A needle in my pelvis? Yes, please.

Not a lot to report on the running front.  I've got a decision to make: there are two local marathons in the fall I'll be deciding between.  One, the Rock & Roll Denver Marathon, is scheduled a third of the way through September...potentially hot.  I hate running in the heat.  Also, the R&R Denver half marathon is a favorite of mine so I may opt for that.

Choice number two is the Boulder Marathon.  Scheduled for a full month after Denver's, I can take it a bit easier this summer, and I can expect cooler temperatures on race day...a full 10 degrees cooler on average.    The drawback is a course with several tough inclines and an elevation gain of 1600 feet.  Still, for every uphill, there is a nice downhill.  Also, with a tough course, I can choose to ignore tough time goals and just run to finish.  Appealing.

Also, I may have a morning running partner a couple times a week.  I could use the bump in motivation to roll out of bed.  But I've never run with a buddy; I'm a little nervous I'll be slow or inconsistently paced or just plain grumpy at 5:15 in the morning.  Here's hoping the arrangement proves to be mutually beneficial.  I know I'm uber-grateful to have a little extra time to sweat beside a lady who I don't know well yet, but impresses the hell out of me so far.

Besides being unable to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, and therefore finding some time sans distractions, here's the real reason I wanted to post a rambling, not-much-point-to-it blurb this morning:

I got the call.  My shoulder has been tapped.  I'm up for duty.

Backstory:
When Gene and I decided we wanted a second amazing child in our family, I wanted to quit work to focus on raising kiddos.  As a teacher, I was a bit overcommitted to other people's children to feel confident I could give two of my own equal and excellent time/attention.  So Gene worked hard to make it possible and I took the leap.

It was an unnerving leap for me, because I love teaching.  It provided me with a strong sense of identity--a sense that I made a generous and positive impact for people.  So when I quit work, I had to connect myself to something that would preserve that sense of usefulness in the world.  I found two avenues: G.E.D. tutoring in a women's shelter and signing up to be a bone marrow donor.  The first keeps me connected to teaching (and beneficially gives me a little resume fodder when I choose to return to work).  The second, bone marrow donation, was an easy way to do something hard.  As a stay-at-home mom, I knew my schedule would be flexible enough, and my family supportive enough, to tolerate temporary discomfort.  In exchange, I could claim credit for being a literal life-saver.   And, bonus, all said-discomfort was purely theoretical.  There was just no reason not to sign up.

So a few days ago I received word: I'm a potential match.  Wowza!  There's a 1 in 20,000 chance that any one person would be a match for a stranger; family members are a much better bet.  Also, it will take further testing to determine if my potential match is close enough to be a thumbs-up, let's-do-it match.  Also, doctors and patients have to work closely to decide the best course of treatment even if a potential match is found.  Sometimes, bone marrow transplant just isn't the way to go.  But sometimes it's the only way.

So here I am.  In the next two months I may get a phone call requesting further testing.  And 3-6 months from now I may be laying down pumping platelets or having a needle inserted in my pelvis.  And it's possible the procedure could disrupt or cancel any race plans I make now.  And then there's the  "discomfort."

And I might get to play an essential part in saving a life.

I gotta tell you, I'm jazzed.  So in case you too want a chance to save a life in theory, sign up.  The signing up part is painless.  If you ever do get to make the decision to donate in reality, you'll have the weight and awe of potentially extending a real-live, awesome-potential, loved, human life.

http://marrow.org/Home.aspx

Race Report

I realize it has been nearly two weeks since I ran my half marathon. You are all probably wondering about it. Waiting with bated breath, right? Well, okay, maybe it is neither here nor there to you. But I did it, so now it’s time to process it. And then publish it, because it’s a sick kind of validation that I’m looking for.

I like the Boulder Spring Half Marathon. Those of you in the Denver Metro Area ought to check it out. Dirt roads through fields of golden grass, the early morning sun casting long shadows, old farm houses or newish mini-manors sparsely occupying an acreage here and there. No one around but runners with their chins up or their heads down. It is a very unassuming, neatly managed race.

This year it was hot. Ugh. Also, I was not well-trained. Double ugh. Still I had a good time, and I finished with a good time (2h 22m). Also, and this is now my favorite part of running this race, I spent the morning all by myself.

Now that I run marathons, my family is less inclined to climb in the car for a mere half, several hours of boredom spent in order to have 30 seconds of “Go, Mom!” and “Finish Strong!” and “Woohoo!” They’d come if I asked them, but really. I’m now a fan of the solo spring half-er. I wake up early, drink tea and drive. I park it in the parking lot and read and listen to music and safety pin my race bib. I make pleasant banter with a few fellow runners. Then I run: my race, my brain, my fatigue, my finish. I like it. This particular race falls on the Sunday after my birthday every year, perfect for a little me time--self-reflection and, yes, even a little self-absorption. Also, it makes for a super-fun drive home.

Maybe I haven’t yet mastered the art of fueling. Or maybe 13 miles will drain your tank no matter how full it is. In either case, I found myself with the low-blood-sugar-shakes just after crossing the finish line. There’s something about this depletion that is good for my soul. It shakes loose some dust--the dry, dirty flakes of world-weariness, the somebody’s-watching-and-judging fearfulness. Nothing’s left but the salty residue of evaporated sweat. My body wreaks of defiant, I’m-tougher-than-the-shit-you-dish moxy. I do this to myself, and I finish standing. Not just standing...still smiling, fists in the air, ripping through finish lines. God, I love that feeling.

I downed some gatorade and sucked on an orange slice, then piled my sore limbs into the car. The drive home became an uninhibited comedy. With no one around to observe or mock, I sang along to music with all the verve my lungs could muster. This year it was Arcade Fire’s Funeral:

Come on, Alex. You can do it!
Come on, Alex. There’s nothing to it.
If you want something, don’t ask for nothing.
If you want nothing, don’t ask for something!

Then

If the children don’t grow up,
Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up
We’re just a million little gods causing rainstorms
Turning every good thing to rust!
I guess we’ll just have to adjust.
Aaah Ah Aaaaah Ah Aah Aah Aaaah Ah

Can you picture it? Me, rocking my body side to side, throwing my head up so I can Belt. It. Out. I call this the endorphin effect. It’s like alcohol, because it relaxes your inhibitions. Because singing out like that was in me all the time, just waiting for an unguarded, exhausted, exhilirated moment to be let out.

Also, in the middle of the drive home, I had to pee. And I held it. And this seemed to me an amazing--Herculean--accomplishment of will and bladder. Seriously, folks. I was so proud of myself for holding it. I was loopier than the Mad Hatter.

If you don’t have something in your life that builds you up and tears you down like this, go find it. If you can’t remember the last time you didn’t have enough energy to restrain yourself so you just had to let ‘er rip (no, we’re not talking about peeing anymore)...If you wish you had a corner of the universe to be yourself unadulterated, to know yourself uninhibited...If you wonder what might be in you if you could uncover it underneath your life or your baggage: run. It is physiologically guaranteed to get you there. Go long, go hard, go on your birthday, as a gift to yourself (stop laughing; we seriously aren’t talking about peeing anymore).

Bonus for you: you don’t have to write about it. That may be the craziest, hardest part of what I’m doing. But if you want to tell me about it, I’d sooo love to hear your story. I don’t care if you find/lose yourself in running or dancing or singing or synchronized swimming. Please, tell your corner of the world about it. Tell me!

Warning: words are difficult. You have to conjure them and string them together. There are rules to words: they must make a kind of sense and, simultaneously, tiptoe toward nonsense. Because we are all our own special kind of crazy, and if any stories are worth telling (and they are) it’s the ones that let my crazy and your crazy look each other up and down and say, “You look familiar to me. We might be long lost cousins.”

P.S. My crazy totally loves Violet's crazy over at Creative Devolution. If you aren't yet acquainted with her beauty and truth, get on it.

Pain Threshold

I love me a slow jog. Give me 20 miles of stars, sunrise, and scenery. Let me soak up the oxygen with a deep and easy inhale. I’ll build the ache over distance, the soothing effect of moderate effort. Moderately moderate. No-reason-to-go-overboard kind of moderate. Breaking-a-sweat-is-so-overrated kind of moderate. Okay, easy. Easy effort. I love me an easy pace.

So imagine my chagrin when I decide to add speed intervals to my weekly workouts. I don’t think I have a fast-twitch muscle in my body. I have never actually sprinted in my life. Ever. No playground races, no soccer team drills, no chased-by-bullies-or-bears traumas. But when one has run more half and full marathons than one can count on one’s fingers, things get a little dull. So I added 400s to my Tuesday mornings. I warm-up by jogging a half-mile, then I run at a fast but not deadly pace for a quarter mile 5-8 times in a row, with a short cool down between each one. I polish it off with another slow half-mile.

It’s tough. The first couple intervals are manageable. During the next couple intervals, I start to breathe a bit harder. Then I do a couple intervals counting to 100 to distract myself from the effort. Finally, I finish with one or two intervals during which I look and sound like a bull after a long session in the ring with a champion matador: frothy sweat at the corners of my mouth, an audibly heaving exhale, and a mad fear flashing in my eyes. I’m doing it, people. And let me tell you, I’m feeling pretty good about myself.

So I tell my best friend all about it (she’s a wicked fast runner, you know). “So have you thrown up yet?” she asks with straight-faced candor. I look at her, my mouth slightly ajar with surprise and annoyance that she hasn’t yet clapped her hand heartily on my back and shouted, “Awesome job! You rock, queen of speed!”

“Am I supposed to?” I ask doubtfully.

“Yeah!” she responds with chipper enthusiasm. She goes on to quiz me about dizziness and numb legs, finishing with, “You really haven’t thrown up? Even a little bit, in your mouth?”

Me. Staring. Mouth ajar. “It’s supposed to feel like that?”

She faithfully goes on to explain this whole speed training thing to me. The speed intervals build your vO2 max, which makes your cardiovascular system stronger and more efficient--able to endure more punishment so you can eek out a few more strides and a few less seconds in a race. She diligently pulls out her pace wheel, a rainbow-colored torture device that predicts reasonable finishing times for various distances based on past performance. Pardon me, “reasonable” finishing times. So using my best half marathon time, the wheel o’ misery suggests marathon, 10k, 5k, or 1-mile times I can expect to achieve with training. The pace wheel thinks I’ve been slacking.

And then she utters the two words that now haunt me. “You’ve gotta hit your pain threshold.” I’ve heard her use this phrase before, in reference to training and intervals and hills and Olympian marathoners. And I feel like a fraud again. I’ve been play-acting this whole runner thing. I realize that I’m a complacent marathoner. Shouldn’t that be an oxymoron?

But I know it’s true. I’ve found a comfort zone, and I’m reveling in it. By the way, there is nothing wrong with this! Finding a good comfort zone and spending lots of time there is necessary to a sustainable human life. I should do almost all of my runs in this comfort zone; I should do my long runs at an even lazier pace than that. As a runner and a wife and a mother and a Christian and an educator and a friend, I should spend most of my life in my comfort zone, where I am competent and useful and able to breathe. But as a runner and a wife and a mother and a Christian and an educator and a friend, I need to spend a little corner of my time outside of it, bumping up against my pain threshold. Not my mild-discomfort threshold, not my slight-exertion threshold. My pain threshold. Friends, this is not a place I know.

So I’m starting with running. I’m keeping the intervals, but increasing my speed. In April, I’ll alternate them with hill repeats. I’m scheduling quality time with my pain threshold so that my comfort zone will expand--and then I’ll get to push harder to reach my pain threshold! (Crazy, much?) My speed-goddess best friend is helping me. I asked her (what was I thinking?) to pace me for a fast mile. She did it. I needed to stop half way through; she didn’t let me. I wanted to die at 3/4s of a mile; she told me to run like I was rescuing my children from imminent death. It hurt so bad, I couldn’t bring myself to care. She pushed. I finished. Then I laid right down, hot cheek to cold pavement, and sucked air so hard I gave the universe a hickey. Hello, pain threshold. Nice to meet you.

I’m officially more afraid of leaving my comfort zone, because now I know just how uncomfortable it can be. But here I go. I’ll keep you posted on how that works out for me--as a wife, mom, teacher, believer, and friend. Time to give my heart a workout of another kind. (Was that a prayer?) Yikes.

Happy Birthday to me?

I am getting moderately old.  Sitting at the computer for more than two minutes leaves me with the posture of Quasimodo.  I stand and walk around at a 45 degree angle for 20-60 seconds before I can manage to straighten my back to a fully upright position.

Also, those lines on my forehead that used to be a part of my quizzical expression never leave.  Also, I have matching lines on my neck.  My. Neck.  I want to walk around with my head extended in some accordian-like imitation of E.T. to erase them.

Also, I don’t have jowls.  But I do have the earliest pockets of face fat that may someday evolve to be jowl-like.  Richard Nixon, here I come.

 

Finally, whereas last year I ran 35 miles in 3.5 days to celebrate my 35th birthday, this year I’m going to see a movie with my mother, and then eat a big dinner at 3 in the afternoon.  Early bird special, you’re mine!  Old age suits me.

Oh, and that half marathon that I decided just three weeks ago NOT to run.  I’m totally running it.  I’ve got to recapture my youthful zest somehow.  If I brake my hip doing it, my next stop will by Morning Side Retirement Home.  Sigh.

(Yes, my birthday is still over a week away.  I'm obsessing.)

Sweet!

One of the best post-workout choices a person can make is to down a glass of chocolate milk.  

It has something to do with the balance of whey protein and casein protein and carbohydrates that is perfect for quickly re-energizing and repairing muscles.  Whatever--it’s delicous!  Bottoms up.

Aren’t I so health-conscious?

I Believe in Hobbits

I recently indulged in a Lord of the Rings movie marathon.  Way easier than running a marathon, let me tell you.  And bonus: during a movie marathon I fuel up with pizza and ice cream--way tastier than goo.

I love those stories.  Love!  I’ve read the books 4 times now, and I’m hankering for a 5th soon.  I even named my daughter with a nod to an elven flower that grows in Lothlorien (the heart of the elven kingdom in Middle Earth, duh).  And when Gene and I were young and in love, I fancied myself Samwise Gamgee to his Frodo.  So, obviously, I’m an LOTR dork.

Gene was enjoying the movie marathon too, and using it as an opportunity to introduce our son to epic heroism.  I noticed Gene would call him over to watch mighty battles and fierce clashes of good versus evil.  Of course, the little guy’s just six, and he frequently wandered from the room to act out his own battles off screen.  So I was able to observe the moments Gene most wanted him to pay attention to, not to miss...moments of bravery and purity of heart in the midst of the bedlam of war.  When deadly foes vastly outnumbered the fellowship of heroes, Gene would make sure our little guy watched them stand strong.  I love the man my husband is and the man he wants our son to become.  

But for me, quieter moments thrilled me most.  I wanted Soren to notice that Sam didn’t let Frodo go forward alone, and Merry and Pippin pledged their small bodies and large hearts in allegiance to people not their own, and that Gollum could choose, if only for a time, to be Smeagol again.  And my favorite line comes after the climax, when two little hobbits have given all they have to give: “I am glad you are here with me.  Here at the end of all things.”

I love hobbits!  I love that they celebrate ease and welcome simple pleasures.  I love that their statures and their dreams are never outsized.  I love that you never see them coming, never expect them to be the hub that the whole world turns upon.  I love hobbits because I believe they tell us the truth about ourselves.  A king can be kingly, a warrior can win, but those short, fat, unaspiring halflings are the crux of happy endings.  

That’s us, you see.  I’m a hobbit.  I’m a little person, and there is just one of me.  What in the world can I do?  How in the world can I matter?  But I believe that each of us, small and insignificant, changes the course of the story.  In quiet, unseen moments, when I manage a spark of bravery and purity of heart, I may just save the world.  

Tolkien writes about “eucatastrophe,” the catastrophic event that holds the only kernel of hope for a happy ending.  He says it is, “a sudden and miraculous grace never counted on to recur.  It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure; the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.”

I live eucatastrophes regularly, tiny struggles for a happy ending.  Running a marathon, or a half marathon, or a friggin’ mile if that’s all I can manage, is a miniature eucatastrophe.  And not yelling at my kiddos when they spill their juice, but kissing their frightened faces and saying, “It’s no problem.”  And sitting on the couch with my husband, or making him a sandwich, or saying “I love you” even when we disagree about something.  And tutoring women for a measly evening each week.  And sending a check.  And saying a prayer.  This is my epic heroism.  

And I love that I have something in common with the hobbits.  No one expects those little guys to count, let alone matter most, but they do.  And no one expects a middle-aged, chubby housewife to run 26+ miles.  But I do.  I wonder what that means, in the scope of things.  Like Tolkien, I marvel at the unexpected impact of little achievements, the essential nature of unseen gifts.  No surprise there...I believe in a dying savior, a servant king.  I guess it’s the same thread throughout: hope.  In a happy ending we can’t manage ourselves.  Maybe, thanks to a catastrophe we couldn’t see coming, we arrive at “the end of all things” not entirely alone.

“Dear Sir,” I said--Although now long estranged,

Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.

Disgraced he may be, yet is not dethroned,

and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned.

Man, Sub-creator, the refracted Light,

through whom is splintered from a single White

to many hues, and endlessly combined

in living shapes that move from mind to mind.

Though all the crannies of the world we filled

with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build

Gods and their houses out of dark and light,

and sowed the seed of dragons-- ‘twas our right

(used or misused).  That right has not decayed;

we make still by the law in which we’re made.”

-J.R.R. Tolkien “On Faerie Stories”

Hiatus

I’ve been playing hooky.  Obviously.  In October, I ran the Portland Marathon and  blogged about it.  In November, I uploaded a post about my best friend because it was about damn time--I’d been working on that sucker for months.  Then, I took a break.  I usually cool my heels a bit after a marathon.  I like taking 2-4 weeks to chill out, occasionally work out half-heartedly, and bask in my accomplishment by backsliding like a walrus on a slippery shoreline.  This time around 2-4 weeks became 2-4 months--and counting.  

I’m calling it a hiatus.  The word means a break, gap, or space.  In anatomy, it refers to a natural empty space in bone where new cells grow.  So I’m not so much ditching long distance running as I am reclaiming the space and time it took up to see what grows there.  I’ve needed the mental energy for other endeavors and challenges.  My husband’s work life is good in a lot of ways, but oh so demanding in others.  I’ve reintroduced careful budgeting into my life, like I haven’t done since our first years as poor college kids in love.  And I’ve been taming the beast called worry.  Thankfully, since I’m not out the door for a run an hour or two before dawn, I’ve been able to stay up later at night, for conversations and chillin’ with my spouse--also for full-blown binges on dumb TV and junk food.  Hey, it’s all therapy to me.

I manage a bit of exercise here and there.  I’ve jogged a few times.  I’ve enjoyed dropping my youngest off in the play area at the gym and reacquainting myself with the elliptical machine,  the stationary bike, and various sundry equipment with shelves for books.  I even let Jillian Michaels (of The Biggest Loser fame--yes, I watch) shred me for 15 of her 30-day plan.  You should see my traveling push-up; it’s a beaut!  With the coming of the New Year, I optimistically signed up for a half marathon, because the thing I needed to warm my heels up again after luxurious weeks of cooling was a plan, a schedule, a commitment!

And still, I’m not running.  Not really running: multiple days a week with an increasingly long run on weekends and checks in my training log.  I don’t think the half marathon in 4 weeks is gonna happen. Ce la vie!

So what is the matter with me?  

Thankfully, nothing.  No nagging injury or implosion of the will.  (Maybe a small collapse of one corner of my will, but the structure is mostly standing.)  I’m simply permitting myself a season.  I’m gathering stones instead of throwing them (or maybe I’m the stone and I’m gathering moss).  I’m not searching for a race; I’m giving one up as lost.  For everything there is a season, and this particular season is cold, and the mornings are dark, and the sidewalks are treacherous with frozen slush and black ice.  And 5 a.m. comes earlier than it did last season, I swear.

And there is one reason more.  When I make running habitual in my life, it ripens into a  ritual--a sacred season of reflection.  The quiet, steady thrumming of heart and footfall opens my mind to myself.  I imagine, analyze, wonder, and decide.  My spirit heaves with my lungs.  It is good, and it is my own.  But right now, I need to save reflection, analysis, and decision for my family.  We are taking on a challenge that requires mental energy and a lot of partnership.  During this particular season, instead of waking up early to work my body and soul, I’m staying up late to chat with my husband.  We imagine, analyze, wonder, and decide together.  “Me-time” is sliding a little lower on the list, for now.

Some runners would say, “But this is exactly when you most need to keep running!”  Yep.  So true.  I need to get my sweat on for my sake and for the sake of those around me.  God knows (He really does) how dark my innards are and how much they bleed onto those around me, in dirty looks and exasperated sighs and impatient resentments.  Adding endorphins to the mix makes a positive difference.  But the scope of my physical triumph is remaining narrow for a season.  Instead of 10 miles, a 30-minute video suits me fine.  Instead of pre-dawn epic expeditions, a speed date with a treadmill at 9 a.m. will do.

I don't know how long this season lasts, so you'll have to keep reading to find out with me; and I’ll have to start writing.  Therefore, I’m making it official.  My hiatus from thefatmarathoner.blogspot.com has come to an end.   Cheers!

It all fit on one page!

Kizmet.  Serendipity.  Destiny.  Meant to be.  Sometimes a gift comes along that you know you were meant to have.  

I don’t know if my running gave me her friendship, or if her friendship gave me running.  They are mixed together like coffee and cream, like sugar in tea--dissolving into each other, each making the other better.  She’s my best friend.  

For all of us, friendship matters in our quality of life, but I’ve never found this more true for me than in my days as a stay-at-home mom.  It can be a lonely time, because between the moments of blissed-out motherhood are unparalleled doldrums and disconnection.  So maybe it was desperation that made me do it.  When this preschool mom came to me with the idea of running a marathon, I said yes.  

My first impression of her was that she was petite (a body-type that has always greened me with envy), and that she possessed the self-assured friendliness (again, making me green) that puts a person at ease.  In contrast, I’m a strange breed of extroverted introvert, or introverted extrovert.  I love people; they cheer me up, motivate me, and give me something to look forward to...until I need to run away and hide in a hole for a few hours or days to recuperate from social exertion.  I am an extro-intro.  (I’m officially copyrighting the shortening of introverted and extroverted to intro and extro.)

She was a young mom too, staying home with her kiddos.  She had been a runner in high school.  She was smart, which was apparent from our first conversation, and she was nice.  (She’ll swear she’s not, but don’t believe her.)  Apparently I fooled her into thinking I had some mix of running nice-smartness in me too, so when she overheard me mention that I had run a few half-marathons (or maybe she saw me wear one of my race shirts), she suggested I step it up and run the whole shebang.  26.2 miles.  The distance between Marathon and Athens that killed Pheidippides when he ran it.  She ignored my “by-the-time-I’m-forty” delay tactic, and hammered the last nail in my coffin the next day by bringing in a handwritten 5-month plan, charting every run and rest day, that would make me marathon-ready.  And it all fit on one page!

How did she know I would be convinced by the optical illusion of fitting it all on one sheet of paper?  Do I look that gullible?  How could she guess that I was thirsty for the implicit offer of friendship and support during the process?  Did I look that desperate?  Maybe so.  I’m so glad.  Because by scratching out, with thick, deep pen-scratches, everyone of those 88 training runs on that itsy-bitsy piece of paper--okay, I skipped a couple--I made it to race day.  I became a marathoner.  And that offer of friendship?  She more than made good on it.

Better than good.  For every marathon I’ve run, she’s run the race too.  She’s speedier than the Road Runner, so she always finishes with enough time to spare to refuel, rest up just a bit, and yes even fit in a quick shower, before she retraces her hard-earned miles to meet me and run me in as I finish my race in a state of tearful, expletive-laden decay.  

And during training, she celebrates my strong long runs and talks me off the ledge when  a slow short run with lead-heavy legs makes me feel like a loser and a fraud.  

And when a little stress in my life makes me feel like I’m metaphorically running up a mountain, she reminds me to be grateful.  Because our uphill is the rest of the world’s downhill, and on a bad day I’ve got it better than 99.9% of the world, and people wish they had my problems.

And as my kids grow, she sees and knows them and their beauty and accomplishments, and she offers her own children to them as true, dear friends.

And when my dad was so sick we didn’t know if he would make it through the night, I knew I could call her so my kids could stay over at her house and Gene could sit with me through those hard and scary hours.  I didn’t even have to ask; I knew she was there for me to give me what I needed, damn the disruption to her schedule or routines.

And she understands that though I am often conflicted and confused, I can be trusted to act from conviction.  And she believes that writing my blog isn’t a waste of my time and reading it isn’t a waste of hers.  And she listens when I ramble, and laughs with me when I laugh at myself.  She’s patient with me as I learn how to be a better listener.  She’s present for me as I learn to live in the moment.

We’re different.  She’s fast; I’m slow.  She’s skinny; I’m not.  I cling; she relaxes.  I believe in God; she doesn’t.  None of it changes the gift I’ve gotten.  She’s my best friend, and I aspire to be worthy of being hers.  To listen as well as she does and support like she can and live with the hard-won, easy strength she emulates.

There is one thing I’m better at than she is.  I brag; she doesn’t.  You see, becoming a marathoner has taught me a lot about my own strength and capacity.  Therefore, I believe it is a virtue to celebrate my accomplishments loudly in the presence of others.  By doing so, I strip myself of the excuses that might keep me from trying harder or doing the right thing.  So today, I’m gonna finish this blog by bragging for her.  She deserves it:

3:05 marathon finishing time

10th female finisher overall

1st in her age division

That’s my best friend!

Beautwonderful

Kinda cool.  And Scher coined the perfect word for capturing the ups and downs of long distance running: ecstagony:-)

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/05/opinion/focus.html?hp

A Controlled Crash

Not everything went my way in Portland.  I ran a marathon, my third now.  I was 8.5 minutes faster than my first, and less than 5 minutes behind my best time.  Not too shabby.  Still, I didn’t run the race I wanted to run.  I took too much for granted, and my pace suffered for it. 

I am five pounds lighter than when I ran the marathon in May.  I prioritized maintaining the lighter weight, so I didn’t eat enough in the week leading up to the race.  I took for granted that a slightly lighter running weight would lead to speed (5 seconds faster per mile per pound lost, or so I’ve read).  I certainly consumed a considerable amount of simple carbs, mac ‘n cheese, more mac ‘n cheese, bread with honey, pasta, and on and on.  That was fun!  But I skipped breakfast too often.  Thanks to bad timing this month, my appetite was low and my iron was low, and I should have just eaten a bit more.  My awesome running friend and marathon weekend partner informs me that tapering and fueling correctly before a marathon results in approximately four pounds of weight gain.  See...being fatter sometimes makes you faster.

Also, I trained well here in Colorado.  Five thousand plus feet of altitude.  Plenty of elevation gain in my training runs.  Faster long runs than I’ve ever managed before; I ran my 24-miler a month ago at an average pace of 11:05.  Typically, a person can run 30-90 seconds faster per mile on race day, thanks to adrenaline and recovery from tapering.  I took for granted that running at sea level would give me a great edge.  But I didn’t add speed work or pace runs--scary stuff those.  So the 10:20 pace I maintained for the first 15 miles blew up in my face at mile 16.  

In addition to my own training complacency and fueling mishaps, I drew a hand of plain bad luck.  On the morning of my marathon, my Garmin went kaput.  Crap-o-la! It was charged, checked and double-checked, then when I went to put it on, the display was blank.  Nothing.  I tried pressing the light button, the start button, two buttons at once, holding down for 5 seconds, 10 seconds, etc, etc, etc.  Total blank.  We quizzed people in the elevator, but no suggestion helped.  I was grateful for the extra stopwatch my friend had along.  She surrendered it to me for the duration of the race, and coupled with a pace chart on my wrist, I managed to run way too fast for my own good.  I’d like to say I’d have run smarter with my Garmin.  I certainly wish I could have had the chance to try.  Thankfully, the stopwatch kept me informed along the way, but it couldn’t save me when the hill at mile 16 made me face the music.

So I went out too fast.  I planned to run a 10:30-10:40 pace for the first 13-20 miles, then amp it up if I had something left.  Instead, I blazed through the first 15 miles at a 10:18-ish pace.  I always go out too fast.  I feel fresh, fabulous, and fast.  I forget that I have 5 hours and 26.2 miles to go.  I ignore my brain and start wishing for miracles, but I didn’t get any this time around.  Instead of a miracle, I got a mountain.

There was a hill at mile 16, 1 mile long and 150 feet up.  I’ve done tougher in my training, but this time around I was depleted.  I felt light-headed, dizzy, and hollow.  The 16th mile is a scary place for a hill: too late in the race to feel strong and fresh, but way too early to attack it with my last reserves.  I chose to walk the hill.  My pace suffered for the rest of the race, and walk breaks every mile were 1-3 minutes instead of 30 seconds.  Thankfully, the gross goo I ingested at 18 helped.  Eventually.

The last and scariest challenge of my Portland marathon had everything to do with breathing.  My thin air, oxygen-deprived existence in the Mile High City couldn’t save me.  My blood sugar levels were so low by the end of the race that my emotions were leaking out of me, then flowing out of me, then pouring flood-like and torrential.  Every quarter- to half-mile, my tears would seep into my eyes and threaten to spill.  My chin would tighten and quiver.  And then my throat would close.  I truly understand now why it is called getting “choked up.”  My airway would collapse and I couldn’t get it open until I restrained my emotion.  I said to myself, “It’s okay.  Today’s not your day.  You have to let the goal go.  Let it go.  You’ll finish under 5 hours.  And you’ll keep running.”  I reminded myself that I was accomplishing a great thing, not experiencing a failure.  I would find my self-acceptance, then find a deep breath.  My best friend, who had already run herself to death in her race, came back to meet me, as she always does.  She ran me in for the last mile plus.  My first words to her were, “I’m gonna hold it together.”  And I did.

I crashed on Sunday.  Events conspired against me, my training fell a bit short, and my fueling was insufficient.  It wasn’t my fastest finish, but it was my proudest.  I call it my Sully Sullenberger moment.  He’s the pilot that landed a 747 on the Hudson, saving the lives of everyone on board.  He controlled the crash and brought ‘er in.  Me, too.  I definitely crashed, but I controlled it.  The last five miles were faster than the five before them.  I cried like a baby...after the finish line.  And now I have a really good reason to put my shoes back on.  I’m gonna tweak my training, reevaluate my fueling, and run another marathon.  And another.  And another.  Woohoo!  Shit.  :-)

I Run for the People.

This is not a Che-MLK-Gandhi kind of statement.  This is an honest, selfish, greedy statement that lacks altruism entirely.  I run to feel good, to be healthy, to eat indulgently, and to brag boorishly.  But above all, I run for the people.  If you want to meet cool people, run.  Nice people?  Run.  Inspiring people?  Run.  If you want to have complete strangers cheer you, encourage you, hand you candy corn, gummy bears, and, yes, even Vaseline to smear in unmentionable places...run.  If you want to like people again, instead of just grumble or cuss at them on the highway or in the grocery store, run.  And Portland is a great place to do this.

Portland, Oregon is a great little city.  I love the manageable scale and the temperate weather.  We had great racing conditions.  Moreover, the spirit and ethos of Portland is lovely.  The transit system includes a sizable free zone, and functions well with an honor system for payment.  Riders jump out of their seats to offer a chair to older riders, moms, etc.  And the senior ticket is labeled “Honored Citizen.”  Lovely.  Not to mention that on race day the course was packed in downtown and in neighborhoods with loads of people, families, and volunteers (4,000 of them).  For every 3 marathoners, there was a volunteer making things run smoothly.  Thank you, people of Portland!

Then there are a few people who stand out.  At mile 18, a guy stood in the drizzle to hold a sign that said, “Go, Complete Stranger, Go!”  Sir, this complete stranger thanks you.  And at mile 24, when I was holding on for dear life, a guy on the sidewalk locked eyes with me and saw the state I was in.  He took a step forward, read my name on my bib, and said, “Amanda, you look like a train right now, passing these people.  Keep going!”  I nearly wept...seriously; this is not an overstatement. 

And it gets better!  Runners are amazing people, and I met some standouts this weekend.  On the plane to Portland, my friend and I found ourselves next to a fellow marathoner.  He was flying to Portland for his first marathon, and to propose to his girlfriend.  She had started him training for the marathon, and believing he had this feat in him, and believing he had a happily-ever-after in him, too.  But the ring wasn’t ready, and he was stewing in his own juices with disappointment and nervousness.  My friend and I jumped in, intervening with a quick trip to a department store where we found a cheap stand-in ring that we left at the expo for our new friend and his unsuspecting bride-to-be.  He proposed at the finish line, she said yes, and we got a text saying she was wearing that chintzy ring around like it was the most precious thing in the world.  Yippee! 

Then on the plane ride home, we sat next to another marathoner, all three of us a bit hobbly.  He’s a doctor, so you’d think he’s a smart guy.  Well...he ran the marathon because of an agreement made in a hot tub...real smart, Doc.  Look what you got yourself into.  So this Denver doctor, whose girlfriend is an avid marathoner and a doctor in Boston, flew out to be with other doctor friends who live in Portland.  Their reunion, and uninhibited hot tub time, led to marathon finishes all around.  Four friends marked their marathon milestone by planting a row of trees (gifts from the very eco-friendly Portland Marathon) in one of their front yards.  That row of trees will memorialize their friendships, their achievements, and their balls-out insanity, all of which I hope will grow sky-high with the trees.  Well done, Docs!

I’ll give the break down of my break down (yes, it was that kind of race for me) in the next few days, but the most important thing I can say about my marathon weekend is this.  I run for the people.  For the likes of Collin and Mike, and the guy with the sign saying, “Go, Complete Stranger, Go!”  I run to have someone look me in the eye, see that I am spent, past-spent, drained and double-drained, and tell me I can when I think I can’t.  Why should he care?  He shouldn’t, but he did.  We all care about each other, because the journey is shared.  We understand each other and support each other because we know together is better than alone.  That bears repeating.  Together is better than alone.

Proportions

My head is freakishly small and my shoulders are football player wide.  My arms and thighs are thick; my eyelashes are thin.  My legs are short; my ass is large.  I’m all out of proportion.

But if you take me in at a glance you won’t notice the shortcomings.  I’ll smile, you’ll find me pleasant.  Occasionally, you might see the goofy.  Something will seem a little bit hall-of-mirrors, but you won’t quite be able to put your finger on it.  It’s nothing to worry about or waste time on.  These little flaws are forgettable.  Predictable beauty, perfect proportions--it’s just too obvious for me.  Boring.  Kind of a trap, really.  What happens when time, or babies, or accidental dismemberment steals it away?  I’d rather be a little odd, and able to hold on to my appearance in an open palm.  Why blow it’s importance  out of proportion?

Like my looks, my running is all out of proportion.  I’m unpredictably slow in shorter distances, then able to pull off (given slow training times) surprisingly respectable marathon finishes.  My fastest mile ever is only a minute faster than my mile pace for a marathon.  No pace wheel can predict my finish.  I’m surprisingly fast for someone so painfully slow.  Thankfully, this allows me to relax about my running accomplishments.

So I’m gearing up for marathon #3.  In two weeks, it will all be over.  I’m hoping for a personal best; most runners are at most every race.  But it could be hot.  It could be cold and rainy.  I could twist my ankle, or get a sick stomach, or go out too fast, or go out too slow to get the time back.  The Portland Hills fault zone could unleash its fury on us all in a massive earthquake.  A lot could happen that I can’t control, but I’m trying to not allow my worries to get blown all out of proportion. 

I’ve trained and tapered, I’ve fueled and focused.  Now, I just have to take this oddly proportioned, strangely paced, worry-wart self to the start line and let ‘er rip.  Portland Marathon, October 9, 2011.  Keep me in your thoughts, and I’ll let you know how it goes.

Welcome to the Hurt

Or "The Painful Consequences of the Insane Pastime of Long Distance Running"

1. winter training, which includes walking in the front door and being mistaken for the abominable snowman
2. summer training, which includes heat rash, sunburn, and a serious farmer’s tan (there isn’t a sunscreen I can’t sweat off)
3. a weakened immune system that invariably leads to a cold at the peak of training
4. an occasional sore throat, not evidence of a cold but of the amount of time I spend sucking air down my windpipe like a deranged Hoover
5. a general aura of stinkiness, in my hair, on my clothes, in the laundry basket (a morning shower has never been so important)
6. 4 a.m. wake-up, because I’d rather run in the dark than have the glare of the sun in my eyes
7. wearing a visor, which leaves a ridiculous tan line on my forehead and preserves for posterity the salty sweat lines and general dirty dank of my existence
8. the knee ache
9. the hamstring ache
10. the quad ache
11. the foot ache
12. the side ache
13. the head ache
14. the back and neck ache (many of these have improved as my form has slightly improved...but sometimes when I’m lying perfectly still, I still feel like I’m running)
15. the bathroom break, which produces a foul excrement worthy of being placed in a brown paper bag and left on the doorstep of Hell
16. the wall, which I pretend doesn’t exist, but inevitably kicks in when I still have 5 to 10 miles to go
17. the goo, meant to allow me to avoid the wall but only in exchange for activating my gag reflex...the stuff is nasty
18. exhaustion, the yang to the runner’s high yin, which causes mild-mannered me to curse like a sailor in the last mile of a marathon
19. the uphill to the finish line (why do they do that?)
20. the shakes, an inevitable companion to the finish line; I think it is evidence of muscular post-traumatic stress disorder
21. the post-race wobble; it looks something like the walk of a 9-month pregnant woman wobbling down a hospital hallway, baby fully engaged in the birth canal
22. walking down stairs backward for a week
23. watching my peak fitness fade in mere weeks (you gotta work it to keep it)
24. the feeling of dread which accompanies the need to find another race (damn addictive hobby!)
25. the time in between, when I miss the relentless training and well-earned ache...when I miss the hurt

I must be nuts!

My Favorite Running Mantras

mantra [mahn-truh] noun: a word or formula chanted or sung as an incantation or prayer;  chant, psalm, hymn

There is no wall.
I can.  I will.  I am.  (Thanks, Chrissy!)
It gets done by doing it.
Head up, chest up, quick turnover.
This is my race.
You’re stronger than you think you are; you can do more than you think you can. (Thanks, Jamie!)
Get ‘er dunn.
Bragging rights for life!
Thank You.

What am I missing?  Do you have an exercise mantra?

Purgatory

I'm a running sinner!  I am a heretic to my own mantra, "Exercise is for everyone!"  I did the unthinkable, fell to temptation, and committed the unpardonable transgression.  I dissed another runner in my heart.

The Evergreen Town Race is a beautiful, downhill 5k & 10k that rolls through and gently down a mountain road on a golden morning once a year.  It is the prettiest scenery I've encountered in a race, and (Bonus!) it can be enjoyed at an easy, coasting slope downward.  Also, it is over after just 6.2 miles--a cakewalk for a marathoner like me.  Six miles is an easy run, a blip in my day, a roll-outta-bed, don't-give-it-a-thought jaunt.  A couple weekends ago, I gave myself the pleasure of enjoying this race.  What a delight, right?

Yes and no.  I finished strong. I ran my most strategic race yet, finishing with guts and gusto, earning a time I'm happy to call mine.  But in the middle of the race I turned into a devil.  The mountains were lovely, the amber sunlight warm but not hot.  I was running at a steady clip, a little fast--perfect pacing for race day.  Next to me was this guy, in long black shorts and a garish yellow tank.  With a belly that, on me, would have indicated a third trimester pregnancy.  He hung in there with me for 4 miles; he sweated, grunted, sucked air, and gave a woop of celebration at each mile marker at our respectable pace.  He is the kind of runner I relate to, and cheer for, and write this blog for.  He is answering the call to represent all runners--to prove anyone can do it, our bodies are made for it, and it feels better than it hurts.  And I resented him. 

On that day, during that race, I forgot the beauty around me, the power of inclusion, and the victory of just finishing.  I ignored my belief that big runners are the best thing to happen to running and health in America this millenium.  Deep in every muscle fiber and fat cell, I want everyone to feel at home in a pair of sneakers.  But on that day, I just wanted to run with the cool kids.  I didn't want to be the fat marathoner, still.

I mean, come on!  I've finished dozens of double-digit mileage runs.  I've completed a marathon or half-marathon for every digit on my hands.  I've suffered and worked sooooo much, and I'm still running next to "that guy."  Damn it!

See?  I suck.  I slipped.  My attitude did not reflect my faith--in running for all, in exercise for everyone.  This went way past a competitive spirit and into ugly-spiritedness.  Mea culpa.  I'm so sorry yellow-tank-man.  You rocked on race day!  I wish I'd said it to you during the miles we shared, or learned your name, or heard a little of your story.  It was way too easy for me to despise my idea of you, full of impression and assumption.  It's a lot harder to look down on an actual person.  My discomfort with you was really discomfort with myself.  I don't care about your gut as much as my butt, which still challenges my self-acceptance.

Having been so guilty, it seems fitting to me I'm now entering the hard stage of marathon training.  It will be my purgatory.  I will use the suffering of long runs, sore muscles, and groaning knees for purification.  Expiation, really.  I haven't just become unclean; I owe amends, restoration for wrongs.  I need to rediscover a (self-)love unaffected by size.  Time to get my heart right. 

The Magic Hour

I mess things up in extremely consistent ways.  Whether I’m racing or dieting, I go out hard and fall flat by the end.  In the same way that racing is the competitive form of running, dieting is the competitive form of eating.  In both instances, I compete with myself and skinny girls. 

My first mile or two in a race (or the first 10 in the case of a marathon) are always too fast.  Adrenaline and hopefulness kick in and control me.  My energy stores are high, seemingly bottomless, until they’re not.  Similarly, in the first hours of every day, dieting doesn’t scare me.  After years of skipping breakfast, dining on a little something, preferably containing whole grains and a little protein, is a treat.  My determination is strong, seemingly unending, until it’s not.

So toward the end of every race, and the end of every day, all of my intentions and designs, goals and strategies, go out the window.  I slow down.  I dive in.

Because I like gratification!  I want to have my cake and eat it to...the whole thing, thank you very much, with lots of frosting.  When it comes to running, I can forgive myself because the only win I’m after is crossing the finish line.  However, my weight is a different story.  The good news is I’m not dysfunctional about it.  I have a weight loss goal in the single digits; I’ll still be closer to 200 pounds than 100 pounds.  I use the term “dieting” loosely because I actually oppose dieting.  I’m simply trying to, as Michael Pollan says, “eat food, not too much, mostly plants.”  But given my predilection for Snickers and chocolate peanut butter ice cream, this takes actual effort for me.

I start strong, then weaken.  At the end of the race and at the end of the day.  Bedtime: the magic hour.  The kiddos are washed up and read to and tucked in and loved on.  The quiet sets in and I decide to reward myself with the very thing that I was so determined to avoid at the beginning of the day.  And it is soooo good, for the 2 to 10 minutes it takes to eat it.   At which point, the gratification is over and the guilt sets in.  Why is food my favorite reward (and it is still my favorite reward)?  When did the magic hour become the sliver of time in which I’m left alone?  After all, I love and adore my family; they are my favorite people.  Ah, but sometimes silence is golden...and gratifying.

This morning, I read about the recent London riots, about the predominance of gratification in the actions of some of the looters, looking to get a groovy pair of shoes outta the bedlam.  Let me avoid semantics (and avoid the complex issues of justice, opportunity, and class involved in the riots) by saying that by gratification I mean that desire to experience a quick reward.  I mean the need for pleasure, for something that is good to your senses.  Gratification is great; I’m all for it.  Find ways of gratifying yourself!   (Did I just say that?)  But when I talk about gratification I mean something lesser than satisfaction, which comes with effort, and for me goes a bit deeper than the senses and into the soul.  Gratification is cheap and easy, and sometimes needs to be cast aside for something better, like gratitude.  If I’m getting preachy, please know that my audience is myself.

I will continue to need to decompress after the kids go to bed, and I will still allow myself a sweet treat two or three nights a week.  However, I’m trying to shift to just a single serving of the sweet treat, maybe try a glass of wine as a happy substitute on occasion.  And I’m trying to move my magic hour to the morning.  Silence and peace accompany me on my 5 a.m. runs.  The stars fade slowly into the lavender light of early morning.  The needs of other people are temporarily shelved.  I am able to hear myself think--sometimes long enough to have a thought worth remembering, or to say a prayer of thankfulness, or to gather enough gumption to put gratification into perspective.

Food Issues

A little perspective.  If you can take a little time to learn, please take it today.  If you can give a little money to help, please give it today.

http://www.ted.com/talks/ellen_gustafson_obesity_hunger_1_global_food_issue.html

http://www.ted.com/talks/josette_sheeran_ending_hunger_now.html

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/08/01/breaking-bread-everywhere-plentifully-or-pitifully/?src=dayp

http://www.denver-redcross.org/detalle_noticias.asp?SN=200&OP=210&id=9580&IDCapitulo=Q4Q26NY21N

Why Blog?

*Seems like a good question to answer, especially after taking the whole month of July off.

Why blog?  I never thought I’d do it.  In fact, I’ve long thought it is the worst medium for me.  I want to write, to be a writer.  Who doesn’t these days?  However, I’m a bit of a perfectionist, and maybe a bit of a prig. 

Perfectionism: I write a little then revise a lot, then sit on the results for several months only to return to it and revise some more.  I’ve got 15 pages of a young adult novel that I still dream about working on.  Just dreaming right now, though.  In order to give it the attention I want to give it, really work it into something I’m proud of, I want to wait until both babies are in school.  I fear neglecting them if I commit to working on writing now.  Worse, I have greater fear of writing in fits and starts only to produce something mediocre.  Let me add that up for you: I fear writing badly more than I fear neglecting my children.  I’m a horrible human being.  If writing well is such a need for me that I would risk ignoring my children’s needs, writing in the offhand, frequent way of blogging is simply a bad fit.  Right?

Priggishness: I love great works of literature.  My best friends growing up were authors, and stories formed me as much as people of flesh and blood.  When I visited my brilliant and accomplished Cambridge doctoral candidate sister, I stood in the Trinity College library, before a Shakespeare First Folio, and teared up.  I was breathless; I actually lost my ability to breathe for a moment.  I aspire to write well, in the vein of the classics.  I don’t expect to achieve greatness, but I don’t want to let go of aspiring to it.  Blogging is relaxed--full of transmutation, contradiction, and mess.  As a reader, I like the informality of blogs.  However, as a writer, I am terrified of the inescapability of writing something I will regret making public.  Probably on a weekly basis.  Yikes.

So why blog?  Why now and why about my running?  Let me start with the “why now?” question.  Why not now?  My only reason to continue putting off making the ramblings public is fear, and I’m not comfortable with fear having too much room in my life.  So I’m embracing my skill at self-deprecation and self-revelation rather than hoarding it in yet another draft on my hard drive. 

Why the blogosphere?  I guess that’s obvious.  Who’s gonna publish me but me?  Besides, I like the democratization of readers choosing to follow or not without a dime of investment, marketing, or media blitz in the mix. 

And why running?  Why make this little hobby of mine the focus of my time and yours?  After all, I slog through miles ungracefully and slow.  No inspiring triumph at the end of this story; I won’t be working my way to a 30-pound weight loss and a Boston qualifying time.  But my running is my own, peppered always with moments of blissful self-forgetfulness or renewed self-empowerment. 

In writing about my running, I don’t risk those I love hating me for dragging them into my delusions of literary grandeur.  Myself as wife, mother, teacher, Christian...these identities are at my core.  However, they are not mine alone.  They are knit, warp and woof, into the stories of people more priceless and complex than my words can approach.  My  beloved babies, my heroic husband, my mom and dad, my sisters, my few friends who I hold as close to myself as family.  They are treasures that I will continue to lock in the box of my private life, safe and beautiful.  I read Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again when I was too young to see past the terrible risk of sacrificing one’s personal world to the universal good of art, which teaches us to love and understand humanity better, but in the abstract.  I’d like to keep my loved ones as concrete as possible, and let them be whole--not cleaved into pieces I can squeeze into paragraphs.

But I’ll tell you all about my running.  It’s just me out there, and times and distances, and embarrassing accidents, and even more embarrassing choices.  When it comes to myself, really I have no shame.  It should make for interesting reading...harmless, interesting reading.

Chores

Today running was a chore.  Yesterday and the day before, running was a chore.  I was a little sick over the weekend: sore throat, slight fever, kinda rundown, definitely tired.  The 8 mile run I did last Thursday plum near killed me...okay, I’m exaggerating, but I sure felt crummy afterwards.  I totally scrapped the 14-miler on my schedule for the weekend, and I won’t make it up.  Scrapping a long run in the middle of marathon training is not advisable.  But I was sick, and it’s summer so being sick sucks.  I rested.  That was the right decision.

So Monday rolled around and I had big plans to amp up my mileage so I could feel “back on track.”  I planned for 8 miles, then got out there and ran...3.  And they were slow, my legs were as heavy as a mastadon’s, and I felt every fraction of my feeble 1 degree fever.  Tuesday, I was more realistic, planning for 6, then I got out there and ran...4.  Ugh.  Finally, this morning, I managed 6 miles.  In a couple more days I have to slog out 14 miles one way or another.  I suspect I’ll manage it, with the help of frequent walk breaks, maybe a Snickers bar in the middle or something. 

The good news is I’m feeling better.  Healthier everyday, getting plenty of rest and hydration.  It was just a lousy blip of a bug. Still, running was a chore, and may continue to be a chore for a while.  I have never been able to anticipate which mornings would hold running magic...unexpected speed or a perfect sunrise or the feeling that Orion was perched in the sky just to cheer for me.  I hope I get a morning like that soon, but I never will if I stop running when it becomes a chore.

But here’s the thing about me and chores.  I hate them.  I feel genuine malice toward them; they do soul-crushing damage to me.  I have never met the person who enjoys them, who goes out of their way to enjoy a little vaccuuming or a good bed-making.  I’ve heard they exist, but they may deserve protected status because they are a rare and disappearing breed.  I belong to a different species:  non-home-making, would rather eat bon-bons, can deal with a little (or big) mess if it will save me a little time and energy, because even if I do it the dirt will come back and the bed will get slept in tonight anyways.  And that’s just the beginning of my problems with chores. 

Not only do I hate spending energy in the vortex of do-it-all-again-tomorrow activity, but I feel a sapping of my true nature when I do so.  I’m made for better than this, right?  I’ve heard the line about serving those you love in the small ways.  I know managing pesky responsibilities offers a reward of comfort and gratitude.  I understand that it’s part of being a good steward of my blessings.  Still.  I want to change the world, not rearrange my furniture.  If I prioritize chores, something happens in me that scares me: I find myself forgetting the sublime, only able to remember tasks.  When Martha takes over in me, Mary gets pushed all the way out.  And Martha is boring.

Some of my good friends, those women I admire for all the ways they are different than me, garden.  Some of them sew or paint.  Some of them now raise chickens for fresh eggs.  They are pioneer-strong, rocket-scientist-smart, makers-of-masterpieces, embodiments of grace and familial love.  And their houses are cleaner than mine.  But, darn it, this week I ran even when it was a chore.  So I’m not a hopeless case yet.  Gene, honey, no promises, but I’ll try to take all my chores a little bit more in stride.

S#%@ Happens.

Shit happens.  And I don't mean unexpected setbacks, like a turned ankle or swine flu.  I mean poop.  Number 2.  BMs.  I promised blackmail material, and today I intend to deliver.

Everyone should try running.  Our bodies are good at it; we are engineered for endurance and speed.  The benefits, even for casual joggers, are significant, like stronger heart and lungs and firmer asses.  It is cheap exercise that you can do right outside your door with just a decent pair of tennies.  Also, running a mile can be as personally rewarding as running a marathon.  I'm not sure what all you non-runners are waiting for, a personal invitation?  Here it is: join me in running.  I'd love to hear about all the new adventures, personal insights, and physical improvements you experience.  Listen to your body; mix walking and running til you can run straight through, then go farther.  Also, bring tissue paper.

Because, occasionally, you will need to take a dump.  Running gets the plumbing moving like nothing I know.  You and your intestines might need a little time to get to know each other.  If I can start my morning with a cup of caffeinated tea and 45 minutes of peace and quiet, then I'm almost guaranteed a good bathroom session before I start my run.  Almost guaranteed. 

However, there are times when the body rebels...or dinner doesn't sit right...or a little bug begins to wreak havoc in the tummy.  It can strike anywhere, lightening fast.  So like a good boy scout, be prepared. 

With some practice, I've learned what public restrooms are available on my running routes, even at god-awful-early a.m. hours.  And I'm on intimate terms with a few ditches.  And a little patch of shrubs along Bear Creek.  And a window well at my house when I once forgot my keys.  Gene will never let me forget that one.  He will also be horrified that I've now made the incident public; he has a much healthier sense of modesty than I do.  Sorry, honey.  And my best friend and I fertilized the same tree in the gray light of pre-dawn before our first marathon together.  Now that's bonding.

Your turn.  Are you a runner?  Got any good shit stories?