Conversation with my father: 

C:  “So, did mom tell you I signed up for the Half Marathon in November?”

D:  “I heard that.  Mmmmm.  And WHY would you do something like that?”

C:  “Good question.  No idea.  Um.  Stanley told me to?”

D:  “Is Stanley going to carry you across the finish line?”  (just kidding, he didn’t say that, but he totally should have)

C:  “I think I just need a goal.  Once I completed the 10K, I kept training, but it was anti-climactic to not have a race at the end of it.”

D:  “But. . . a half marathon?”

C:  “The real reason:  I’m batshit crazy.”

First run was last Saturday.  I wanted to hide under my car when it was done. I tried to keep up with the 9 1/2 minute milers on my team.  I did, for the first two miles.  I will not talk about the last mile.  This week has been marginally better.  Today I ran at Deep Run with John, and he neglected to mention that while it was very shady (good!), it was like running up a mountain (bad!).  I looked like I showered when we finally finished - water was pouring out of me.  Unfortunately I did not smell as if I’d showered.  I even went to Starbucks (had a free coupon) and subjected everyone there to my funk.  That’s how little I cared after that run. 

I remember thinking I’d never be able to run three miles without feeling like I’d rather rip my eyeballs out with sand-coated fingertips.  I remember thinking that I could never complete a 10K.  I also remember the first 5k I ran, and how I felt like I could have run forever. 

(I did not feel that way after running the 10K)

I try looking only one week ahead on the training schedule.  I try not to compare myself to every woman on the team.  I try to think about Theresa, Prissie, Mark, Todd, Kevin, Gina, and a million others as Gods with a Capital G.  Maybe one day long ago they were like me, forcing my body to do something it really doesn’t want to do.  Instead of Fat Girl Running, I’m Phat Girl Runnin’.  There is no alternative.  And at the end of the run on Saturday, there will be mimosas. 

After training for the 10K since January, it was a bit surreal to watch the first heat of amazing gazelle-like runners blast through the starting line and know that in 50 minutes, my heat would start and I’d be following them (at more than half speed I might add).  My running group turned out in full force.  The excitement was tangible.  I was especially excited that we were able to find a parking spot only about a mile away from the race’s start.  Unfortunately, two friends who tried to show up later to cheer me on at the finish line were unable to find any parking whatsoever, and drove around for 45 minutes before giving up.  35,000 people + downtown parking:  interesting combination.

In December of 2009, I distinctly remember talking to Kate Hall about the mess my life was.  We were having coffee and discussing anything other than motherhood, and she mentioned she was training for the 10K with a team called Run Like A Mother.  She said, “You should sign up!”  and I said, “Sure, why not?”

Why not indeed.  First, I’m not a runner. I’ve never liked it.  My legs are short, my stride is ridiculous, my arches hurt, I get shin splints, I have a weak left ankle.  I’m about to turn 39.  Did I mention I never ran much?  The most I’d ever done was training badly for a 5K, and most anyone in decent cardiovascular shape can wing that.  Even so, it nearly killed me.  Ask Julie. 

Summoning blind faith in the words of our trainer, who promised if we followed her plan we would all make it, I started training.  I was skeptical.  Surprisingly, I never hated the runs because we started with a run/walk combo, and the longer runs were on Saturdays, with a large group of mothers in varying degrees of shape and health.  Up until we started running 5 miles, I was able to chat through the runs, exchange stories about kids and dogs and husbands, divorces, second husbands, cars, foot problems and what kind of running shoes fit best for short fat women.  The time flew.

I trained.  When it rained, I ran on the Hamster Wheel From Hell (the indoor track at the Y).  I ran in snow, I tried not to kill myself on slush, and I ran when it was so cold my nose cracked and bled.  Oddly enough, I enjoyed it.  I never missed a training run until last Saturday, when I hurt my ankle running in my neighborhood. Laura sternly told me, “Run the 6 mile training run this week, or run the Monument Avenue 10K.  But you’re not going to run both of them, so pick what’s important to you.”  I chose the race, of course. 

The training began to take on a life of its own, a meaning of its own.  Here was something that was very difficult for me.  I was scared to start, mortified that I would fail, committed to finishing.  My only goals:  run the entire time, and finish.  I was having trouble matching my internal picture of myself to someone who could run any distance at all, even if it was only 6.2 miles.  I began to associate today’s race, and crossing the finish line, with the life I’ve been living for the last 9 months.  If I could run this race - without stopping, without faltering - and cross the finish line, I could do anything.  Each time I hit a new milestone - 3 miles in training, 3.5, 4, one stunning afternoon where I went 5 miles in 50 minutes - I felt stronger, better, more focused.  The stress of the week, my frustrations with life in general - they all melted away and nothing else mattered but the music in my ears and my feet on the pavement. 

The 10K here is fairly well-known.  People from all over come to run it.  Seeing a throng of 20,000 people in front of me on Monument Avenue was mind-blowing.  Every couple of blocks, a different band played.  Thousands line the street to cheer and clap.  Homemade signs with note of encouragement litter the telephone poles or are mounted on sticks.  For a moment, everyone cheers for everyone else.  When I finally was released from the starting gate, I couldn’t believe I was actually doing it.  By mile 2, I was between my two running buddies.  I tried to keep Jenn’s Run Like A Mother skirt in my view as both eye candy and inspiration (she has a cute butt).  Running alone was weird in a crowd that huge, but I liked it. I watched a guy dressed like Darth Vader (with a huge papier-mache Death Star hanging over his head!) run.  I saw the Wizard of Oz team, including one poor sucker who was wearing a huge tornado over his body made out of what looked like something heavy.  Girls ran in tutus (some men, too).  One girl ran dressed as a mermaid complete with a tiny little shell bikini top.  Did I mention it was 34 degrees when we started running?  Ketchup and Mustard were in front of me for a while.  Two guys dressed entirely in lime green stretch suits (including over their faces) were unfortunately in front of me as well - that was far more detail of someone’s body than I ever wanted to see. . . .

Heading back at Mile 3, I faltered and played mental games with myself.  I checked in with myself.  Feet okay?  Check.  Ankle swollen?  Nope.  Dehydration level?  Negligible.  Fullness of bladder?  All systems go.  Then I checked out all the “for sale” signs on Monument and indulged fantasies of myself raising Lily and Arden on one of the most famous streets in Richmond, tucked behind leaded glass windows or terracotta roof tiles and Spanish arches.  It got me to mile 6. 

With only .2 miles to go, I summoned the last bit of energy I had and sprinted.  I spent some time trying to find my friend’s faces as I didn’t know they’d been unable to find parking.  Then I just ran.  I crossed the finish line. I did it in 1:08:28.  I was hoping to break an hour, but I took it slow because of my ankle.  Crossing the line, I wept.  My sister would have been mortified.  It was mostly happy tears; tears of gratitude for my body that enabled me to get through it, gratitude for the training team, pure unadulterated joy that I had accomplished something that was, well, freakin’ hard for me.  For a few moments, I was invincible, superhuman, able to leap divorces and foreclosures in a single bound. 

Reality set back in quickly enough, but those few minutes were truly amazing.  Hugging my training teammates, we all whooped and hollered and acted like fools.  Then we walked back to the car and went our separate ways.

I’ll probably do a 5K in a couple of weeks.  Pam, one of my running buddies, wants to work on her speed for 5ks and that sounds like a great idea to me.  I don’t want to stop running, but I’m not going to go race crazy, either.  Those moments of superhero status are like crack cocaine for the self-esteem impaired.  Mama wants some more. 

Saturday I completed my first 5K in, like, 100 years.  I loved it, except the part where we were made to freeze outside for 45 minutes.  There were a lot of half-hearted jumping jacks and full-fledged bitching.  We finally figured out the Food Court was open and attempted to warm up there.  I peed about 23 times because I was so nervous. 

I wouldn’t say the race was easy, but it was definitely not difficult.  Laura ended up running it with the Run Like A Mother posse; I have two regular running buddies in the group.  We all finished in under 35 minutes, a personal best for me.  I wasn’t sore and I wasn’t tired.  I was pretty damn proud of myself. Toward the end, I heard the music from Chariots of Fire and sprinted the last 300 yards.  I was almost screaming, “I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!”  Then I nearly puked walking to my car.

After a reapplication of deodorant, I headed up to Maryland to see Julie.  The drive through NoVa was its usual cluster - 4 1/2 hours later, I had made it the 160 miles to Sykesville.  Her friend Christine hosted a baby shower for her soon-to-be adopted Ethiopian daughter.  It was great to see her, even though she kept calling it a “Smash and Grab” visit.  She got a lot of good stuff and had, I’m sure, a ton of fun trying to cram it all into a duffel bag for the flight back to Colorado.  Whenever I see her, it’s like no time has passed (cliche much?) and Christine was an amazing host.  My one bone to pick:  Christine kept telling me to drink a wine cooler, and I did.  Um, it wasn’t a wine cooler.  It was a Smirnoff Ice something or other.  After running and not eating much, I was a staggering disaster after about 20 minutes.  No more Smirnoff Ice for me, ever - but it was pretty tasty! 

The trip back was much better and took less than 3 hours.  Wahoo! 

I haven’t been blogging, even though I’ve been thinking about blogging.  The reasons?  I’ve been busy embroidering (nap mat season has started), my kids are out of school, my laundry has been humping itself and multiplying, and swim team is killing me just a little bit. 

Even though I’ve only made it to the gym once this week because of crazy swim team practice scheduling and summer camp preschool stuff, I’ve ridden my new bike (!!!) twice.  Tonight I really wanted to work out, so I ignored the fact that it was raining and went for a long bike ride.  I got completely soaked but instead of letting it bother me I actually enjoyed it.  I remember riding my 12-speed to work at Potter’s Bakery in Traverse City in the wee hours of the morn (yeah, like 6 AM in the summer).  One particularly memorable event:  riding down Center Road under a brilliant and huge full moon, while listening to Bananarama on my bright yellow sports Walkman.  “Robert DeNiro’s waiting . . . talking Italian . . .”  More interesting imagining letting my own children ride 5 miles-ish to work in the dark, without a bike helmet, on a busy road with no shoulders or bike path, wearing a Walkman that drowned out any car noises.  It goes without saying that times have changed!

The one day I did make it to the gym, I was scarred for life.  I should have been forewarned - the women who work in Child Watch were talking about the “Guy With The Foot” when I dropped off Lily and Arden.  I tried to get them to explain but they clammed up.

Fast forward 15 minutes.  I’m sweating in a swine-like fashion when I look up into the weight room.  Imagine a Vietnam-era vet or hippy-turned-Harley rider stereotype.  You know, lots of wrinkles from smoking.  Red bandana around the hair (long, of course, and braided, of course).  Only this guy was doing calf presses.  And one of his legs, from the knee down, was buck naked.  As in no sock, no pant leg, no shoes - no nothin’.  This would normally disturb me as his sweating leg was rubbing all over the equipment I, and many others, use on a regular basis.  Unfortunately I didn’t have time to be disturbed because my mouth flopped open and my eyes bugged out. 

Something was SERIOUSLY wrong with this dude’s foot.  It was swollen, almost like a diabetic’s foot, but covered in what can only be called a crust.  Mixed into the crust were random red spots that glistened and oozed occasionally.  He was also missing at least one toe but I couldn’t bring myself to look at the bloated foot long enough for an accurate count. 

I get that he’s hurt.  He probably got hurt fighting for our country, or after a bar fight to protect some woman’s honor . . . but how can it be sanitary, or even safe, to wander around the gym with one oozing foot completely bare???  I’m all about working out and being healthy. I’m also not normally squeamish, but watching him wander from machine to machine, swinging the OozeFoot with him and touching all the things I will probably never touch again just put me over the edge. 

Anyone else skeeved by this???  Oh, the topper?  Never saw him wipe down a machine. Nope, not once.

(uncomfortable silence followed by non-sequitur)

Summer vacation has officially started.  Melissa Summers is being slammed, as she is annually, by all the bloggers who hate her and love to call her a bad mom because she hates summer vacation and can’t seem to find a good way to fill up all those hours with her two kids without going insane.  I’m lucky - both kids are enrolled in camps for half days.  This is good for two reasons - too much togetherness makes all of us crazy, and summer is the busiest time of the year for me.  Momma gotta work!  But back to Miss Summers.  I don’t find fearing summer vacation bash-worthy.  I do think if you dread summer that much, you ought to get your kids involved in some major camp-fests or whatever floats your boat and keeps you sane.  I just think it’s funny that every summer Melissa blogs about all of those hours, and the same few bloggers who write anonymous hate-blogs get all up in arms about it.  I also think it’s funny that Melissa normally only responds to negative comments on her blog, which are few and far between . . . but believe me, that’s a blogger rant for another day. 

In the meantime, I’m chugging away, hoping to put a serious dent in Ye Olde Lyne of Credit and trying to make sure my kids have a well-rounded summer, the perfect balance of education, chlorine, and s’mores.