regardless, for the last junk mile training run, I set the alarm Thursday night for 5:25 (to squeak in every last minute of sleep before heading out the door) and fell into bed after a long day of travel. I must have been exhausted, because it felt like I had just put my head on the pillow when the alarm jolted me out of bed. Ugg. I was tired.
I crept down the dark hallway on cold tile to get Abbe out of the bedroom she was sharing with Kimmie and coaxed her out of the billowing covers. The house was cold. We are having unusually cold weather right now with May gray not even burning off by its usual midday disappearance. Abbe reluctantly dragged herself out of the room and echoed my sentiment of being exhausted. After dressing in shorts and long sleeves, we walked up the first mountain and then slowly began a jog down the decent. We were freezing in the damp morning and agreed on about three miles, just to turn the wheels and loosen up after being on a plane and in a car for the day prior. The air smelled sweet of jasmine all around and in the darkness, the sycamore trees looked foreboding and eerie- something right off the pages of a storybook. The streets were soaked with the marine layer that hung heavy in the air, a chilly 57 degrees. Though tired and cold, I felt so alive and thrilled to be sharing my California joy with a Florida friend. I was home again.
The streets were so slick, we slid right along, up another long climb toward the high school on top of the ridge ahead. After cresting that hill and following the rolling hills to level ground, we decided we had already exceeded our three mile easy run limit and decided to turn around.
"Why am I so tired?" Abbe kept saying. I promised her it was a sign of a good taper, or so Marc has told me when I have complained of the same ailment in the past leading into a marathon. It sounded good at the time, anyway. As we headed back up the hill toward Marc's old high school, the fog swooned in the light of the street lamps and the heavy mist seemed to dance around them, as well. I couldn't help but notice how very dark it still was and how few cars were on the road- we had seen two altogether. Wasn't this a work day? It was Friday, after all. No matter, and we continued down the hill.
Just then, head lights came from behind. The morning was black as night and I told Abbe I thought we might be better off jumping over the guard rail on the trail that paralleled the street since we were without reflectors or blinker lights. Despite the fact that it sounded great to get hit by a car and not have to race Sunday, I didn't want to be maimed for life. She obliged and we swung a tired leg over the cold metal and the other followed. The car that approached from behind came to a screeching halt. Were we going to be abducted out in the middle of horse country? It was a cop. A cop? What did he want with us?
The young cop, who was very easy on the eyes, asked if we were okay. Abbe wasted no time in telling him our life stories about training for the marathon, visiting from Florida, and hanging with Marc's family. His response was he thought we were teenagers coming in from a late night. "Oh, I love you! May I have your badge number?" Abbe said. He told us to be careful and wished us luck for the marathon. His partner was in the marked car behind him and over the PA the second cop said, "Have a nice days, girls."
"Wow! Your California Cops are so friendly and helpful!" Abbe remarked. We trudged up the last hill and then down a long stretch into the driveway. When we got into the light of the driveway, Ab looked at her watch and said, "Oh schmutz. My watch must have broke. It reads 3:40 in the morning." All at once my stomach hurt and I knew why those cops stopped us. As Abbe began to change her watch, I had to report the dreaded realization-it was 3:40 in the morning. No wonder the sun had not woken up yet. I set my alarm the night before, but forgot to adjust the real time to West Coast. We had left the house at 2:30 in the morning. Sometimes my brilliance astounds me.
We slinked into the kitchen and checked the time on the oven in the kitchen. Yep. 3:42. It was confirmed- I am a genius.
Fast forward to today, race day. I am thrilled there is no vomit to report. While a time of 3:52 is nothing to write home about, the fact that it was not preceded by any unwelcome bodily fluid is a victory for me. I had anxiety walking up to corral three this morning when I thought about how painful last year was. I could not put my mind around hurting like that again for the sake of some numbers on the clock. I did not want history to repeat itself, and so I truly gave myself permission to let go of any expectation of time. I have told myself this before, but then reneged on it in my mind. Today, when I saw the 3:40 pace group in front of me still at mile 9, I dropped back and let them go. I couldn't bear to even think about the possibility.
There was such joy and freedom in running in ignorant bliss. While I do admit to looking at my time at the half way point (1:50 high), I can honestly say I never did read a clock again until I saw the numbers at the finish. It is amazing when I run and don't try to race how much more fun it really is. I stopped and chatted with old friends at mile 17 and again at mile 19. The social became more important than the end product and it was as though I really were no longer captive to the idea of the "race". I was enamored with the beauty around me. I dare say there was a tear in my eye as I came down the backside of the 163 freeway and specifically turned around to drink in the sea of people chasing me down the hill. The mountains were *are* spectacular and to be running among them made me feel like a speck of dust in the universe. All of a sudden, I felt very small and grateful and I knew I had to acknowledge the marine layer and 59 degree temps as a gift. The whole day was nothing short of a gift- to be running on two legs, to celebrate life with friends, to have four hours to myself, alone in my head, to think about everything I have- these are all gifts.
The smells of the marathon were all around me- the sharp, gingery smell of some one's muscle relief ointment, the sticky orange Gu the man next to me was slurping down, the distasteful smell of the woman who chose not to wear deodorant this morning, the scent of someone else's shampoo now that her hair was damp with sweat.
Crossing the line was bitter sweet, knowing I had let go of working for a respectable time, but free from the bondage that comes with that effort. My feet hurt, my calves were sore from the hills, but I rejoiced to see our ride home, Tracy and her sweet husband who chauffeured us to the start, as usual. It made me realize just how fabulous it is to have friends on both coasts.
I could recount all the miles and emotions. I could try to articulate the beauty of the day. I could try to paint the cold, gray picture of happiness in the midst of 20,000 runners, but I won't. There are no words to describe the relief I feel now that the race is over and the contentedness I feel having completed it as a runner and not a racer. That was huge in and of itself.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Inspired
I refuse to believe there is a marathon in my near future. My head is so not there and I could care less about the finish. Is that wrong? I am waiting with great anticipation to see friends at home, who are now calling me daily asking for the count-down to our arrival (18 days, thank you very much). Summer is here and I can almost taste the salty Pacific air. I cannot wait to dive into the blue waters of my childhood and lay on West Coast sand again. I can't wait to drive along Pacific Coast Highway and run the hills of Torrey Pines. The mountains are calling my name more than anything else from home. I might even be down for a little earthquake action, just for old times sake.
As for training, it is what it is. I love to run and could do so for miles at a time-21 miles yesterday and then ten more today on tired legs. I love running with the boys-no b.s. and all work horse. Craig raised the question today about what kind of time I am looking for in San Diego and I told him I honestly could not care less under current circumstances. Somehow I rarely have successful races anymore, so I think I will have no expectations for May 31st. Speed begets speed, and I have not been consistently running track. I long for a big group of early morning runners again to tear around a track with. I miss the chest-burning pace my peeps used to push me to in days of old. Without speed, how can I possibly expect to have a strong marathon? I have made peace with it.
Maybe it is lack of motivation, or maybe it is increase in maturity, but I care so little about what the clock reads. It is kind of empowering that a clock doesn't define me anymore (neither does my weight, or the shoes I wear, or whatever). I want to enjoy running for the pure and simple sport it is meant to be. I love my training partners and we have such a great time together in the wee hours of the morning. I love that we text and email each other incessantly throughout the day because I cannot live without that contact with my athletic friends. I love being a mom, I love being a wife, I love being a friend, I love being a runner-these words define me. Maybe a marathoner I am not? I am not inspired to run a "fast" marathon, but I am inspired to do great things otherwise.
I have a new plan as to how I am going to attain great things. Wait for it. I want to inspire other people, too.
As for training, it is what it is. I love to run and could do so for miles at a time-21 miles yesterday and then ten more today on tired legs. I love running with the boys-no b.s. and all work horse. Craig raised the question today about what kind of time I am looking for in San Diego and I told him I honestly could not care less under current circumstances. Somehow I rarely have successful races anymore, so I think I will have no expectations for May 31st. Speed begets speed, and I have not been consistently running track. I long for a big group of early morning runners again to tear around a track with. I miss the chest-burning pace my peeps used to push me to in days of old. Without speed, how can I possibly expect to have a strong marathon? I have made peace with it.
Maybe it is lack of motivation, or maybe it is increase in maturity, but I care so little about what the clock reads. It is kind of empowering that a clock doesn't define me anymore (neither does my weight, or the shoes I wear, or whatever). I want to enjoy running for the pure and simple sport it is meant to be. I love my training partners and we have such a great time together in the wee hours of the morning. I love that we text and email each other incessantly throughout the day because I cannot live without that contact with my athletic friends. I love being a mom, I love being a wife, I love being a friend, I love being a runner-these words define me. Maybe a marathoner I am not? I am not inspired to run a "fast" marathon, but I am inspired to do great things otherwise.
I have a new plan as to how I am going to attain great things. Wait for it. I want to inspire other people, too.
Friday, April 03, 2009
God Sends the Wind
On warm autumn days
When the air smells sweet
The days are short and amber
And rain falls in sheets.
His breath bends the forest
And moves the ocean with ease.
God sends the wind
And scatters the leaves.
Though hard to run in
And worse on bike
His wind still whispers all
Things that I like.
The wind communicates,
Reminds and cajoles.
The wind hushes and calms,
And then it consoles.
It stirs in me memories,
It shakes up dreams, sorrows-
Brings back my childhood
And speaks of tomorrow.
His breath is soft
But sometimes is violent.
The wind can be peaceful
And then comes the silence.
And in that quiet
I often will hear
Songs of what is to come-
God is near.
When the air smells sweet
The days are short and amber
And rain falls in sheets.
His breath bends the forest
And moves the ocean with ease.
God sends the wind
And scatters the leaves.
Though hard to run in
And worse on bike
His wind still whispers all
Things that I like.
The wind communicates,
Reminds and cajoles.
The wind hushes and calms,
And then it consoles.
It stirs in me memories,
It shakes up dreams, sorrows-
Brings back my childhood
And speaks of tomorrow.
His breath is soft
But sometimes is violent.
The wind can be peaceful
And then comes the silence.
And in that quiet
I often will hear
Songs of what is to come-
God is near.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Love The One You're With
Okay, it sucks getting old-really. Today's race was a painful 1:16 for ten miles- 7:41/mile, which is usually my half marathon pace. Can't wait to see the photo of me vomiting over the finish line. An onlooker yelled to me as I crossed, "Come on, girl. You got it." Yep. I had it-vomit as the finale. The worst part was I met and ran with a nice man at the start and he happened to be waiting to see how I finished up, only to watch me puke. "Guess I know what kind of a day you had." He said to me. That about summed it up. Why do I always have to embarrass myself like that? So uncivilized. I knew it was going to hurt, and it did-that last mile really hurt.
After the race, the day proved to be really fantastic. Marc and I went out on the boat with fifty of our closest friends-Patti and her family pulled the yacht out for the occasion of St. Patrick's Day. I love the Irish-they make me wish I drank. Green beer and lots of laughs, these people know how to party under the sun. It was with great ceremony and precise detail the sailors navigated the huge boat out from the dock and down the fingers. I admit it was really cool to be part of it. We have such nice friends here and were it not for the balmy weather and lack of mountainous terrain, I might even want to stay a while.
I feel bad that my negativity has seeped into some of my running buddies' thoughts. Today on the boat, one such friend happened to mention that he has lost a little enthusiasm for our typical Tuesday/Thursday six mile loop at my suggestion (I think it was his nice way of saying my constant whimpering) and that made me feel really lame. It lead me to think: are we each capable of being content if not for some negative, vocal people? Do we innately believe that what we have is special because that is what we want to believe, or are we driven to want more? Is the six mile loop just absolutely perfect for those who know no other way or are we all looking for a little something more? In other words, until someone else puts some other idea out there, are we merely creatures of habit with our comforts and routines? Is it not until someone scandalous and self-righteous comes along that we question what we have?
I am always amazed at how many people within our running community are divorced, separated, twice and three times remarried, working on a new relationship, etc, whatever. Were they all content until someone else came along? Were these people originally happy until a new and better offer came knocking on their door? How do they feel about their status now? How did they lose the vision of the original plan and shift to Plan B? Don't get me wrong-several of these people seem very happy the second (and third) time around, but how did it come to pass? Certainly they didn't walk down the isle the first time with the thought that they would be doing it again in a handful of years?
I wonder if in the same way I am like this about my living situation? Florida is really okay, but I have tasted something else-something sweeter-and it beckons for me. I know what I want and it tempts and distracts me from what we have here. Will it not really be as green as I think it is when we go back? Florida has never been the long term relationship for me, so how long until we divorce? How do I invest myself completely in this relationship and environment when I am always longing for something else- the elusive other "man"? How long until "he" envelops me in his arms again, ever calling my name and whispering things that make my heart race to think about what "he" has to offer?
Marc always tells me how discontent I am; he says that I am never satisfied and always waiting on the next best thing. He always tells me as long as I don't change him out for the next item or attraction, he is okay with it, but food for thought, right? Being on the boat today with Patti and her family made me feel sad that we are not as tight with our own families, spending the afternoon together out in the sun, lounging on a huge vessel in the river. How can we? We are a whole country away from them. Then again, sometimes being in close proximity to family brings on a whole new set of problems and obligations, I realize. If life is full of experiences and opportunities, how can we begin to choose the ones that really suit us? How can we really know we are content with who and what we have? As humans, is it just in our nature to be fickle? Some of us more than others, I suppose.
After the race, the day proved to be really fantastic. Marc and I went out on the boat with fifty of our closest friends-Patti and her family pulled the yacht out for the occasion of St. Patrick's Day. I love the Irish-they make me wish I drank. Green beer and lots of laughs, these people know how to party under the sun. It was with great ceremony and precise detail the sailors navigated the huge boat out from the dock and down the fingers. I admit it was really cool to be part of it. We have such nice friends here and were it not for the balmy weather and lack of mountainous terrain, I might even want to stay a while.
I feel bad that my negativity has seeped into some of my running buddies' thoughts. Today on the boat, one such friend happened to mention that he has lost a little enthusiasm for our typical Tuesday/Thursday six mile loop at my suggestion (I think it was his nice way of saying my constant whimpering) and that made me feel really lame. It lead me to think: are we each capable of being content if not for some negative, vocal people? Do we innately believe that what we have is special because that is what we want to believe, or are we driven to want more? Is the six mile loop just absolutely perfect for those who know no other way or are we all looking for a little something more? In other words, until someone else puts some other idea out there, are we merely creatures of habit with our comforts and routines? Is it not until someone scandalous and self-righteous comes along that we question what we have?
I am always amazed at how many people within our running community are divorced, separated, twice and three times remarried, working on a new relationship, etc, whatever. Were they all content until someone else came along? Were these people originally happy until a new and better offer came knocking on their door? How do they feel about their status now? How did they lose the vision of the original plan and shift to Plan B? Don't get me wrong-several of these people seem very happy the second (and third) time around, but how did it come to pass? Certainly they didn't walk down the isle the first time with the thought that they would be doing it again in a handful of years?
I wonder if in the same way I am like this about my living situation? Florida is really okay, but I have tasted something else-something sweeter-and it beckons for me. I know what I want and it tempts and distracts me from what we have here. Will it not really be as green as I think it is when we go back? Florida has never been the long term relationship for me, so how long until we divorce? How do I invest myself completely in this relationship and environment when I am always longing for something else- the elusive other "man"? How long until "he" envelops me in his arms again, ever calling my name and whispering things that make my heart race to think about what "he" has to offer?
Marc always tells me how discontent I am; he says that I am never satisfied and always waiting on the next best thing. He always tells me as long as I don't change him out for the next item or attraction, he is okay with it, but food for thought, right? Being on the boat today with Patti and her family made me feel sad that we are not as tight with our own families, spending the afternoon together out in the sun, lounging on a huge vessel in the river. How can we? We are a whole country away from them. Then again, sometimes being in close proximity to family brings on a whole new set of problems and obligations, I realize. If life is full of experiences and opportunities, how can we begin to choose the ones that really suit us? How can we really know we are content with who and what we have? As humans, is it just in our nature to be fickle? Some of us more than others, I suppose.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Regulus
I signed on for a race-at long last. I have not had the heart to commit to anything and I am not sure why. I think it is a funk, but the funk has subsided and I felt motivated to put something on the books after a very long hiatus.
My daughter teaches me something everyday. Two years in a row at her old swim team, she won the award for "Most Improved Swimmer". Her coach told me she had the "heart of a lion" and those words have sat in my chest like the ache I feel when I long to be home. Those words roll off my tongue when I encourage her to push a little harder in a race. I use those words to water her little soul like nourishment to stand a little taller and work a little more. Those are the words I of think of when I think about what a great, driven kid she is and how she wants to excel in so many things she does. Heart of a lion sums her up when she clambers up tall oak trees and peers down at us from above. Unstoppable is she.
Regulus is the name of the star that marks the heart of the constellation Leo in the night sky. It is one of the brightest and most beautiful stars in the sky. Regulus shines uninhibited and on fire. I am hoping I might have a little heart Sunday and make my girl proud.
My daughter teaches me something everyday. Two years in a row at her old swim team, she won the award for "Most Improved Swimmer". Her coach told me she had the "heart of a lion" and those words have sat in my chest like the ache I feel when I long to be home. Those words roll off my tongue when I encourage her to push a little harder in a race. I use those words to water her little soul like nourishment to stand a little taller and work a little more. Those are the words I of think of when I think about what a great, driven kid she is and how she wants to excel in so many things she does. Heart of a lion sums her up when she clambers up tall oak trees and peers down at us from above. Unstoppable is she.
Regulus is the name of the star that marks the heart of the constellation Leo in the night sky. It is one of the brightest and most beautiful stars in the sky. Regulus shines uninhibited and on fire. I am hoping I might have a little heart Sunday and make my girl proud.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Just Another Day
Okay, we are in the new house and it is pretty cool. We had a party here last weekend and it was almost a success. I say almost because of course it had been a beautiful week and the day of the party, literally the moment the party was to begin at 3:00, the sky opened up and it began to pour. Just when I think I might be able to make a go of something here, the weather ruins my mood again.
It poured and poured and POURED and we couldn't even enjoy the outdoor kitchen...we were all huddled in the indoor one. Actually, not true, a few of the men variety were outside under the cover watching sports on the flat screen and drinking beer while Marc tended to the BBQ. I am pretty sure that was Florida's way of giving me the middle finger on the day of our soiree. Whatever. We may have to do Cinco De Mayo to make up for this one. Honestly, it was such a great group of people, I wouldn't have cared too much if it snowed (too much)-I had a ton of fun knowing we have enough friends to actually call them together for a party.
My feet still kill, but I run anyway. Sounds like it could be a children's song, like to the tune of Bingo, or something as lame. "My feet still kill but I run anyway, and idiot is my name-o. I-D-I-O-T, I-D-I-O-T, I-D-I-O-T and idiot is my name-o. Yep. I am sure it can't be good for me as I crank up the mileage, but it is that or live cranky. I would rather be an idiot than cranky and unpleasant, so here I go again tomorrow at 4:30 am. Just another day. I am ready to hit bricks and pass out.
It poured and poured and POURED and we couldn't even enjoy the outdoor kitchen...we were all huddled in the indoor one. Actually, not true, a few of the men variety were outside under the cover watching sports on the flat screen and drinking beer while Marc tended to the BBQ. I am pretty sure that was Florida's way of giving me the middle finger on the day of our soiree. Whatever. We may have to do Cinco De Mayo to make up for this one. Honestly, it was such a great group of people, I wouldn't have cared too much if it snowed (too much)-I had a ton of fun knowing we have enough friends to actually call them together for a party.
My feet still kill, but I run anyway. Sounds like it could be a children's song, like to the tune of Bingo, or something as lame. "My feet still kill but I run anyway, and idiot is my name-o. I-D-I-O-T, I-D-I-O-T, I-D-I-O-T and idiot is my name-o. Yep. I am sure it can't be good for me as I crank up the mileage, but it is that or live cranky. I would rather be an idiot than cranky and unpleasant, so here I go again tomorrow at 4:30 am. Just another day. I am ready to hit bricks and pass out.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
About the Shoes
It seems I never find the time or inclination to visit this site anymore. When there is so little time to be had, I never think to sit down to piece together and compose silly thoughts. Yet, here I am, wanting to put something in print because writing has always been my friend.
Life is busy here and getting busier all the time. As I try to plan for the summer trip home, I realize with the kids getting older, we are getting more entrenched in activities and obligations here that make it that much harder to slip away. In the beginning, I wanted to pretend this was all a bad dream that was going to be over. My life would resume as before after suffering for twelve months in the uncertainty of an uncivilized place, right? I was going to do the time and then get on with my life on the other coast.
Fast forward to almost 18 months later, and we are still here, living as "savages". Hardly, unless you count the rats that like to seek refuge in our garage. After my many complaints about trying to maintain this giant house and wanting to downsize, we are moving into a larger house on the mainland ("Way to downsize, mom," my daughter said to me with utter disdain as we drove up the circular drive to the new digs). Small houses are hard to come by here in FL-is that a function of hurricanes? Anyway, off we go and the work begins now. Boxes, family coming to town to help, and a possible half marathon on the books that same moving weekend. Yikes. Marc's schedule crazy with his company's move into the new building and chaos abounds. When we spin plates, we like to spin at least seventeen at one time because somehow I love the abuse. So, why would I chose to race the same weekend everything is going to hit the fan? I am not even close to being recovered from plantar that has derailed my training for so long. I am not anywhere near injury-free, but I can't take the not running or not racing anymore.
Walking around on injured feet was so utterly painful at first-now it is just par for the course. Even while running, the pain has become a dull ache that I seem to forget about the more the group rambles on. I would rather run in pain than to not run at all. For months, I stretched and iced and massaged and got adjustments. I changed orthodics and experimented with running styles. I laid off for almost ten weeks with little to no improvement. I gave up flip-flops (the universal dress code here) and slept in the boot-then Marc massaged some more. I changed my shoes and adjusted the mileage. Now, I do nothing but I am going to run, despite the discomfort.
In the same way, Florida will never be painless to me. It will always feel as though I am walking around in uncomfortable shoes on broken feet, limping through my day. The more I try to break in the uncomfortable soles, something else begins to ache and remind me of its unhappiness. A neglected something that I have failed to take initial inventory of will begin to rear its ugly head and remind me how bothered I am by...everything.
However, I know for my happiness, I have to try to figure out how to run with compromise-I have to live. The more we make friends and attend events and join groups and clubs and activities, the more the shoes are tolerable. They are not my shoes-jeez, they don't ever even match the outfit!-but for now, they are what I have to walk, run, and dance in. They are shoes I would have never chosen for myself, but they are beginning to pinch my toes less and demand less of my attention, despite their initial repulsiveness. Maybe this state we reside in (for however long or short the time may be) is not so backwards after all, but my thinking that was so all along. I always want the top-of-the line, cutest and priciest shoe; I always pine for a comfortable orthodic, but somehow, the shoe is out of stock and that insert is never the one prescribed to me.
If that insert is not going to be flexible, then I guess it is going to have to be me. I think I am someone who will always require an adjustment to live pain-free. Sometimes that adjustment is making peace with the shoes we have and learning how to adapt. I am a work in progress every single day. I thank God I have a husband who can handle me and friends who uplift me.
Life is busy here and getting busier all the time. As I try to plan for the summer trip home, I realize with the kids getting older, we are getting more entrenched in activities and obligations here that make it that much harder to slip away. In the beginning, I wanted to pretend this was all a bad dream that was going to be over. My life would resume as before after suffering for twelve months in the uncertainty of an uncivilized place, right? I was going to do the time and then get on with my life on the other coast.
Fast forward to almost 18 months later, and we are still here, living as "savages". Hardly, unless you count the rats that like to seek refuge in our garage. After my many complaints about trying to maintain this giant house and wanting to downsize, we are moving into a larger house on the mainland ("Way to downsize, mom," my daughter said to me with utter disdain as we drove up the circular drive to the new digs). Small houses are hard to come by here in FL-is that a function of hurricanes? Anyway, off we go and the work begins now. Boxes, family coming to town to help, and a possible half marathon on the books that same moving weekend. Yikes. Marc's schedule crazy with his company's move into the new building and chaos abounds. When we spin plates, we like to spin at least seventeen at one time because somehow I love the abuse. So, why would I chose to race the same weekend everything is going to hit the fan? I am not even close to being recovered from plantar that has derailed my training for so long. I am not anywhere near injury-free, but I can't take the not running or not racing anymore.
Walking around on injured feet was so utterly painful at first-now it is just par for the course. Even while running, the pain has become a dull ache that I seem to forget about the more the group rambles on. I would rather run in pain than to not run at all. For months, I stretched and iced and massaged and got adjustments. I changed orthodics and experimented with running styles. I laid off for almost ten weeks with little to no improvement. I gave up flip-flops (the universal dress code here) and slept in the boot-then Marc massaged some more. I changed my shoes and adjusted the mileage. Now, I do nothing but I am going to run, despite the discomfort.
In the same way, Florida will never be painless to me. It will always feel as though I am walking around in uncomfortable shoes on broken feet, limping through my day. The more I try to break in the uncomfortable soles, something else begins to ache and remind me of its unhappiness. A neglected something that I have failed to take initial inventory of will begin to rear its ugly head and remind me how bothered I am by...everything.
However, I know for my happiness, I have to try to figure out how to run with compromise-I have to live. The more we make friends and attend events and join groups and clubs and activities, the more the shoes are tolerable. They are not my shoes-jeez, they don't ever even match the outfit!-but for now, they are what I have to walk, run, and dance in. They are shoes I would have never chosen for myself, but they are beginning to pinch my toes less and demand less of my attention, despite their initial repulsiveness. Maybe this state we reside in (for however long or short the time may be) is not so backwards after all, but my thinking that was so all along. I always want the top-of-the line, cutest and priciest shoe; I always pine for a comfortable orthodic, but somehow, the shoe is out of stock and that insert is never the one prescribed to me.
If that insert is not going to be flexible, then I guess it is going to have to be me. I think I am someone who will always require an adjustment to live pain-free. Sometimes that adjustment is making peace with the shoes we have and learning how to adapt. I am a work in progress every single day. I thank God I have a husband who can handle me and friends who uplift me.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Moving On
Maybe it is the season, but it seems the fog is slowly lifting. The weather has shifted into a tolerable sixty degree range (though supposed to warm to 80 by Christmas), the kids are jubilant, reactions are reacting for Marc at work, and I feel alive again. I can run.
Of all the things and people that carry me through turbulent times, no one understands me like my running shoes. They don't challenge my sanity with how many miles I want to run injured. They never complain about the heat of the pavement or the wet of the puddles. Somehow, my shoes are always just there for me without judgement or criticism. Running will always be my therapy and simple pleasure. How grateful I am to be alive and with two legs to run on.
With little enthusiasm, I am trying to decide which race to sign on for. I am having trouble with the excitement part because I worry my feet will fail me. They still cause me great misery, but even without running I am in pain, so off I go. My new approach to this injury, much like with other facets of my world as it were, I am going to ignore the negative. I am not going to feed into the blue and dismal, but love and nurture what is good and positive. I'll let you know how this works once both feet are casted and I'm on crutches, but until then, I am going to enjoy the endless bridge loops.
Of all the things and people that carry me through turbulent times, no one understands me like my running shoes. They don't challenge my sanity with how many miles I want to run injured. They never complain about the heat of the pavement or the wet of the puddles. Somehow, my shoes are always just there for me without judgement or criticism. Running will always be my therapy and simple pleasure. How grateful I am to be alive and with two legs to run on.
With little enthusiasm, I am trying to decide which race to sign on for. I am having trouble with the excitement part because I worry my feet will fail me. They still cause me great misery, but even without running I am in pain, so off I go. My new approach to this injury, much like with other facets of my world as it were, I am going to ignore the negative. I am not going to feed into the blue and dismal, but love and nurture what is good and positive. I'll let you know how this works once both feet are casted and I'm on crutches, but until then, I am going to enjoy the endless bridge loops.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Memory
I am over the moon that my family is coming into town. I am so ultra excited, I can't hardly take it. Memory is such an amazing thing, such a precious gift. I hold on to the fabulous memories I have from past Thanksgivings when we would celebrate in Malibu and enjoy the meal on a chilly winter evening. I have never cooked a turkey before, so tomorrow is going to be interesting, to say the least. Why they chose to come to the house of someone who hates food is beyond me. Marc suggested we take out sushi, but you know we would never find it in this town on a holiday like Thanksgiving.
I think it is strange how memory will taunt and delight. Memories creep back in from out of nowhere. Driving down to West Palm yesterday to brave Whole Foods, I was reminded of one Thanksgiving years ago. I was house sitting for some people on the cliffs above Zuma beach. They had two adorable golden retrievers, Rosy and Riley, I was looking after. I will never forget those sweet dogs and that amazing house. I got up early and walked the dogs on the beach across the street, never appreciating how hard the owners must have worked for that home (one of four they owned) and lifestyle. The lifeguard came out and told me I was beyond the boundaries of the designated dog area for the shore, so we jogged on out and back to the house. The morning was spectacular and the beach was sleepy and empty, save for a few runners every now and again.
I remember staying in the house and my friend, Todd, came over. I never thought anything of him, can't even remember how I met him, but he seemed like such a nice guy. He used to tell me about how his girlfriend had recently broken up with him and ripped his heart out. He was so depressed when I first met him, he told me he contemplated throwing himself off the cliffs above the reef. He was so intense, his icy green eyes would pierce and terrify me at the same time, and yet somehow, we were always together. He loved dogs, and they flocked to him, too.
Some weeks later, I was house sitting again for another Malibu resident, and after being out with my friend, Bob, until 2 am, someone was knocking on the glass doors out back at the veranda. After almost having a heart attack for fear of an intruder in the middle of the night, I realized it was just Todd. Todd? What was he doing at my back door, and how did he know I had just come home at this crazy hour? Okay, I realized he was psycho and kind of stalkerish. I let him in anyway because he was like a lost puppy and I admit I liked the attention. "Who were you out with until this hour? Come out and look at the moon. It is so bright and beautiful," he demanded. After a few more dramatic episodes like that, I had to cut him off. Where is he now?
Memory is such a funny thing. Sometimes it serves us well and sometimes, like dreams, memory is so random and difficult to decipher. Why do memories bubble to the surface like they do? Why did I even think about Todd yesterday without a thought to his whereabouts in the last 13 years? Weird. Does memory help us work through all the bits and pieces of lost time and places, unrequited love and lost opportunities? I assume so, but sometimes it seems so cruel. Not that I miss Todd, but I miss Malibu and old friends. I'm sure even more so now that the holidays are upon us.
I think it is strange how memory will taunt and delight. Memories creep back in from out of nowhere. Driving down to West Palm yesterday to brave Whole Foods, I was reminded of one Thanksgiving years ago. I was house sitting for some people on the cliffs above Zuma beach. They had two adorable golden retrievers, Rosy and Riley, I was looking after. I will never forget those sweet dogs and that amazing house. I got up early and walked the dogs on the beach across the street, never appreciating how hard the owners must have worked for that home (one of four they owned) and lifestyle. The lifeguard came out and told me I was beyond the boundaries of the designated dog area for the shore, so we jogged on out and back to the house. The morning was spectacular and the beach was sleepy and empty, save for a few runners every now and again.
I remember staying in the house and my friend, Todd, came over. I never thought anything of him, can't even remember how I met him, but he seemed like such a nice guy. He used to tell me about how his girlfriend had recently broken up with him and ripped his heart out. He was so depressed when I first met him, he told me he contemplated throwing himself off the cliffs above the reef. He was so intense, his icy green eyes would pierce and terrify me at the same time, and yet somehow, we were always together. He loved dogs, and they flocked to him, too.
Some weeks later, I was house sitting again for another Malibu resident, and after being out with my friend, Bob, until 2 am, someone was knocking on the glass doors out back at the veranda. After almost having a heart attack for fear of an intruder in the middle of the night, I realized it was just Todd. Todd? What was he doing at my back door, and how did he know I had just come home at this crazy hour? Okay, I realized he was psycho and kind of stalkerish. I let him in anyway because he was like a lost puppy and I admit I liked the attention. "Who were you out with until this hour? Come out and look at the moon. It is so bright and beautiful," he demanded. After a few more dramatic episodes like that, I had to cut him off. Where is he now?
Memory is such a funny thing. Sometimes it serves us well and sometimes, like dreams, memory is so random and difficult to decipher. Why do memories bubble to the surface like they do? Why did I even think about Todd yesterday without a thought to his whereabouts in the last 13 years? Weird. Does memory help us work through all the bits and pieces of lost time and places, unrequited love and lost opportunities? I assume so, but sometimes it seems so cruel. Not that I miss Todd, but I miss Malibu and old friends. I'm sure even more so now that the holidays are upon us.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Who Am I?
I am not sure I have the answer anymore. I feel like I used to know who I was in this world: mom, daughter, sister, wife, friend, Jesus lover, Californian, runner and sometimes triathlete. I felt very confident in my place in the universe, comfortable, and most often happy. These days, nothing really translates. I live in a foreign land, my faith has been shaken with the recent death of a friend, I question why God would leave me here in the desert feeling alone and forsaken, and now I don't even have my best stress reliever-I can't even run. I am a swimmer.
Marine Corps marathon is this weekend and I am depressed that though it was on my to do list of marathons, I won't be attending. Laying on the massage table last Saturday, Sharon encouraged me to reevaluate my place and who I think I am. I know I have been rattled to be shifted out of my hometown and now to try to stand up again here in this one. Everything feels off-kilter, and not just the imbalance of my feet in light of this injury. Like my back that is aching in light of a new workout routine, everything is just a little tweaked in my world without the familiarity of home and the morning run. How can it be adjusted?
Sunday I met the group at South Beach to ride North to the Inlet, though Lori and I turned back early to make it home on time. The wind was grueling, in our faces. Lori looked at me and said, "This is what our hills are here
"Yeah, but at least where I'm from, the hills come with some reprieve-you get to go down the backside of them!" I told her.
Here, the wind blew its angry fury directly at us all the way North, which allowed us to only go about 17 miles per hour. On the way home, however, we were loving screaming along the coast. I loved moving along without the threat of falling down a mountain at that speed. It was great and I am hoping to make it a staple workout for a while, if the schedule will allow for it.
I love Gene. As my new found swim coach, he is the newest man in my life. I brought him coffee Tuesday and he was so happy to be part of Lori and my "coffee club" as he dubbed it. He told me at 73 years old, he can still swim 73 fifties on just over a minute base. I was impressed, after all, since he is an old guy.
Marc dropped into the gym this week while I was there working out, waiting for the kids to finish their gymnastics routine. I love that after twelve years of being together, we still love being together. I can look at him from across the gym and he makes my heart sing. I tried to pretend I didn't know him. Would I think he were cute if he were not my husband? Absolutely. Is he kind of spazzy the way he does his abs on a flat bench? Yep. Cute. It brought back memories of seeing him in the gym in college when I didn't even know his name, but I appreciated his adorable qualities even back then. With all of our stupid inside jokes and idioms, with his randomness and my sarcasm, something about us just works. In all of this mess and chaos and unfamiliarity, he is my anchor.
We leave for Georgia for a week on Sunday and I am counting the days to cooler weather. Ye haw.
Marine Corps marathon is this weekend and I am depressed that though it was on my to do list of marathons, I won't be attending. Laying on the massage table last Saturday, Sharon encouraged me to reevaluate my place and who I think I am. I know I have been rattled to be shifted out of my hometown and now to try to stand up again here in this one. Everything feels off-kilter, and not just the imbalance of my feet in light of this injury. Like my back that is aching in light of a new workout routine, everything is just a little tweaked in my world without the familiarity of home and the morning run. How can it be adjusted?
Sunday I met the group at South Beach to ride North to the Inlet, though Lori and I turned back early to make it home on time. The wind was grueling, in our faces. Lori looked at me and said, "This is what our hills are here
"Yeah, but at least where I'm from, the hills come with some reprieve-you get to go down the backside of them!" I told her.
Here, the wind blew its angry fury directly at us all the way North, which allowed us to only go about 17 miles per hour. On the way home, however, we were loving screaming along the coast. I loved moving along without the threat of falling down a mountain at that speed. It was great and I am hoping to make it a staple workout for a while, if the schedule will allow for it.
I love Gene. As my new found swim coach, he is the newest man in my life. I brought him coffee Tuesday and he was so happy to be part of Lori and my "coffee club" as he dubbed it. He told me at 73 years old, he can still swim 73 fifties on just over a minute base. I was impressed, after all, since he is an old guy.
Marc dropped into the gym this week while I was there working out, waiting for the kids to finish their gymnastics routine. I love that after twelve years of being together, we still love being together. I can look at him from across the gym and he makes my heart sing. I tried to pretend I didn't know him. Would I think he were cute if he were not my husband? Absolutely. Is he kind of spazzy the way he does his abs on a flat bench? Yep. Cute. It brought back memories of seeing him in the gym in college when I didn't even know his name, but I appreciated his adorable qualities even back then. With all of our stupid inside jokes and idioms, with his randomness and my sarcasm, something about us just works. In all of this mess and chaos and unfamiliarity, he is my anchor.
We leave for Georgia for a week on Sunday and I am counting the days to cooler weather. Ye haw.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Discipline
The weekend was great. Marc was crowned "King of the Jungle" for a second year in a row after winning a local 5K without even trying. I just love that title. Maybe I will start calling him Tarzan instead, though I think he needs to be furrier for that to apply. I love being married to a local celebrity when friends bring me newspaper articles about him to the gym. Love that guy. He has discipline. He owns more workout gear than regular clothing. His bike on the trainer is a permanent fixture in our living room now because he is on it twice a day (why break it down and take it back out to the garage?). We don't own furniture; we own equipment. We like to think of it as a lifestyle, right?
I often hear the word discipline associated with exercise. Usually, it is someone asking me how I am "so disciplined" to get up at 4 am every morning, day in and day out, week in and week out, to go work out. My answer to the appalled is always the same, "How can I not? It is my sanity. "
The morning is my one piece of the day that is mine...no kids music playing in the car, no little voices whining at me for something, no one to answer to and my time to simply zone out.
These days, however, discipline means something entirely different. It means not working out, as in not running, and not bearing weight on my injured feet. It means sleeping in until *gasp* 5am since the gym is not open before that ridiculously late hour. This is one of the most difficult things I have ever done because everything in me wants to forget about the whole healing process and run right on through it. I long to pretend there isn't a problem and forge ahead with new orthotics to solve the problem. Of course, I know I can't or every other effort would be in vain. Why waste time icing, massaging, getting physical therapy and electro stim, while still visiting the chiropractor for a miracle if I continue to do the damage by running anyway? Why give up wearing flip flops (it is hot here in Ugg Boots) and suffer through acupressure if I am not committed, disciplined to not run? I am not a very joyful healer. I am not meant to be a non-exerciser.
Discipline extends to the kids, of course, too. They are masters at trying to negotiate for every little thing: eight more minutes past bedtime, one more book to be read, another video ("Pretty please?"), dessert on a designated non-dessert night. At five and seven years old, my kids really know how to continue to try and exhaust me until I almost finally give into the begging for chocolate milk. There I am, being disciplined, telling them no over and over again. The parallel here is obvious: undisciplined parenting makes for sloppy kids and undisciplined workouts make for a sloppy body, right? Well, usually, until one abuses her body to the point of injury and has to aqua jog-God forbid. There has to be something in between but I have just never been good with moderation in anything. I am convinced my kids will rot out their teeth and develop diabetes if I allow them junky treats, just as I am convinced I am going to become obese now that I am not running.
Today I took my daughter to the pediatrician's office where she was diagnosed with a sinus infection. After being prescribed antibiotics, she was told to stay out of the pool for at least 48 hours. Frantic is not even the best word to describe her reaction to this bad news: "Mom! I can't miss workout. I have to swim. Swimming is the best possible exercise! Can I do a different workout tonight if I can't get in the pool?" Who does this child belong to? I told her she needs some discipline in her life already. I went to spin this morning and I lifted. Twice. Tomorrow I see my boyfriend, Gene, at pool number two. The bottom line here is, I miss being a Californian and now I miss being a runner. I miss, dare I say it, sweating in the steamy heat here. Two weeks into my non-running program and I miss the feeling.
I often hear the word discipline associated with exercise. Usually, it is someone asking me how I am "so disciplined" to get up at 4 am every morning, day in and day out, week in and week out, to go work out. My answer to the appalled is always the same, "How can I not? It is my sanity. "
The morning is my one piece of the day that is mine...no kids music playing in the car, no little voices whining at me for something, no one to answer to and my time to simply zone out.
These days, however, discipline means something entirely different. It means not working out, as in not running, and not bearing weight on my injured feet. It means sleeping in until *gasp* 5am since the gym is not open before that ridiculously late hour. This is one of the most difficult things I have ever done because everything in me wants to forget about the whole healing process and run right on through it. I long to pretend there isn't a problem and forge ahead with new orthotics to solve the problem. Of course, I know I can't or every other effort would be in vain. Why waste time icing, massaging, getting physical therapy and electro stim, while still visiting the chiropractor for a miracle if I continue to do the damage by running anyway? Why give up wearing flip flops (it is hot here in Ugg Boots) and suffer through acupressure if I am not committed, disciplined to not run? I am not a very joyful healer. I am not meant to be a non-exerciser.
Discipline extends to the kids, of course, too. They are masters at trying to negotiate for every little thing: eight more minutes past bedtime, one more book to be read, another video ("Pretty please?"), dessert on a designated non-dessert night. At five and seven years old, my kids really know how to continue to try and exhaust me until I almost finally give into the begging for chocolate milk. There I am, being disciplined, telling them no over and over again. The parallel here is obvious: undisciplined parenting makes for sloppy kids and undisciplined workouts make for a sloppy body, right? Well, usually, until one abuses her body to the point of injury and has to aqua jog-God forbid. There has to be something in between but I have just never been good with moderation in anything. I am convinced my kids will rot out their teeth and develop diabetes if I allow them junky treats, just as I am convinced I am going to become obese now that I am not running.
Today I took my daughter to the pediatrician's office where she was diagnosed with a sinus infection. After being prescribed antibiotics, she was told to stay out of the pool for at least 48 hours. Frantic is not even the best word to describe her reaction to this bad news: "Mom! I can't miss workout. I have to swim. Swimming is the best possible exercise! Can I do a different workout tonight if I can't get in the pool?" Who does this child belong to? I told her she needs some discipline in her life already. I went to spin this morning and I lifted. Twice. Tomorrow I see my boyfriend, Gene, at pool number two. The bottom line here is, I miss being a Californian and now I miss being a runner. I miss, dare I say it, sweating in the steamy heat here. Two weeks into my non-running program and I miss the feeling.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
The New Pool
Okay, I have a new plan and it is called swimming at a new pool with some familiar faces and a new coach. So, even though I have to pay an additional fee on top of what I already pay monthly elsewhere, and even though it requires me to make a second trip across town after the initial one to the gym, I think it may be the ticket to greater happiness in the water. Can we really put a price on that?
Barry was the one who suggested I come on over and swim with the infamous Gene, who I have heard about for a year now. Honestly, I just didn't want to have to adjust my routine and shift everything around to accommodate a man out West at a different facility. I finally gave in this week and I am so glad I did-I liked Gene immediately. Maybe the word loved is even in order to describe my feelings of devotion for him, despite the fact he clearly hails from New York and has that awful accent. Maybe I am just attaching a superficial savior status to the man who I am certain is going to make me an accomplished swimmer and, more importantly, teach me how to love this sport.
It was raining when I showed up for workout on Tuesday. Gene was under an umbrella, pulling his little cheat sheet out to give us each individualized workouts. I think there might have been seven of us, including me. I even bought a new Speedo for the occasion because what can't a new outfit fix? Though it is two small, clingy pieces of blue and black and white, the suit did inspire me to swim a little more like a professional and believe me, I was all about business. I was there to make it count. Unlike Don, who yelled insults from the sidelines, Gene is kind and more diplomatic about technique. "You have a fairly decent stroke." He told me. "But you need to work on that entry and catch. You are allowing your thumb to enter the water before your fingers and that is a shoulder problem waiting to happen."
He went on to have me do tons and tons of drills and then some more drills. All I could think about by the end was getting out and getting my coffee. As I climbed up on deck, there was a familiar face looking at me, but I couldn't place him. This is a small town, or have I mentioned that? Then I remembered. Last week, while in the library with the kids, I received a call from Abbe. As I blabbed with her about meeting for spin that night, I realized a man was watching me very intently. Afraid it was one more person in this ridiculous town to tell me to get off my phone in an "inappropriate place" (its a library, come on!), I quickly hung up with her. The staring man surprised me, instead, by asking me, "Are you from California? I hate to peg you, but I couldn't help but listen to you, and you sound like you are from California." I think I looked at him blankly for a while, because he quickly offered me his hand, "Hi. I'm John. My wife and I moved here from Redondo Beach and I know a Californian when I hear one. What brought you here?"
Where to begin? Was this man a friend or foe? Could I tell him honestly my disparaging thoughts and great disappointment or should I smile politely and, in agreement, nod that this is, oh absolutely, paradise? There we were, my new friend John and me, hanging out in the "L" section of kids' books reminiscing about the good old days on the other coast. He told me his parents are here and that is how they landed in these parts. He told me he used to work for an aquarium in So Cal, but life on The Island is not so bad. Hmmmm. I decided I would try to be polite and save my arsenal of negativity; he meant well, after all.
I recognized him as John from the library as he rolled into the pool just as I was leaving. I didn't recognize him right away in his pool uniform of black jammers. I think I was just thrilled to actually have a few bodies in the water so I was not left staring at the crabs on the bottom, as is the case at the other pool. There seems to be a promising crew at the new place and I love the coach. I even have a few running buddies who are meant to drift in and out of workout, true to slacker colors. Could be fun.
I think as time goes on, I settle in a little more. No longer am I anxious and anxiety-ridden about our state of being, but I cannot say I am content. I miss so much about my old life and what it means to be a Californian. I miss the air turning cooler and the quick option of driving two hours to the mountains for some snow. I used to miss the old routine, but now I think I just miss what it is to be California culture. I am not a fisherman or a boater or a seventy-degrees-is-cold- weather-complainer. I am a Californian still trying to make sense of what it means to live on a tropical island in an ocean I never thought would be my permanent beach.
As I write this, my seven year old is spreading out and admiring her six ribbons from last weekend's swim meet. "Mom," she just asked me, "Have you ever seen so many ribbons in one place? Have you ever won this many ribbons?"
"Not even close, my lovely, not even close." I told her.
Barry was the one who suggested I come on over and swim with the infamous Gene, who I have heard about for a year now. Honestly, I just didn't want to have to adjust my routine and shift everything around to accommodate a man out West at a different facility. I finally gave in this week and I am so glad I did-I liked Gene immediately. Maybe the word loved is even in order to describe my feelings of devotion for him, despite the fact he clearly hails from New York and has that awful accent. Maybe I am just attaching a superficial savior status to the man who I am certain is going to make me an accomplished swimmer and, more importantly, teach me how to love this sport.
It was raining when I showed up for workout on Tuesday. Gene was under an umbrella, pulling his little cheat sheet out to give us each individualized workouts. I think there might have been seven of us, including me. I even bought a new Speedo for the occasion because what can't a new outfit fix? Though it is two small, clingy pieces of blue and black and white, the suit did inspire me to swim a little more like a professional and believe me, I was all about business. I was there to make it count. Unlike Don, who yelled insults from the sidelines, Gene is kind and more diplomatic about technique. "You have a fairly decent stroke." He told me. "But you need to work on that entry and catch. You are allowing your thumb to enter the water before your fingers and that is a shoulder problem waiting to happen."
He went on to have me do tons and tons of drills and then some more drills. All I could think about by the end was getting out and getting my coffee. As I climbed up on deck, there was a familiar face looking at me, but I couldn't place him. This is a small town, or have I mentioned that? Then I remembered. Last week, while in the library with the kids, I received a call from Abbe. As I blabbed with her about meeting for spin that night, I realized a man was watching me very intently. Afraid it was one more person in this ridiculous town to tell me to get off my phone in an "inappropriate place" (its a library, come on!), I quickly hung up with her. The staring man surprised me, instead, by asking me, "Are you from California? I hate to peg you, but I couldn't help but listen to you, and you sound like you are from California." I think I looked at him blankly for a while, because he quickly offered me his hand, "Hi. I'm John. My wife and I moved here from Redondo Beach and I know a Californian when I hear one. What brought you here?"
Where to begin? Was this man a friend or foe? Could I tell him honestly my disparaging thoughts and great disappointment or should I smile politely and, in agreement, nod that this is, oh absolutely, paradise? There we were, my new friend John and me, hanging out in the "L" section of kids' books reminiscing about the good old days on the other coast. He told me his parents are here and that is how they landed in these parts. He told me he used to work for an aquarium in So Cal, but life on The Island is not so bad. Hmmmm. I decided I would try to be polite and save my arsenal of negativity; he meant well, after all.
I recognized him as John from the library as he rolled into the pool just as I was leaving. I didn't recognize him right away in his pool uniform of black jammers. I think I was just thrilled to actually have a few bodies in the water so I was not left staring at the crabs on the bottom, as is the case at the other pool. There seems to be a promising crew at the new place and I love the coach. I even have a few running buddies who are meant to drift in and out of workout, true to slacker colors. Could be fun.
I think as time goes on, I settle in a little more. No longer am I anxious and anxiety-ridden about our state of being, but I cannot say I am content. I miss so much about my old life and what it means to be a Californian. I miss the air turning cooler and the quick option of driving two hours to the mountains for some snow. I used to miss the old routine, but now I think I just miss what it is to be California culture. I am not a fisherman or a boater or a seventy-degrees-is-cold- weather-complainer. I am a Californian still trying to make sense of what it means to live on a tropical island in an ocean I never thought would be my permanent beach.
As I write this, my seven year old is spreading out and admiring her six ribbons from last weekend's swim meet. "Mom," she just asked me, "Have you ever seen so many ribbons in one place? Have you ever won this many ribbons?"
"Not even close, my lovely, not even close." I told her.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Plan B
"Swimming is your friend. Swimming is your friend."
This was my mantra this morning in the pool. Swimming has always been my friend, but it is a love-hate relationship. Swimming was my friend when I was enormously pregnant and couldn't run beyond thirty weeks. Swimming was my friend when I was on bed rest at the end of that fat chapter in my life and I still needed a workout. Swimming is again my friend now that I can't run on injured feet. Swimming has been my safety net and my backup, so why do I resent the pool so much? Why does it feel like the enemy, my second choice, the Plan B? Because it is.
Murray on Monday. Mark on Tuesday. Dante on Wednesday. Dr. Ben Thursday and Friday. I had a different swimming buddy every day this week at the pool. At least I wasn't alone completely in the pool. On Monday, we also had a snake in the water with us. On Tuesday, it was a crab. Wednesday, there was a gecko in the water. Thursday was uneventful and this morning, a huge frog joined us. Why?
Tonight when I got my hair done, the hair dresser asked why my hair was so dry and stripped. "It's my Nemesis. It's killing my hair." I told her. And maybe my spirit a little bit, too.
This was my mantra this morning in the pool. Swimming has always been my friend, but it is a love-hate relationship. Swimming was my friend when I was enormously pregnant and couldn't run beyond thirty weeks. Swimming was my friend when I was on bed rest at the end of that fat chapter in my life and I still needed a workout. Swimming is again my friend now that I can't run on injured feet. Swimming has been my safety net and my backup, so why do I resent the pool so much? Why does it feel like the enemy, my second choice, the Plan B? Because it is.
Murray on Monday. Mark on Tuesday. Dante on Wednesday. Dr. Ben Thursday and Friday. I had a different swimming buddy every day this week at the pool. At least I wasn't alone completely in the pool. On Monday, we also had a snake in the water with us. On Tuesday, it was a crab. Wednesday, there was a gecko in the water. Thursday was uneventful and this morning, a huge frog joined us. Why?
Tonight when I got my hair done, the hair dresser asked why my hair was so dry and stripped. "It's my Nemesis. It's killing my hair." I told her. And maybe my spirit a little bit, too.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
I Don't Want To Be A Swimmer
"I don't want to be a swimmer! I don't want to be a swimmer!"
This was my declaration in my most recent nightmare. Two nights ago, I dreamt I was floating out in the middle of the ocean in San Diego somewhere, yelling at the top of my lungs in horror, cursing my last option for workout. Sadly, when I woke up, it was true. As my feet hit the floor at 4 am for the long run, I was stopped abruptly in my tracks, frozen in agony. I am defeated and dismayed to admit I have to be a swimmer for the weeks (months?) to come. Plantar fasciitis has completely derailed my training and I am out for any upcoming marathon. To say that I am disappointed does not even touch what I am feeling right now. I think it would be more appropriate to say "identity crisis" if running is out of the equation.
I saw Dr. George in the office last week and after handling my sad and pathetic feet, he confirmed the diagnosis. I knew he would, but the pain has become so unbearable, I simply cannot ignore or run through it anymore. Walking has become no small feat, and standing around I am forced to shift weight off my heel. Even flip turning in the pool has become a challenge when the pain rips through my heel. After prescribing the dreaded boot and cataflam, George suggested I try to cut back on running. And though I had no intention of following this advice, I knew I had no other choice when the following day a 21 mile long run left me crippled.
I don't want to be a swimmer because I despise pretending to be someone I am not. I am merely a pool slut, picking up any random passerby who will talk to me out there. So desperate for company am I at 5:30 in the morning, I have befriended even all the old guys out there floating down the lanes, just so that I might avoid having to swim extra, unnecessary laps (I still log it as a workout). The pool is so lonely, staring at that black tiled line, endless lap after lap. Maybe that is why I worship them: swimmers have some kind of superior inner strength and independence. They need no one to talk to while turning over their arms and thrashing their legs. They care nothing about what others think of them in a small piece of Lycra as they smugly flaunt it all down the deck. They appeal to me even in their geeky goggles and hideous swim caps. Maybe I am jealous of that? Maybe I missed the boat getting in on that sport when I was young and capable?
This was my declaration in my most recent nightmare. Two nights ago, I dreamt I was floating out in the middle of the ocean in San Diego somewhere, yelling at the top of my lungs in horror, cursing my last option for workout. Sadly, when I woke up, it was true. As my feet hit the floor at 4 am for the long run, I was stopped abruptly in my tracks, frozen in agony. I am defeated and dismayed to admit I have to be a swimmer for the weeks (months?) to come. Plantar fasciitis has completely derailed my training and I am out for any upcoming marathon. To say that I am disappointed does not even touch what I am feeling right now. I think it would be more appropriate to say "identity crisis" if running is out of the equation.
I saw Dr. George in the office last week and after handling my sad and pathetic feet, he confirmed the diagnosis. I knew he would, but the pain has become so unbearable, I simply cannot ignore or run through it anymore. Walking has become no small feat, and standing around I am forced to shift weight off my heel. Even flip turning in the pool has become a challenge when the pain rips through my heel. After prescribing the dreaded boot and cataflam, George suggested I try to cut back on running. And though I had no intention of following this advice, I knew I had no other choice when the following day a 21 mile long run left me crippled.
I don't want to be a swimmer because I despise pretending to be someone I am not. I am merely a pool slut, picking up any random passerby who will talk to me out there. So desperate for company am I at 5:30 in the morning, I have befriended even all the old guys out there floating down the lanes, just so that I might avoid having to swim extra, unnecessary laps (I still log it as a workout). The pool is so lonely, staring at that black tiled line, endless lap after lap. Maybe that is why I worship them: swimmers have some kind of superior inner strength and independence. They need no one to talk to while turning over their arms and thrashing their legs. They care nothing about what others think of them in a small piece of Lycra as they smugly flaunt it all down the deck. They appeal to me even in their geeky goggles and hideous swim caps. Maybe I am jealous of that? Maybe I missed the boat getting in on that sport when I was young and capable?
I don't want to be a swimmer. I just want to admire them from a distance.
Friday, September 19, 2008
For The Birds
I have resisted so many times turning to this blog as an outlet because most often it feels like a garbled, nonsensical idiom on the screen in front of me. I think in so many ways this blog is like a diary posted online for any random person to read, which seems so utterly ridiculous. It is stupid. Knowing and recognizing this, I write for myself, first and foremost, and perhaps then for anyone else who has little to do at work and cares to peruse its contents. Hopefully it won't come across as self-absorbed and superciliously annoying to the random visitor.
At the core of what I am preoccupied with today is friendship. After running the coast with Abbe, Katie and Lori (and bumping into Barry and Gary) this morning, Abbe and I went over to swim. In the dark we bantered back and forth about life and its meaning, men and relationships, kids and chaos. I can't help but love her. She has so many fabulous and irresistible qualities that entertain me. For someone as ADHD and I am, she can captivate the conversation with silly stories and crazy antics, analogies and jokes. Her mannerisms are priceless and her wit unsurpassed. She is complicated and multi-faceted, but so simple and happy all the same.
As I sat in the Starbucks drive-through line after our workouts (and cursed the guy in front of me for clogging the system with his fluffy blended whatever drink), I couldn't help but notice the birds flying in formation above me. The sky was a ruddy gray with the sun not yet up and their silhouette was almost surreal. The thing that struck me, however, was these birds were always together. I don't know what kind they were and it really doesn't matter, but they were in some kind of formation....sometimes only three, but more often together as five. I am not even sure why these birds caught my attention, other than the fact that with ice blended lagger in front of me, I was trapped with nothing else to observe. I love that even these birds with their low maintenance lifestyles and minuscule brains needed companionship. Don't we all? I treasure my friends here who challenge and transform me everyday. I love my insanely active kids who keep me running and make my heart sing. I adore my super hot husband and am grateful he digs me, too. Relationships are hard and often convoluted, but when we find the right ones, they make all the difference. Life is good with coffee in hand. I'll drink to that.
At the core of what I am preoccupied with today is friendship. After running the coast with Abbe, Katie and Lori (and bumping into Barry and Gary) this morning, Abbe and I went over to swim. In the dark we bantered back and forth about life and its meaning, men and relationships, kids and chaos. I can't help but love her. She has so many fabulous and irresistible qualities that entertain me. For someone as ADHD and I am, she can captivate the conversation with silly stories and crazy antics, analogies and jokes. Her mannerisms are priceless and her wit unsurpassed. She is complicated and multi-faceted, but so simple and happy all the same.
As I sat in the Starbucks drive-through line after our workouts (and cursed the guy in front of me for clogging the system with his fluffy blended whatever drink), I couldn't help but notice the birds flying in formation above me. The sky was a ruddy gray with the sun not yet up and their silhouette was almost surreal. The thing that struck me, however, was these birds were always together. I don't know what kind they were and it really doesn't matter, but they were in some kind of formation....sometimes only three, but more often together as five. I am not even sure why these birds caught my attention, other than the fact that with ice blended lagger in front of me, I was trapped with nothing else to observe. I love that even these birds with their low maintenance lifestyles and minuscule brains needed companionship. Don't we all? I treasure my friends here who challenge and transform me everyday. I love my insanely active kids who keep me running and make my heart sing. I adore my super hot husband and am grateful he digs me, too. Relationships are hard and often convoluted, but when we find the right ones, they make all the difference. Life is good with coffee in hand. I'll drink to that.
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