Ironing It Out

Relocation!

2010-02-21T21:52:00.000-07:00

Hi very patient, dedicated readers. I haven't blogged in a while because I've been directing my efforts towards this site: Run Like A Mother.

Follow me there, and I promise, I won't move again.

Running to Stand Still

2010-01-01T20:34:00.002-07:00

I'm a runner for a reason: I thrive on motion, change, challenge. Ask me to meditate, and I'm clueless and restless. Ask me to run as fast as I can, and I'll give it my best shot.

I've been waiting for a revelation for a resolution for 2010. I wasn't expecting lightning to strike, but I just wanted a subtle sign that would clue me into what lay ahead for the next year--and what needs my attention. No luck.

But then I was changing my clothes to go see It's Complicated--I needed a break from the kids and a break from this New Year's heaviness I feel--I started thinking, as I often do, in Facebook posts. I'm a rare status updater but that's not for lacking of thinking about it. (I hope I'm not the only one who has adopted this thought pattern...otherwise, I'll feel kinda dweeby.)

Here's my imaginary update:
Dimity has, in the last decade, gotten married, moved five times, given birth twice, adopted two dogs and written roughly a million words. (Maybe a bit of inflation on the word count, but it's the holidays, and so she gets to round up.) Her resolution for the next decade: stay still.

And that is as close to I came to an a-ha moment. Be content. I'll take it. I'll keep my legs in motion, of course, but I'm going to do my best to keep my mind still. Anybody with tips that don't include meditation, I'm all ears.

(My unsolicited, unrelated tip: It's Complicated, in which Meryl Streep has a very brief running scene, is definitely worth seeing, but not necessary on the big screen.)

Lots of happy miles, moments and laughs to everybody in the new year.

p.s. M.J.: Thanks for reading. I didn't have your e-mail to answer your question in private, but the Run Less, Run Faster plan is for all paces; you can get specific paces and plans in the book. Sorry if that's not super helpful...

Exhibit A: 10k Success

2009-12-20T20:31:00.000-07:00

I had an inkling the Run Less, Run Faster program was working because my longer runs have become a smidge faster--10 seconds per mile or so--but my effort seems to be the same. But yesterday I had a chance to prove how much seven Monday mornings doing speedwork on the treadmill--and seven Thursdays running hellish tempo runs and seven Saturdays running long--has paid off.

I entered, along with my friend Katie, the Rudolph's Revenge 10k since my tempo run this week was 5 miles at a 8:25 pace. I hate those kinds of runs. Not short enough, like speedwork, that I can just suck it up and hang on. Not long enough, like 10 milers, where I can slow down and enjoy the groove. Just a medium length that on paper (just five miles!) looks relatively easy, but when I factor in the other aspects (a pace that makes my legs and lungs burn, no prescribed rest), it's really. really. freakin. hard.

Did I mention I hate tempo runs?

So I head to the race, telling myself, 5 miles at 8:25 or so, and then I can cruise the last mile. I had forgotten, though, how much momentum you get at a race. So I take off, in a herd of reindeer, and glance down at my Garmin. 7:58 or something for the first mile. Oh, Dimity, you're going to pay. At the 1.5 mile, where more than half the group peeled off for the 5k option, I was glad to get rid of the speedsters who were almost done with their race. Settle in, and slow down.

I slowed down, but not by much. Passing people, I realized they were breathing way harder than I was. That gave me confidence to push a little harder. I passed a woman in a Timex jersey (read: she's on a sponsored team) and I thought, I'll feel stupid when she gets me again, but at least I tried. By the 4 mile mark, my splits were still sub-8:20 (!), but the glee emanating from my Garmin was being eclipsed by the pain in my legs.

So I divided up the race into 22 more tenths of a mile, which was mentally easier for me. At mile 5--12 more pieces to go--two women running side-by-side passed me, and I decided I would stay as close as I could to them. I did, with a (barely) sub-8 minute. Me? Click off a sub-8 for the last mile of a 10k? I'd almost say it was the wrong Dimity, but I'm pretty sure I was the only Dimity in the race.

"Sorry," I said as I saw the finish line and picked it up to a sprint (me? really?), passing the two ladies who graciously let me run on their heels for a mile. I never saw Timex again. I crossed in 50:20ish, good enough for 5th place in my 40-woman age group. My legs were shaking and my head was pounding, but my smile was unmistakable--and it stayed there for the rest of the day.

I'm usually not somebody who waxes on about my times and race results, but yesterday was surreal. Honestly, it was like an out-of-body experience. I felt so strong and so confident; I knew, when I passed people, I was putting distance between me and them, not just eeking by them and beginning a game of pass/be passed/pass/be passed, as I normally do. (Minus Timex, of course...I get a little intimidated by sponsored jerseys and the incredibly fit women who wear them.)

I've followed RLRF to a tee, with one exception: six weeks into the program, I took a recovery week, with very little running, for a variety of reasons. I've still got ten weeks to go before Austin, and as unpsyched as I am for ten more tempo runs, I'm in to the end. This sucker works.

Thanks and Praise

2009-11-25T19:00:00.002-07:00

Dear Amelia,
You are welcome for your silly brother. Most days, anyway.

I love helping you with your homework. Most days, anyway.

I hope that my neurotic and frugal attitude in these semi-scary times hasn't impacted you so much that, in two decades, I tune into the Suze Orman show find you chatting with her, blaming your $50,000 credit card debt on the fact that, way back in the day, your mother obsessed over the price of a Hanna Andersson dress.

Most of all, thank you for being my six-year-old daughter who makes me laugh. Every day.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Holes

2009-11-15T19:45:00.001-07:00

I admit, I'm a glass half-empty kind of person. I hate that I'm like that way, and I do my best to think from the bottom up, not the top down, but still: most days, my glass is not full.

I was reading my essay from the P.S. Anthology (last plug, I promise) out loud in bed on Monday night, preparing for a reading on Tuesday night. It was after nine--the hour my brain officially punches out for the day--and I hadn't seen the essay for months. As I read it aloud, cozy under my comforter, all I saw was what wasn't there: the words choices I didn't think hard enough about; the sentences that weren't as funny as I thought they were; the deeper meaning that I thought I had conveyed, but clearly, clearly hadn't.

I decided I didn't really want to read it--it's a pretty personal essay, and I didn't want people judging both my thoughts and my bad writing--and walked around all day on Tuesday with a pit in my stomach. I was so nervous, I hardly ate a thing all day. Which doesn't even happen to me when I have the stomach flu.

I've been the same way with this training plan, now 3 weeks old. Instead of seeing that I almost nailed a workout, I dwell on the fact that I took two walk breaks. Or I that was a whole 3 seconds off the ridiculously anal paces the authors give. Or, when I did actually nail a workout, I think, thank God it's over. I couldn't have hung on for much longer.

So Tuesday night rolls around, and feeling emboldened by two glasses of wine (one too many, in retrospect) and the fact that my two co-contributors who read before me didn't drop dead at the podium, I got up to read. My legs were shaking, but my voice was steady. I got some laughs for a line about dialing my own phone number to call my imaginary friend (1977: pre-voicemail days), and I relaxed. My glass was filling up. I barely looked up at the audience, and I'm sure my jittery legs must have burned 200 calories during the 10 minute reading, but I really enjoyed the experience.

I didn't see the holes. I saw the whole.

Thursday morning, trying to embrace my new perspective, and I've got my least favorite workout so far served up: 3 miles at fast tempo pace, which is 8:10 for me. My second attempt at 24:30 of suffering. I set out in the gray darkness, only seeing the numbers on my Garmin when I ran under a streetlight. At the halfway point, I was still under 8:10 average. Rock on.

Then I turned around. Oh, turns out, I was running on a slight downhill with the wind at my back. F*&^. The sound you hear? Water slowly pouring out of the glass. I tell myself, just run as hard as you can and don't worry about your splits.

Of course, I obsessively checked my splits at every opportunity, but I didn't launch into self-berating mode as they inched up past 8:30. Instead, when 3.00 miles finally, finally appeared on my Garmin, I immediately put on the brakes. As I was catching my breath, I said to myself out loud, "Nice job, Dimity. You didn't walk. Really nice job."

In other words, I did the whole workout. It's a start.

A Commercial Interruption

2009-11-06T18:40:00.001-07:00

While I catch my breath from my tempo run yesterday morning (a bit of a hyperbole, but entirely possible, unfortunately), I wanted throw out two bits of shameless self-promotion:

PS: What I Didn't Say, is an anthology of unsent letters to female friends written by a range of witty, smart, interesting women that I'm thrilled to be grouped with. For any local Front Rangers out there, I, along with my friends Bevin and Megan and soon-to-be-friend Jill, will be reading our essay from it at The Tattered Cover (the Colfax location) on Tuesday night, the 10th, at 7:30 p.m. My essay? To my invisible friend from my childhood, who--big sigh--I still miss more than I should.

Run Like A Mother is a running book unlike any other (clinical, boring, workout-heavy) running book out there. Sarah and I spun the non-marathon-centric text out of our 2007 marathon adventures, and it will be hitting shelves in mid-March. But there's no time like now to start promoting it, considering I found it today on Amazon (killing time by, you know, googling my own name). We haven't cracked the egg yet on marketing it—stay tuned for a mothering/running extravaganza—but just wanted to throw it out there in case ordering gifts for March birthdays is on your to-do list.

(Also, there will be one change on the cover: it'll read: How To Get Moving--and Not Lose Your Family, Job, or Sanity. While we love our jobs, we love our families more.)

O.k., back to your regularly scheduled blog. I've got a long run tomorrow, and a post I'm cooking up in my head about supplements. Stay tuned.

Snow Daze

2009-10-30T20:11:00.006-06:00

Snow day: the words conjure up making a snowman, followed by hot chocolate and pumpkin bread, rosy cheeks and general love all around. We got over 12 inches of snow in two days, enough powder to cancel school for snow days except that my kids were already on fall break. What's fall break? most of the country might ask. I wish I knew. I guess maybe Denver students deserve a break from such academically challenging exercises as looking for circle shapes in preschool and memorizing vowel blends in first grade. Or maybe the teachers do.

But I digress. We did have those nice marshmallow moments, like walking down the middle of the quiet, white street to get to the sledding hill. For about 20 minutes total. The rest of the time? Not so peaceful. Ben takes off his mittens then grabs the snow with his bare hands, and wails for the rest of the 10-minute-walk home. Amelia won't share the one snow shovel we own. Ben whines for more TV after finishing a 90-minute Thomas video straight through. Amelia is sooooo bored.

Hearing the word Mom--as in, "Watch me, Mom" or "Can you wipe me, Mom?" or "MOOOM!"--roughly 60 times an hour, I'm not much better. I get huffy after dressing and undressing them each in winter garb three times daily. I'm pretty sure it's easier to run a mile through waist-deep snow than it is get a 3-year-old to get his thumb into the correct mitten slot over and over and over again. Each time the duo is locked and loaded, I tell them it might be a good idea to stay out a while because it takes so long to get ready to go outside. Each time, they're knocking at the door sooner than I can read a section of the newspaper. Accompanying the disrobing of the roughly 50 pieces of winter gear are clumps of snow that melt and turn into slick puddles that Ben slips on. More whining.

Release for me came at about 6:12 on Thursday night, when I decided to head to the Y for my second RLRF run. I had big plans: PT exercises first, then rolling out my muscles, then 2-mile warm-up before the 3-miles at hang-on-for-dear-life pace, a mile cooldown, and stretching. Then I saw a sign that said the Y was closing at 7 p.m. So I flung off my sweats, sped through a 10 minute warm-up, and braced for the short tempo run (8:10 pace). I made it through .8 mile before I (had to?) hit pause. Regained my breath for about 20 seconds, and started again. Made it to 2.2 miles, and another break before finishing 3 miles, cooling down for about 4 minutes and driving home.

I'm pretty sure I defeated the whole purpose of the workout by taking short breaks, but I justified it by telling myself this first week of RLRF is a kind of test drive. I'm kicking my tires, checking under my hood, hoping my lemony body is stronger than it feels. Round three--an 8-miler at a not-crazy speed--is tomorrow. Even though I'll be running through puddles the size of Lake Erie, I'm definitely, definitely running outside.

Thanks for all your great comments to my previous entry; I'm so excited so many people have had such success with RLRF. And I'm glad a few are going along for the training plan. (Priscilla: I think you can do it without a Garmin, but I think at least having mile markers on a trail so you can gauge your effort would be helpful.)

Good luck to all in the NYC Marathon and anybody else getting out there this weekend. Run strong and have a ball.

Experiment Austin Underway

2009-10-26T18:45:00.000-06:00

I realized, ever since I really became rededicated to the craziness that is endurance training, I've always had accountability--a huge asset when my motivation goes MIA for weeks. Mostly, that accountability has been in the form of a coach; I was fortunate enough to enlist a coach for the Nike Women's Marathon story in 2007; that worked so well, last summer, when I had my first real triathon "season" (read: four races), I opted to pay for a coach.

But I'm feeling the recession as sorely as my quads felt after the half-marathon last week, so I've decided to go old-school on this training plan. Grant has used Run Less, Run Faster to get race-ready a couple of times. Every time he returns from a RLRF run, he looks cooked and complains a bit about how hard the run was, but seems very pleased with his effort. (He hasn't really tested his training in actual races...long story.)

Since I'm an ace complainer, I'm giving the training plan a try for the Austin half-marathon in February; one of its hallmarks, only three runs a week, sounds like the nirvana to my slowly crumbling body. Two days are reserved for fairly easy cross-training (and physical therapy) and two days are for rest (and physical therapy).

But, as I learned today, sounds and feels are two totally different verbs. My first workout: 12 x 400, with 90 seconds rest between intervals at a pace determined by my finishing time last week. (The authors leave nothing to guesstimate, giving exact paces for the three weekly runs: speedwork; fast-, mid- and slow-tempo runs; and longer runs.)

I don't think I've ever pushed an "8" on the treadmill until today.

But 8.2 was what the authors ordered, and I had to give it a whirl. I hung on for dear life. After the first interval, my hands were tingling and I grabbed the top of the treadmill display with one hand as I fumbled to press 5.5 mph as quickly as possible with the other. I jumped to the railings as I caught my breath. I settled into the drill a bit until I got to number seven, and then I had to replay "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas about four times to get me to the end.

That was easily the hardest run I've done in over a year, but it was also one of the most fulfilling; I could see how rosy-cheeked Grant was both exhausted and exhilarated after a session like that. I'm intrigued to see if I have it in me to get through 18 weeks of three tough weekly runs, especially when speedwork will likely fall on every Monday morning. (Nothing like easing into the week.)

I promise I won't relive every run, but I am going to try to be much more consistent with posting here; at least once, and hopefully twice, a week. If anybody wants to join me, either virtually or in person, let me know; I welcome as much support and accountability as I can get. (To recap: 18 week training program, 3 runs a week, all paces welcome--I'll happily send along your challenging-to-you numbers.)

In the meantime, I'm mentally preparing for my first tempo effort on Thursday: 3 miles at a 8:10 pace. That seems obscenely fast for me, but one Black-Eyed Peas line from today is still on repeat in my head, quieting those no-no-no monkeys: Go out and smash it.

Smash it? Unlikely. But definitely go out and go for it.

Courage at Sea Level

2009-10-21T10:56:00.000-06:00

The Nike Women's Half Marathon was unlike any other race I'd done this year. Because, in fact, it was my first race of the year. Given that I'd been prepping for about five weeks for it, my expectations were fairly low. Prior to race day, I'd run 12.5 miles twice, but neither felt particularly good. I'd done a couple of workouts where I was supposed to run 2 x 3 miles at half-marathon race pace, which I thought--based on nothing other than it sounded about right--would be 8:45. Those really hurt, and I decided to readjust my random race pace: 9:00, which I wasn't sure would be right either.

On race morning, I purposely left my Garmin in my hotel room. I know the kind of mental havoc that ridiculously accurate thing can wreak on my mood, and I wanted nothing of it. I wanted to feel the fog, hear the huffs of my fellow runners up nearly vertical hills, notice the Pacific and all my other surroundings. I did not want to get in a funk because my splits in this half-marathon didn't match those in my last race, the Denver half in 2008.

I did, however, wear my trusty Timex Ironman. And I figured out how to mark my mile splits on it. I couldn't go cold-turkey on feedback, but at least now I'd have to wait for a mile to pass before I could adjust my mood accordingly.

So I set off. First mile: 8 minutes. Way too fast, Dimity. You'll pay for that later. Mile 2: 8:30ish. Better, but still way too ambitious. Mile 3 and 4 were weirdly marked, so I got a combined split for them: 18:50. I'm already way past 9:00 on one downhill and one flat mile? Dang it! I watched the road ahead of me and silently threw a pity-party. Mile 5: 7:02. Huh? I don't run 7:02 miles, especially after I've already run 4 miles. Then I saw the clock at mile five, whose red numbers were ticking in the 41/42-minute range, and I knew that something was a little awry with the mileage markers, and that I was actually speedier than I thought I was.

I felt really good, too. I highly recommend anybody who lives at altitude to race at sea level; I literally felt like I could drink the oxygen. So I remembered words I heard Kara Goucher speak the day before at packet pick-up: she told herself before the 2008 New York City Marathon to be courageous. She knew she had done the work and that it all came down to having the courage to put it to the test. Riding on the heels of Paula Radcliffe, the winner, for most of the race, she came in a courageous, kick-ass 3rd place in her first marathon.

I'm no Kara Goucher--I probably run less in a week than she runs in a day--but I told myself to be courageous. It's easy to do when the temps are in the 50's, the Pacific is crashing next to you and you're enveloped by the feminine energy around you--a running mother's version of utopia. Plus, coming from a marathon, the half-marathon distance is incredibly liberating; the worst thing that would happen is that I would bonk around mile 11 and have to walk the last mile or two, and I'd still be in under 2 hours, 30 minutes...a far call from bonking at mile 20 and slugging out the last six, which is what happened last time I ran this course.

Courage is relative. When I wanted to walk to eat a Gu, I ate it on the run instead. I didn't walk through water stops either. I only gave myself two, 10-secondish walk breaks on a hill that was roughly a mile long. When my head starting telling my legs hurt, I was too slow, I did my best to ignore them. I tried to accelerate on the downhills and not lose all momentum on the ups.

I came in around 1:54, which is a faster average than the 8:45 miles that slayed me at home.

Brazenly empowered, I now wonder what I can do if I actually commit to a longer training program on a flatter course. Stay tuned: Grant, my husband, and I are going to run a half-marathon in Austin over Valentine's Day.

Having A Moment

2009-10-12T19:20:00.000-06:00

Having a moment in pink heels.

My little sister, affectionately known as Sassy, got married this past weekend. While rehearsing for the ceremony on Friday morning, the wedding planner, a beyond hyper woman whose enthusiasm was of the contagious, not annoying, kind, kept reminding us that we could, "have a moment" at any time that felt right. Sassy and John, our step-father, could have a moment after they reached the officiant. Megan, our older sister, and I could have a moment with Sassy and Tom, her now husband, after we finishing our reading. My mom could have a moment with the grandkids, the only attendants Sassy and Tom (thankfully) chose to have, as they sat clustered around her.

When you have a moment, you stop time. You appreciate where you are and whom you're with. You truly realize that you'll never have this exact moment back, so it's best to taste it and talk about it and maybe shed a tear through it.

It got me thinking, I don't have enough moments in my life. Check that: I don't ever allow myself to have a moment. I rush and I worry and I cook chicken nuggets and I e-mail and I sort laundry and I sleep. Having moments is not on the agenda.

The next morning, in 34-degree crispness that feels so refreshing, you're sure you could push the reset button on your life, I went for a trail run on singletrack near Fraser, Colorado. Through the confetti of fallen leaves, over icy patches of snow, across wooden bridges that span trickling brooks, on a trail that is my favorite combination: slightly uphill on the way out, downhill heading home. I could run that trail for the rest of my life and never get bored.

On my workout calendar was a 14-miler with the last five at race pace to prepare for the Nike Half-Marathon this weekend. Hungover and rushed to get to a Mimosa-laced beauty session with Sassy, I opted for an easy 60 minutes instead. I ditched the Garmin and wore my plain old Timex, and started at 7:58 and ended at 8:57 and hardly checked my watch.

I thought about how excited I was for Sassy and Tom to begin their newest chapter; how weddings just breed optimism; how being surrounded by family and friends lets me forget about e-mailing and sweeping and similar tasks I'll never regret not doing 40 years from now.

The song "Seasons of Love" from RENT—to repeat: my music list=cheese-o-rama—and I vowed to try to measure my life, from here on out, in doses of love and similarly significant moments. Not in writing assignments, average pace on my Garmin, achievements of my children or any other tangible thing that can just as easily bring out my pride and confidence as it can, when I hold them up to the light, my jealousy and pettiness. And I wished the same for Sassy and Tom. (They don't care about assignments or marathon PR's and they don't have kids yet, but we all have our issues.)

I was having a moment. Then I smiled as I thought: I do have moments. Running is my moment. I'm never more at peace than when I'm running. I'm never more appreciative and less critical of myelf than when I'm running. There are times when I never want to relive a certain momentous mile, but I'd say that over half of my runs create some kind of sublime moment, if only for a second.

I guess it says something about me--something not very good, I'm guessing—that most of my moments are by myself, and often spurred on by corny lyrics from the early 90's. Still, I'll take what I can get.

Off the Back

2009-09-20T20:40:00.000-06:00

So Saturday morning was much harder than I was anticipating. A group of five of us set off, 5:30 a.m., headlights blaring. Each of them had their own music on low; I left mine at home, so I felt like I was handicapped to begin with. In the cool darkness, trying in vein to find a rhythm, I looked down and saw our first mile was an 8:35. I was not surprised, given how hard I was working. But considering I'd run 40 minutes total in the past 2.5 weeks, this was not the way I wanted to start an 8-miler. Fortunately, by the grace of God, they then slowed to a walk.

For what seemed like 15 seconds.

Then we were off to the races again.

I stayed at least 10 steps, if not more, behind them for about five miles. I didn't want them to think I was too slow, so I somehow forced myself to stay near the pack. (I decided, I think because I was kind of delirious, that I'd run 10 with one of them.) At the turn around, though, the sun was coming up and I wasn't feeling quite so nauseated. I ran the final five side-by-side a very sweet woman named Tasha, a stylist who listened patiently and sympathetically to me gasp my woes about my new, kinda punkish, not very me-ish, reddish hair. Then we talked the usual: how balancing motherhood, working, running is impossible but how it's also impossible not to try; ages of kids; stages of kids; why she started running; how ready she is for marathon training to be over.

I think we kept our mile splits below 9:00, but I'm sure she would've run faster if I weren't her wingwoman. She and her friends--the rest ran 12 miles--are doing the Galloway method for the Denver Marathon, so as soon as her Garmin tinkled at the mile mark, we walked. I always glanced down about .6 miles into another run segment, and Tasha would see me do that and say, "Not much farther. We're almost there." During every break, I said a silent prayer to thank a Higher Being for letting them choose the Galloway method.

Long, kinda boring story short: I made it. Ten hard miles for me. Ten miles I would've never run so fast if I was by my lonesome. Ten miles I was super proud of, considering the other women are in the thick of marathon training and have been running regularly for at least four months. Ten miles that will definitely help me come half-marathon time.

Sunday, I had scheduled a 2 hour endurance bike ride for myself--I set up my own training plan, which I'll write about in the near future--but knew my legs, particularly my aching hip and ankle, wouldn't be psyched with me, and I need them to stay somewhat happy so I can get through mid-October. So I walked the dogs, and then went for an easy ride with my favorite peloton:

Tomorrow: easy run, definitely solo. Tuesday: a hill workout. With the group (they invited me back!). And I'm going to fight my hardest to be just off the back again.

Audition Tomorrow!

2009-09-18T19:52:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow morning I'm meeting a friend at 5:10 a.m. I'm going to follow her in her car to some park I don't know to meet other friends and then we'll run. Some will run 14 miles, some will run 10. All these friends are running the Denver Marathon. I'm not. I hope to make it to at least 8 to begin my last-minute, four-week cram session for the Nike Women's Half-Marathon.

I should amend the first paragraph. They're not my friends. Yet. I'm hoping that after this run, they will be. The signs are hopeful. I've talked running with one woman, Katherine, quite a bit--ironic that she has the same first name as my Springs marathon running buddy--and another woman, whose name I can't remember, introduced herself to me during first grade drop off. I love when somebody takes the initiative to introduce themselves beyond the anonymous "Good mornings," recited as we go through the motions of school drop-off . Too bad I'm so scatterbrained can't even remember her name or face. (I'll know it by the end of the run tomorrow, I promise.)

It's only been four months since we moved to Denver and I'm desperately craving some connecting conversations. I've had a few good dinners with female friends, but they're of the catch-up variety: tell me everything you've been doing for the past 3 months, 6 months, or, in one case, eight years. It's a crazy sprint of a meal, concluded with something like, "This was great. Let's not let three more months go by." Even though, we both know, it'll be at least three months before our paths cross again. I've made another friend who has two girls, and we walk to school together every morning, but I'm usually too busy wrangling Ben or quizzing Amelia on her spelling words to have any kind of real conversation.

I've eyed, in jealousy, pairs of women I pass on the Highline Canal on a Saturday morning as they relive what they had for dinner last night, their impression of Julia & Julia, the latest catfight at work...all the mundane, delicious details that make up the stuff of life—and friendship.

I'm nervous about being too slow. I haven't blogged/whined about my two twisted ankles, suffered post-Leadville, but I haven't run much for the past two weeks. (I have, however, reluctantly dragged out the indoor trainer and my bike schedule from the intense marathon training I did when I had a stress fracture.) I'm nervous about being too chatty, or not chatty enough. I'm nervous about them not getting my sense of humor.

Most of all, I'm nervous about needing too many things from this run. Let's hope I haven't set my mental bar too high.

Pacing Leadville

2009-08-24T13:56:00.001-06:00

10 Things about Running 100 Miles:

1. Ultras aren't so much about your fitness. Sure, you have to run up and down mountains for ridiculously long hours to train for them and it helps to have a body fat percentage in the single digits and a Vo2 max that rivals Lance Armstrong's. Really, though, come mile 47 or 74 or 92, what's in your quads--which, at that point, isn't much--doesn't really matter.

2.What matters more: the other issues your body is going through.

Abby's sports-bra-chafed back, post 100-miles. (I'd post the more gruesome frontal view, but it's slightly X-rated.)

After her blisters had already been popped, post-race. This pic doesn't do them justice. I honestly think she would've been more comfortable--and faster--if we could've amputated her feet and she ran on ankle stumps.

Her worst problem, though, was her digestive system, or lack thereof. Every item she ate--a quarter of a PB+J, a chunk of baked potato, a third of a banana--ran through her system faster than her feet were going. She pulled over and took a pit stop every three miles or so. (Don't worry: no pics of those.) After I finished pacing her at mile 86, I insisted she change her shorts; she needed a hit of freshness. Then I insisted we throw out her used shorts.

3. What is most vital, though, is your head. Over the course of 100 miles, you hit many virtual valleys and peaks. You have to be determined enough to keep moving when the tears unexpectedly hit and pummel you. You have to have enough grit to know that an up will follow your down, even if that up is over seven hours away. Think of how impenetrable the wall at mile 19 of a marathon feels. Multiply that by 25 to get a replica of the abysmal feeling. I'm not even sure, though, that's an accurate calculation.

4. The modesty levels for runners at ultras is akin to those while giving birth. Which is to say, there are none. Hands down your pants, then into the gorp? No problem. Squatting just six inches off the trail? Surely. Changing your shorts, with just a jacket for a curtain, in the transition area? C'mon: do you really even need the jacket?

5. Pre-race, I pictured runners running the whole 100 miles. I was wrong. There's a yet unpatented step called the ultra shuffle, which is an 18-ish-minute mile that lies somewhere between a walk and jog. Post-50 miles, most runners I saw were shuffling or walking with as much purpose as they could muster. Stooped worse than a 90-year-old and clearly in so much pain, some runners made me avert my eyes. I couldn't handle watching how much damage they were doing to themselves.

A random shot at about the 93 mile mark.

Abby doing her shuffle. I told her she was required to smile for this picture. She was not, as you might imagine, very happy right then. A few hours earlier, she told me, in a very serious tone, "Dimity, no part of this right now is fun."

5. Trying to find new ways to say, "Nice job," at 4 a.m., at mile 78ish, to a runner who is silent, on a five-mile climb to 11,200 feet is a tough assignment, even for somebody who works with words for living. When I started pacing her, we chatted for a couple miles, then I asked her if she wanted to stop talking, and she said yes. So I would be silent for a few minutes, but wanted her to know I was continuing to think of her. Hence the "Nice jobs." And "I'm so proud of you." And "You're amazing." And "R.o.c.k. S.t.a.r." (I spelled it out....takes more time and keeps her brain occupied.) For some reason, I also became very maternal: every compliment was followed by the word, "Sweetie."

And sometimes I failed at being motivational. At one point, Abby said, "My feet are in so much pain. Every step hurts." My reply: "Well, it looks like that for sure." Oh, I shouldn't say stuff like that. "But you're doing a nice job, sweetie," I quickly added.

6. Best line on a poster ever: Of course your feet hurt. They're kicking ass.

7. The crew you assemble can be the difference between finishing or not. Abby's crew was more efficient than a Formula 1 crew. Jane, whose nickname quickly became Chief Leadville, is a great mountain biker and knows the Leadville course better than I know my way around my neighborhood. Add in Charissa, a massage therapist, and her husband, Chris, who is handy with jack knives, outdoor stoves and fixing anything, and Abby couldn't fail. Her brother Ethan added serious moral support; it was Abby's goal to push Ethan, who landed in a wheelchair after he was hit by a car in New York City nine years ago, across the finish line.

Alicia (a pacer), Chris, Ethan, Chief Leadville

8. For your first ultra, your only goal should be to finish. Ethan had to leave Leadville to catch a flight at 7 a.m. on Sunday morning, which meant Abby needed to finish in 27 hours. My leg with her took her over an hour longer than her pre-race predictions, which were already too ambitious. Forget pushing Ethan; we weren't even sure she could make the 30-hour cut-off. When I left her at mile 86, she needed to run 14 miles in 4 hours, which sounds doable...until you factor in the chafe, blisters, stomach, 26 hours already on her feet, and over 14,000 feet of climbing already in the bag. Then 14 miles feels, I'd imagine, closer to 40. Or 400.

Mile 94, with pacer Leslie, who basically laid down the law: you shuffle, you drink, you eat a few bites of banana, you finish on time. You don't, and you won't.

9. Being on a crew for or pacing a ultra runner is the closest I've ever felt to running being a team sport. We had a blast, especially on Sunday morning, when we knew Abby was in the clear and we parked at mile 99.7 to cheer runners in.

Chris, Charissa, Jane, Alicia, me. We're all smiles because everything is freakin' hilarious after being up for roughly 27 hours.

10. After seeing one, I have absolutely no desire to run an ultra. And I'm not even sure I understand why somebody would want to. That said, I have nothing but respect for every runner that chases a goal up and down crazy mountain passes, at 10,000+ feet for 100 miles.

Nice job, sweetie.

Closer To Fine

2009-08-18T19:27:00.000-06:00

I think my endurance sports hiatus is officially over. It began in January, with a shattered wrist, and progressed through May and June, as we moved from Colorado Springs to Denver, and continued through early August, as I finished a massive work project. Now, eight months later—and almost a year since my last race—I can feel myself finally defrosting and wanting to strap on a heart rate monitor again.

A couple reasons why I'm getting a little juiced (not the EPO kind; just the excited kind):

—Amelia starts first grade tomorrow and Ben begins preschool next week. In other words, we'll officially be on a schedule for the first time since May. What used to feel so stifling to me as a single woman—I have to commit to be somewhere at a certain time? why?—now feels almost heavenly. I know exactly how long I'll have the house to myself each week. (Which, if you care, is about 18 hours a week. Even at my most productive, it's still not long enough. But I'll take it.)

—Last weekend, I felt like everybody was an athlete but me. Friends and my brother-in-law raced in the Leadville 100 Mountain Bike Race. Other friends slogged up Pikes Peak for the Ascent. My fellow Marathon Mom ran sub-8's in a 10k, and Leah, a triathlete bud, finished on the podium. Hearing their stories was the first time in a long time that I felt like I was missing something, which ironically made me happy. I wasn't sure I'd be up for getting out there and racing again, but now I'm pretty sure I am. (Which saves me from pondering big life questions, like if I don't want to sweat, what do I want to do? No need to, um, sweat that stuff right now.)

—I was a little bit of an athlete, though, last weekend. I posted my longest run since last October: almost 12 miles. I've been building up slowly since I committed to pace Abby in Leadville next weekend, starting about a month ago with a glorious 70-minute trail run on the singletrack in Winter Park in the rain—I composed the blog in my head during that run, but never got around to typing it—and ending, last weekend, with 12 miles in the 9:30ish range. Not speedy, for sure, but enough to give me confidence that I'll be able to get Abby through her 14 miles at any pace she needs me to go. And enough to give me back that woozy legged, slightly dehydrated feeling that makes an afternoon nap so delicious.

—I've finally—knock on wood—figured out how to truly stabilize my hips and pelvis, thanks to running biomechanist extraordinaire Tim Hilden. No more gimpy left leg that just goes along for the ride. He wants me doing a few hockey-esque exercises five times a week, which means I really do them three, and they're making a huge difference only two weeks in. I'm definitely not pain free yet, but I do predict a day will come when my legs will work equally hard. Or even at a 60/40 split. I'd be cool with that.

—Perhaps most importantly, my mind is in a oddly content state: it's not so scattered, and feels more pliable than it used to. For the past eight months, I haven't been able to put too many labels on myself, other than mother, wife and transient. I wasn't a triathlete, wasn't a runner gunning for a PR, wasn't even that busy of a writer. I missed the structure, but not the pressure. During the final miles of my 12-miler on Sunday, my woefully out-of-date Nano clicked onto "Closer To Fine," by the Indigo Girls. I admit I can contort nearly any lyrics to make them somehow apply to my life—that's a huge way I pass the time on runs—but I didn't have to try too hard with the Girls. "The less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine."

I'll be back as a triathlete, a writer, a runner, and a whatever else happens to catch my eye, but, post-hiatus, I'm going in with the attitude that my goal is simply to be...drum roll...fine. Being too attached to any definition of what I think I should be is only going to make me as out of whack as my left leg formerly was.

New mantra: seek balance, remember to exhale, be fine.

An Assignment I Couldn't Refuse

2009-07-13T19:56:00.001-06:00

About six months ago--way before the moving tornado blasted through town--my coach from last year, Abby, told me she was running the Leadville 100 this summer. After I questioned her sanity, I offered to help if she needed it. I'll never do anything with the word "ultra" in front of it, but I'm beyond intrigued about the people who choose to push their bodies past where 99.9% of the population won't--and the effect doing so has on the human body. (Proof? I crewed for a random cyclist doing Race Across America, just 10 days after marrying Grant.)

She'd been training like a demon, and I'd just been whirling like a demon and had pretty much forgotten about it. Until I got an e-mail from her about two weeks ago, asking if I was still interested. Although I wanted to hit respond and type, "YES!", I'm not the fit athlete she coached last summer. So I sent back a wishy-washy response. Something along the lines of: "I just ran 6 miles at a 9:00 pace, the longest I've gone in months, and it was hard. But if you still want me, I can ask Grant if it's cool with him."

Believe it or not, she still wants me. So I'm going to join her in her amazing journey, somewhere around 11 p.m. on Saturday night. She'll be around 70 miles into her race by then, and I'm going to run/walk/hike/lope with her from Tree Line to May Queen, when she hits mile 86 or so. She describes this part of the course as a, "predominantly paved section with a nice gradual downhill." In other words, I think she gave me the easiest part of the course, for which I am grateful. My orders from her are to, "encourage me to run as much of this section as I can (10-12 minute miles), and when I can't run, your long stride will push me to walk quickly."

Check on the 10 minute miles, check on the long stride, check on the encouragement. These might just be the best--and definitely most interesting--14 miles of my life. I can't wait.

Running Through the Circle of Life

2009-07-08T11:39:00.000-06:00

My grandmother died last night. I went for a run this morning. I didn't run in honor of her--a dainty woman, always in dresses, she didn't understand why anybody would run--but I ran because she, a mother of four, was gone. Really my step-grandmother, she was 93, had been struggling for months and had a life so inimitable, it's worth a novel. So I wasn't nauseous with grief for her. She was ready for heaven. But I was nauseous with the idea that mothers die, that my stepdad no longer has a mother, an anchor.

Nearly four decades into my life, I'm as naïve as I was at age eight. I'm well aware of the delicate circle of life, but certain unsavory aspects of it--kids getting cancer, women being beaten and raped, gratuitous killing of anybody--pummel me no matter how anonymous the victim is or how many times I've heard a similar story. Since I've had kids, mothers who die is added to that list. My husband lost his mother when he was only eight, and I look at Amelia, now six, and think: I'd know her for just two more years? I can't stomach the thought.

Running doesn't cure anything, of course. But it's a temporary fix. It's raw and undiscriminating, just like disease and tragedy. It makes your blood flow, your lungs fill, your rhythm return. It makes you feel in charge, like you could change something if you only set your mind to it. It lets you taste life.

As I ran, I wondered if I would even be able to summon the energy to get out of bed, let alone run, when my (very healthy, very lively) mom dies. When she was on yoga retreat recently for a week in Mexico, and I couldn't dial her number for our daily, banal, five-minute check-in, I felt adrift and lonely. I can't imagine years of that feeling. She doesn't really understand why I run so much either. But without sounding too morbid--or wishing away time--I'm pretty sure I'd run the day of her funeral.

Because sometimes running is the only thing do to when you don't know what to do.

I Think I'm Going to Like it Here

2009-06-18T19:41:00.000-06:00

If any of you were Annie aficionados in your childhood--and no, I won't judge if you weren't--the mere title of the blog will send you into visions of Daddy Warbucks and his secretary, Grace, crooning as they showed Annie, still dressed in her raggy orphan clothes, around the marbled mansion: "Cecille will pick out all your clothes...,"

I can't get that song out of my head today (hey it's better than the theme song from Diego). Everything just feels too good. I started the day out at our new local Y, which is five minutes from our new house and had a promotion--$200 for 100 days for a family membership--I snagged on its last day. The spinning instructor today just placed second in the Escape from Alcatraz triathlon last weekend, so he clearly knows his RPM's. And I do too now, since the Y has a full army of Lemond Spinner bikes, outfitted with displays that track revolutions, mileage and heart rate. A huge step up from the creeky, often broken bikes at the Springs' YMCA I went to.

Today was my second 5:45 a.m. rally. I also went on Tuesday, and was disappointed when the hill-climbing class, which was scheduled for an hour, ended at 45 minutes; I was in the zone. Until the instructor, who was cut enough to look like she finished Alcatraz, asked, "Who's in for core and arms?" Um, me. I think. I struggled through three real push-ups (hard for me usually, and especially hard on my weak wrist) and a few planks and can't remember what else, but it was hard--my muscles today told me so--and I loved that the thing I hate to do most was just part of the class. No excuses (at least none once a week).

What else? Amelia is going to sports camp at Denver University, and they have an amazing fitness center that I wanted to use immediately, including an Olympic-sized pool (which I got to see today since she lost roughly her fifth pair of goggles in two months yesterday). They also have a master's team that I'll investigate, after I dust the cobwebs off my flip turn with a few courage-building solo sessions at the Y, and that commute shouldn't take more than 10 minutes at the crack of.

I haven't found a good running route yet, but I know the Highline Canal, which I hope, for the sake of my knees, is a trail, is near my house and runs the length of Denver. And a new friend, Jill, who is probably too speedy for my sluggish legs, has promised to show me around the Cherry Creek Reservoir, which is also about 10 minutes from me. And I'll also chase Katie and her sister around, sooner than later, hopefully.

I'll get to know Cherry Creek intimately, I'm pretty sure. I decided today that I'm going to sign up for the Tri for the Cure, a sprint race at the Reservoir in early August. I'll go in with low expectations--I doubt I'll even put my aerobars on my bike--but I just can't resist. I feel like Annie, and Denver is my new mansion.

Best $50 Ever Spent

2009-06-10T19:57:00.000-06:00

Time for my monthly update.

Quick rewind of past five weeks: vow to be organized when I pack (bedroom box is only bedroom things, books are only books), pack a few boxes Martha S. would be proud of, then walk around the house and realize how much random crap we have. End result: about 25 boxes labeled "random", which, I soon discovered, doesn't help on the flip side when I'm trying to find, say, the phone or the silverware or the checkbook.

Other highlights: mow through about five bags of Peppercorn Ranch Sun Chips in about a week as I pack, stress, unpack, stress (whoever invented that flavor is genius); deal with a gazillion meltdowns from thing one and thing two (lowlight: Ben chomping some serious flesh on Amelia's arm); figure out that the new, slippery, dark wood floors in our new house are making life hell for Jessie, our labbish dog who is blessed with both glaucoma and shaky hind legs; and, on Sunday morning, just as I'm ready to start the day and get things done, drop a fairly heavy bookcase directly on my left big toe.

I then dropped the f-bomb, and watched the blood pool immediately underneath the nail. Not pretty. Put on my thickest pair of Thorlo's, and my Nikes with toe boxes as big as Kansas and hobbled around, unpacking random boxes and eating Sun Chips. By the end of the day, I knew what had to be done: DIY surgery. Hot pin through the nail, relieve the pressure. So I lamely held a small safety pin to a match, and half-heartedly tried to drill through.

I couldn't do it. I can only handle so much self-inflicted pain: these past five weeks, while not exactly the same kind of out-of-breath, aching pain as, say, intervals, they've been plenty painful. My heart has been heavy with the relocation blues, especially when Amelia starts pulling the "I don't want to move to Denver," line. (I know, I know: she's five. She'll get over it. But I'm a sucker.) My back has been on high alert, trying to tell me to lift with my legs, not it, but I fail to listen. My head has been swirling with remembering to get the kids' shots records, the plumber to fix inspection issues, the internet hooked up and the mail forwarded. And my life's rhythm, the one that relies on running and routine and stability, is flailing on the dance floor. I just couldn't add any more company to misery.

I went to bed, lightly placing the sheet over my foot, kidding myself that it would feel better in the morning. I woke up with a veritable grape. Monday night, I asked Grant, my husband to do it. He's very deliberate and delicate--one of the things I love about him best--but those traits didn't serve this situation. He punctured twice, drawing one.meager.drop.of.blood each time. "That should relieve the pressure," he told me gently, but I, a veteran of random under-the-nail issues, knew better. You gotta have a fountain of blood spurt out for the job to be done. I thought about trying it myself again, but talked myself out of it when I couldn't easily locate the needle he used.

Fast forward to today, four days post-drop. Jessie, my blind dog, has stepped on it at least three times, and Ben, who clocked in at 48 pounds at his last check-up, stomped on it twice. "It was an axe-a-dent, Mom," he said both times when I screamed and then started to tear up. I had to have some relief. So this afternoon I googled "Urgent Care" and "Denver", found a place near me and began to mentally brace for the pain.

I shouldn't have wasted the energy. There's a thing called a cauterizer--a pen-like device with a tiny tip that heats up like a torch--which deserves to be ranked up with the lightbulb as the best invention ever. The doc barely touched it to my nail, I felt nothing as it bore a small hole, and ahhhh. Brilliant.

This week, I've been laying out for a new rug at Target (the brown one: how cute is that?), installation of the washing machine and drier, restocking the fridge and all the other incidentals that add up quickly. The thought that I didn't need to pay for a blood blister to be popped when I've already exceeded our monthly budget in a week crossed my mind. But enough is enough. Time to start getting back into my rhythm, which includes making a conscious effort to take care of myself. $50 for an urgent care visit is a non-negotiable, really.

I celebrated with a $.99 double chocolate cookie from the deluxe Whole Foods just a few blocks from my new digs. Locals rave about it, but I'm not so sure. I couldn't find a bag of my beloved Sun Chips anywhere.

Gotcha!

2009-05-02T13:52:00.000-06:00

Showing a house is like trying to get pregnant: it's a crazy flury of motion (3 hours scrubbing, mopping, picking up or 3 minutes of grunting), then a quiet calm (leave the house, fingers crossed or sleep) followed by almost manic thoughts (did they or did they not like the house? did the boys swim or did they not?) that aren't quenched until you get results, either from an agent or a lavender stick thing soaked in pee.

I went through the motions for four, puny showings in the seven plus weeks our house had been on the market. I shrugged off the comments from friends who said that our house was so cool, that they couldn't believe we didn't have an offer yet. I alternated between anger and indifference. I drove around our neighborhood, obsessing about houses that had "sold" signs on them.

And then, I gave up. I was certain nothing would happen. So I mapped out a summer itinerary for Amelia--princess camp, zoo camp, art camp--because I have a massive work project due August 1. I started thinking about which teacher she'd have next year for first grade. I decided I needed to get on the ball with Ben's potty training, which I've been neglecting since I didn't want to deal the effects with a major transition, which can get toddlers to revert to ground zero. I almost sent the check to the community pool we wanted to join, but forgot about the envelope under a stack of papers.

In short, I told the universe, I'm cool with staying here. Believe it or not, I really like Colorado Springs, and I'm happy to be here for another year.

And the universe replied, "You're kidding, right?"

Monday: get a call from real estate office at 10 a.m. Showing at 1:30. House is a pit. Sweat and clean and suck up every last bit of dog hair. Leave house and exhale.

Tuesday: get a call from real estate office at noon. Second showing at 4:30. House is a little less of a pit, but it's amazing how much damage a family of four can do in 12 hours. Cram stuff in drawers, stuff unfolded laundry in the car, leave, exhale.

Wednesday: get instructions from real estate office to counter their offer by noon. Can't exhale.

Long story short--a story, I hope, I'm not jinxing by writing this--is that we're moving north to either Denver or a Boulder suburb. Grant's three-hour commute will be reduced to less than an hour. The kids won't whine, "Where's Daddy?" any more (or not as much, anyway). I'll have more time to myself, and more time to enjoy our family--not just function in autopilot mode, getting through the days, as I have for the past six months. I'll be able, in a couple months, to refocus on training and my goals.

I'm excited, but spinning. My to-do list includes finding a pre-school, an elementary school, summer activities and--oh yeah--a house, in addition to packing up all our belongings. In order to slow down and focus, I'm trying to embrace the marathon mentality: one step at a time, until I can finally thank the universe for nudging me towards the finish line we'll all be glad to cross.

In Recovery

2009-04-19T13:00:00.000-06:00

I've officially dubbed this year my recovery year.

I love reading blogs about running for hours and doing hill repeats and pushing and pushing. I'm impressed by and psyched for my fast friends who will nail their races this season, but I'm not personally intrigued. Last season, I would've chomping at the bit to work myself equally as hard (or even better: harder), but so far this year, I'm loving just being on my own super-chill schedule.

A schedule that goes like this:

Monday: Maybe spin on the bike for 60 minutes, if I get up early enough. Or spend the rest of the day thinking about getting in a spin, but settle for a 45-minute walk of the dogs.

Tuesday: A 6 a.m. run in Garden of the Gods. The training runs, ramping up for the 10-mile race in June, have a variety of paces and groups. I've joined the fast trail group twice, and twice have failed to complete their full workout. But I have fun trying to run quickly enough so that I can spot the last person in the group, bobbing way in front of me. I have no desire, however, to sign up for the 10-miler. Not up for the hills.

Wednesday: Think about getting to the Y for the 10 a.m. Pilates class, but usually can't justify it, work-wise. So I do a random, planned-on-the-fly 25-minute weight routine, concentrating on my upper body which has withered a bit since the wrist debacle. (My best move: push-ups, resting my hands on the stairs. Just enough weight on my wrist to stress it, but not enough to irritate it.)

Thursday: Repeat Garden run. I don't wear my Garmin or my HR monitor, and I try to watch the sun rise more than I watch my watch.

Friday: A cardio workout: 60 minutes on the bike, or 30-45 minutes on that masochistic piece of equipment called the Stairmill: a burlier version of a Stairmaster. I pick a program, and set a level and have to do whatever gets served up. (This is probably the hardest workout of my week.)

Saturday: Consider going to master's swimming, but I haven't been since October and my old lane has split, which I heard from friends, so I'm not sure I want to jump back into an unfamiliar lane and an activity I'm not sure my arm will be happy with. Plus, I'd have to join the US Master's organization and pay pool fees, which will financially force me into swimming more than I want to, and then I'll get resentful. Sounds dumb, I realize, but I hate wasting money.

Sunday: a short run, a dog walk, a weight workout. Nothing more than 45 minutes.

So I'm getting my weekly RDA of endorphins and slowly increasing my fitness, and I'm very content with complying with just two 5:30 a.m. alarms.

I'm flirting with signing up for a half-marathon in the summer to get more motivated, but I'm afraid that's going to lead to my getting too obsessed with running at the expense of my hip/glute/leg, which, sad to say, is still far from healed. Maybe it'll be a 10k or three or none. I'm just going keep my ambitions off the hook for a bit longer, and see what I feel like in a couple weeks. (I am, however, doing a 5k on Mother's Day weekend with my friend Kristen, so if you're reading this, Kristen: you're not off the hook!)

I do daydream about future athletic adventures: In my head, I've preliminary scheduled the Austin 70.3 in fall of 2010, which could lead to a marathon in the spring of 2011, which could hopefully lead to a full Ironman during the summer of 2011. Which makes me exhilarated--and tired--just thinking about it.

Good thing I'm recovering now.

Dear Nzigire...

2009-03-30T20:34:00.000-06:00

I'm usually not at a loss for words, especially when I'm at the keyboard and writing to members of my tribe: women who, I imagine, share something--a world view, a love of exercise, a sense of humor, a lifestyle--with me.

But put a pen in my hand, and ask me to write something to a woman with whom I share nothing, and I revert back to the SAT-essay anxiety I felt decades ago. Case in point: Nzigire, a woman in the Democratic Republic of Congo who I decided to sponsor through Women for Women international, after participating in the Run for Congo women last fall. I sent her a postcard after the race, saying I was happy to connect with her, and then, about two weeks ago, I received a letter from her.

Her letter was basic--40 years old, 7 kids (3 more were lost somehow: information I was given in the sponsorship packet, but she didn't allude to), a 45-year-old husband--but to find it, among bills and grocery fliers, was like finding a wad of cash in an old coat pocket. It just puts you in a good mood for the rest of the day.

I'm pretty sure she didn't write it personally--she can't write or read more than her name--but to know that I had reached a woman across the globe, stuck in a situation worse than any nightmare I could conjure up, made me feel empowered. Like I personified the word Hope tossed around so much during the presidential election.

So what to write back to convey my respect for her? I mean, really, what do you write to a woman who likely has seen more war, death, rape and destruction than is fit for human consumption? How do I write about my life, which, when framed by a woman who has pushed out 10 kids, who lives in a hut with no electricity and rates her health as "poor", seems totally ridiculous, affluent and easy?

Hey Nzigire:
I went with my family a couple weeks ago to Florida to sit on the beach and do nothing. The trip made me tired and annoyed because I had to travel with my two kids alone for 12 hours (one threw up on the plane, the other soaked his pants with an overfull diaper that I forgot to change). But I got to relax once I got there. In fact, I drank too much beer and ate too much key lime pie.
When I came home, my dog--an animal I consider to be my third child--had blood in her poop, so I spent way too much money trying to figure out if she was really sick. Her doctor is about 1/2 a mile from our house, and I can drive there in a car in about two minutes. My kids get lollypops when we go there.
How is your health? Do you ever get annoyed by your kids? Do you have a dog?

Not so much.

Instead, I wrote a letter that is the equivalent of the loud, slow English one would bark in, say, Serbia, while trying to get directions from a native who only knows two English words: Obama and McDonald's. (Exhibit A: The Amazing Race.) In other words, simple, boring sentences that have no personality. "I have two children. I have one husband who is also 40: the same age as you! We live in Colorado, a state that has a lot of mountains. I write stories for a living." (Exhibit B: About Schmidt, the Jack Nicholson flick where he adopted a "save the children" child. His letter writing scenes cracked me up.)

Looking on the positive side, I guess it'll be easy to translate. And I wrote it on a beautiful, colorful card, which I can picture her hanging on a wall in her hut.

I do hope she gets as excited by my card as I did by her letter, and is inspired to write me back. I've started composing my next response in my head (and I've already bought the stickers for her kids I'm going to staple to it). I'd like to think my words will come out less patronizing and more heartfelt, but they probably won't.

And that's actually fine. Because sometimes all that's needed to connect is the simple knowledge that the other person is out there.

A not-so-great beach read

2009-03-19T20:05:00.000-06:00

I love documentaries. I'm a sucker for real life stories. I'd rather read about a drawn-out divorce than a contrived happy ending, or a problematic child over a prodigy. (And lately, I've been too much of a sucker for reality television: so brainless but so ridiculously addicting...do I really care who is America's Next Top Model? No. But can I look away? No.)

In that vein, I brought Diary of an Exercise Addict by Peach Friedman to Florida last week. The memoir combines some of the flash of reality tv--the cover is the naked back of the author, all skin, bones and defined muscles--with the all-too-real revelations of somebody who can't imagine a day without exercise. Friedman chronicles her addiction to running against the rest of her early 20's: boyfriends and break-ups, one-night stands, her parents' divorce, underemployment and the restlessness and ennui that typically mark those post-graduation years, when real life looms while familiar structure, like semesters and parental support, fades away.

I wanted to like this book more than I did--she repeats herself too often for my tastes, and the inherent, necessary self-centered focus of the book (it's a diary, after all) got tiresome--but still, I couldn't put it down. Which seems weird because I couldn't really identify with most aspects of her; when she's healthy, she's much more of a free spirit than I am, and, at her sickest, she had anorexia, a disease that is unfathomable to me. (If I need attention, I'm 99.9% sure I'd covertly ask for it some way other than taking in less than 1,000 calories a day.) The places in between her sickness and total recovery, though, I could empathize, albeit uncomfortably, with her.

She got under my skin and into my head with passages like:

"Not exercising is more unbearable [than exercising through pain], and often the endorphins kick in early enough that I can get through my workout with more exhilaration than pain, and oh, I need that rush..."

"I grab my running shoes and I'm out the door and in minutes, ahh, relief sets in, in minutes I'm calm again, the rhythmic striking of my feet against the pavement, the immediate relief as if it's needle into the vein."

She got me thinking, am I addicted to exercise? Maybe not in the truest definition of addiction, but I'll admit I may devote too much of my time and thoughts to exercise: when I'll get to run, how far and fast I'll go, what I'll eat after a run. I can live without it, as the past six months have shown, but I love and crave that needle-to-the-vein feeling. I can't really conceive of my life, long-term, without regular doses of it. That said, I picture myself as somebody with enough self-control not to get addicted to anything--but isn't being a control freak closely aligned with being an exercise junkie?

Sitting self-consciously in a bikini on the beach, I'm pondering my degree of addiction as these unsettling thoughts also circle: why do I hate the round parts of my body and think those on Amelia--her buns, her cheeks, her tummy--are the most adorable on her? Why is it that the only time I'm truly happy with my body is when it's at its sleekest and strongest? Why do I obsess about my stretch marks when I could care less about those on my friends? Why can't a female's body simply be the vehicle that carries her through her life, laughs and thoughts, and not an (unfair) reflection of her self-discipline, work ethic, overall worth?

I wish I had some helpful answers. I don't. Except that watching America's Next Top Model probably doesn't help the cause. And maybe that M is for Murder, volume 24, or Danielle Steele's latest lust-o-rama or any other book left behind on the shelves of our condo would've been a better, lighter choice for the situation.

For her part, Friedman became a personal trainer, and now is on a mission to increase the number of women worldwide who describe themselves as beautiful (the figure is now a paltry 2%, according to her). I definitely applaud that goal--and wouldn't mind a couple of sessions with Friedman myself to feel that love--but I'm still not convinced Friedman thinks of herself as beautiful.

Staying on Task

2009-03-08T10:37:00.000-06:00

Without sounding too self-indulgent, I'm fully aware that my absence is like the the friend that is reliable, until one day, she doesn't return your call. You leave another message, and again, nothing. If you're really generous, you give her yet one more shot--"Hey, just wanted to make sure that everything is cool. Please let me know."--but know it's futile. Her number slowly sinks to the bottom of the 30-something numbers you have on caller ID, and eventually disappears. If you've given up on me, I totally understand.

Thing is, everything isn't super cool with me. And I don't want this blog to become whining central, so I've avoided posting. Nothing dramatic is wrong, but like I said in my last post, I've lost my rhythm. I feel very restless, yet very unmotivated, and perhaps more than anything, unfocused.

Like most mothers, whether they work out of the house or not, I can multitask like a champ: stop making a school lunch midstream, remembering to put the unpacked contents on top of the fridge to keep them away from the sly dog/fox, to change a diaper, send an e-mail for work and help my husband find his constantly misplaced parking pass. Then back to packing the pudding. These days, though, I forget what e-mail I wanted to send, I get mad at Ben for wriggling around as I try to clean his buns, and I say, "Sorry. Just pay the fee for the lost pass," to my husband. The only place I haven't been slacking is on my work responsibilities, but I feel like I'm thinking and typing through molasses. Each assignment seems to require so much more energy to complete than it did even three months ago.

I know multitasking isn't efficient, but it's the only way I know of moving through the world. The one time I'm not totally virtually splayed out is when I run. I can stay on task when I run. My mind wanders, surely--a great benefit of the movement--but my steps move forward, the clock runs down, progress, even when I slow to a walk, is always evident. Even if the run is painful and loping, I've accomplished something when my route carries me home. I feel proud. I can crisply check something off my to-do list.

(It's worth noting that I've run probably four times in the past two weeks--or actually, six months.)

This hasn't been the case with pretty much everything else lately with my days. To wit: we're getting ready to put our house on the market. As anybody who has ever done that knows, you basically have to move out to move. I've scrubbed baseboards, sucked dust from the far corners of our pantry, streamlined Amelia's Pet Shop plastic, transformed most of Ben's stained tees into rags, and filled a five-by-ten storage unit with stuff that I'm sure, when we unpack it, we'll render not necessary. (For the record, I wasn't doing the heavy lifting on my wrist--just the packing and directing.) Everytime I think I have a room ready to go, I see something else that needs to be done: paint to touch up, a toy to put away, a clump of doghair hanging out. Especially with two kids and two dogs, one of whom is shedding like a snake these days, there is no finality, no "we're-done" feeling with keeping a house impeccably clean. That, I'm sure, is contributing greatly to feeling so restless (that, and the fact that my heart is very heavy when I think about moving, but that's for another blog).

So I'm doing my best to relish my runs--if you can call them that. That's another reason I've been avoiding blogging. All my exercise seems so lame after getting in the shape of my life, which I was last year at this time. Yesterday, I ran a four-mile very flat route. Even as I realized that this run would be classified as a recovery run last year, not a challenge, like it is this year, I stayed on task. I didn't walk. I tried to stand as tall as I could. I announced proudly, when I got home, that I did "the route" and didn't walk, and got a hug from my husband in return.

I hope to get one more run in before my family heads to Florida on Tuesday for week (oh yeah, I've been getting everybody ready to go too). I'm fairly certain I'll be able to stay on task there: after all, there isn't that much multitasking involved with sand-castle building and ice-cream eating.

And upon our return, I'm going to stay on task--and run healthy amounts and blog regularly--until I rediscover my rhythm.

It's all coming back to me now...

2009-02-17T19:23:00.000-07:00

**Cue Celine Dion song, circa 1996, with lyrics so cheesy they might even be too much for a Hallmark commercial. (To wit: there were nights when the wind was so cold, that my body froze in bed if I just listened to it right outside the window.) **

Scene: Sunday afternoon, 25 minutes of which are spent on the Stairmaster at the Y. My left arm is in a sling, my legs are not happy to be put to work after a month of R+R, my heart is even less enthused. It's raging at 165 bpm after just a few minutes of climbing on a measly level 7. (20, not 10, is the highest.)

I have no idea how Celine the crooner ended up on my Nano, but she came along right when I needed her. My wrist turned out to be a little bit of a train wreck. I thought I narrowly avoided surgery, and got a massive chicken wing cast as an alternative, only to learn, a week after being bound to my armpit, that the bone had slipped and I would indeed get a bionic wrist. I awoke from the anesthesia in tears, and spent three days in a Percocet haze, which wasn't half as pleasant as it sounds.

Fast forward 10 days post-op, and I forced myself to get to the gym. I was stir-crazy for cardio before the fall, but I lost all semblance of a routine, post-break. I slept until 7 most mornings--the equivalent of 10 a.m. for childless people--and couldn't really work; typing was not impossible, but supremely frustrating. (I didn't appreciate how synced my brain and hands are when I'm writing a story; I felt none of that love trying to write long-hand.) I don't want to whine (or whine any more than I already have), but I guess the best lesson of this whole ordeal was that I didn't realize how much I actually enjoyed the chaotic, yet fulfilling, rhythm of my life until my days consisted of really bad daytime television, coping with the kids as best I could and just willing myself to heal.

I'm a doer, not a waiter, and there's nothing you can do with a broken bone except wait.

Which is why I shoved myself out the door on Sunday: to break out of my self-pity rut, to remember what it feels like to sweat, to remind myself that I am an athlete, even if I've been in the off-season for far too long. But I got to the gym and didn't feel the jolt I was hoping for.

Until, of course--fairy tales come true in Celine-land, right?--Ms. Dion comes on. Her ridiculously long anthem is clearly an ode to something much more significant than my bout on the Stairmaster, but I'm the queen of making any lyrics apply to my life at that very moment. ("There were hours that just went on for days": sing it, sister!) But the coming-back-to-me refrain was exactly what I needed to hear.

At the risk of vaulting myself into Celine-esque cheese levels, it felt meaningful, it felt important, it felt karmic.

My heart rate continued to soar at its cardiac-arrest levels, and my wrist throbbed at the end of my workout, but, ultimately, I knew that I'd find my rhythm again. That intangible it will come back to me. If not exactly now, then soon. I just have to be patient.

That said, connecting with Celine wasn't enough inspiration to vault right back into my get-'er-done mentality before I bit it on the ice. I'm still struggling with focusing on work, taking too many ibuprofen (who needs a stomach lining anyway?) and finding the motivation for an early-morning workout. Thankfully, though, I'm not struggling with typing: I now just have that super sexy black wrist splint that most carpal tunnel sufferers wear.

It took me three more days until I set foot back in the Y again. Before I started climbing again to nowhere, I toggled right to the divine Miss. C, and listened to it twice in a row.

A Break in the System

2009-01-18T14:41:00.000-07:00

So I've been MIA for too long, but with good reason: last Sunday, while hiking alone but with my dogs, I slipped on ice and landed almost completely on my left wrist. I knew as soon as I landed I did some serious damage--a pain that rivaled childbirth, I kid you not--but I quickly kicked into survival mode: finished the 15 minutes of the hike, got a leash on one of the dogs (unfortunately, they had nothing to do with my downfall, even though I make it sound like they did--makes me look less klutzy), called home (husband didn't pick up because he didn't recognize random number of nice man in parking lot who let me borrow his phone), got both dogs in car, drove home in stick shift. All while alternately crying, swearing, trying to breathe deeply, wondering how I fell while just walking, not fast hiking or running.

Since I'm hunting and pecking to write this, I'll spare you the rest of the somewhat gruesome details. Long story short is that I narrowly avoided surgery, but have to have an over-the-elbow cast for at least four more weeks. Typing is hard, changing diapers is harder, making a pb+j is nearly impossible. Ben and I will live in sweat/yoga pants for the duration.

So I may be MIA for longer still, but I'm trying to look on the bright side: when my wrist is healed, I'm thinking my leg will be too; the universe, or at least my body, had to resort to cruel tactics to get me to finally, totally rest. So rest I will, left hand pointing straight up for both reasons both practical--to desausage my digits--and spiritual.

In other words, yes, I surrender.

To resolve or not to resolve? That is the question.

2009-01-03T15:22:00.000-07:00

After a New Year's Eve on which even an ailing, aging Dick Clark trumped me big time (in bed by 10, total of two beers, no champagne, one game of Apples to Apples), I woke up on Thursday morning with nothing. No inspiration, no clear path, no ideas of how to chart a path in 2009.

And, really, I'm o.k. with that. Because years with kids don't seem to carry the same weight as years without kids do. They all run together. 2006 felt like 2007 which seemed terribly similar to 2008, which, I'm guessing, is how 2009 will be. Routines that include, in no particular order, microwaved pancakes and veggie sausages and two gummi bear vitamins and the fruit du jour for breakfast; Amelia constantly pleading to wear tights, no matter the weather; refereeing over who gets to play the guitar and who gets the 'monica in the marching band; bribing too often to admit with Dum-Dums or other sugary snacks for the behavior/task/favor I need at that moment.

As mundane as it gets--and as exhausted as it makes me--I pretty much love the routine and watching the kids grow up through it. Amelia can make her own pancakes now and has enough Al Roker in her that she can wisely choose whether or not to rally for tights when she looks at the newspaper weather symbols. Ben, for his part, is smart enough to ask for sugar when I ask him to crawl into his car seat for the fifth errand of the day.

I love the routine, and yet I refuse to lose myself in it. Which is why, as blurry as this January 3rd feels, I still need to carve out a few personal goals through which I can mark this year. I'm not calling them resolutions--I can't stand the black/white/pass/fail mentality at this point in my life. But I can try more strongly to:

1. Not force it.
Ask my husband: give me anything fragile to put together, and I'll break it beyond repair. Finesse is not one of my gifts. And up until this year, not paying attention to my body--perhaps the most fragile thing I own--has worked just fine. No longer. So I'm setting the bar super low. I'm not forcing any athletic goals on myself other than being healthy and injury free. If I get to race, great. If I get to race fast, I'll be elated.

2. Eat more protein.
The difference in my appetite when I eat eggs, toast and fruit for breakfast instead of a few aforementioned syrup-soaked pancakes and a banana is colossal. The former? I'm full for a couple hours, and don't crave sugar as crazily as I normally do. The latter? I could down a bag of king size M'n'M's at 10 a.m., no prob. So more eggs, yogurt (plain, sweetened with honey; not my old fave, Yoplait), cottage cheese, chicken, turkey and my latest addiction: Peanut Butter Cookie Larabars.

3. OD on sleep.
Just like protein totally jolts my disposition, so does sleep. Pegging myself as a nerd here, but the difference between when I'm asleep by 9:00 vs. 10:00 is like seeing a "before" and "after" shot on What Not to Wear (except that my before is 10 p.m., my after is 9 p.m.). Lights out when the rest of the world is still humming means I'm looking at about 7 hours of sleep before my usual 5 a.m. alarm (an hour's grace period to fall asleep, and get up with the smurfs a couple times during the night). Truth be told, I could use 8 hours, and sometime I do crawl in bed around 8. The older I get, choice between watching Grey's Anatomy and having a happy tomorrow is less agonizing to make.

4. Turn off my brain.
This is how my brain works:
Grant, my husband: "I had a bad drive to...."
Me, thinking: "A bad drive? How can it be better? Leave earlier? Leave later? Get better gas mileage in a new car?"
Grant, continuing: "...the exit out of Colorado Springs, then it was traffic free."
Me, thinking: "Phew. But how can I make his commute easier out of Colorado Springs?"

As much as I can, I want to listen without judgment (and not try to fix everything immediately), read books, blogs, magazine articles for pure enjoyment (and not immediately be jealous of great assignments or brilliant sentence structures) and, in general, slow down the wheels in my head. Sweating usually does that for me, no prob, but since that outlet is limited right now, this non-resolution will be the hardest to consciously do. But if I'm successful, my mental load will be ridiculously easier--and maybe I won't need any more markers in 2010.

Weak in the Knees and Hamstrings and Back...

2008-12-19T13:42:00.000-07:00

Today, I poured yet another $100 into my left leg and lower back, which, according to whatever doctor/physical therapist/massage therapist on diagnosis duty, could have IT band syndrome, sciatica, trochanteric bursitis, piriformis syndrome or a host of other conditions I've spent way too much time looking up on the internet. I didn't think Karen could tell me anything I haven't heard before, and last night, adding up holiday bills, I really wanted to just cancel the appointment. Except that the office has a 24-hour cancellation policy.

So I reluctantly went.

First, the bad news: for a triathlete who takes pride in her cut shoulders and quads, I am surprisingly and amazingly weak. My back shakes when I merely bend forward slowly. My hamstrings quiver when I try to do a deadlift with good form. Doing a one-legged bridge makes me wince. Off the ground, I can't come close to getting both hips even. So we switched to a two-legged bridge, and I still couldn't engage my glutes. (Karen is so good, she could tell just by looking at my legs, covered in yoga pants, that my back was aching and my hamstrings were killing, but my glutes? Nada.)

My glaring weaknesses aren't huge news to me--my core has always been my Achilles heel--but what is news is how every less-than-capable muscle, combined with my lack of mobility (think: less rotation in my trunk than a 60-year-old) just manifested itself in my left side. Even though I haven't run a step in over two months (two months!) and been on my bike in at least three weeks (three weeks!), I'm still riddled in pain, which radiates from my glute, and extends to my knee in one direction and my armpit on the other.

Undaunted (and unimpressed by my strong quads), Karen measured the degrees of how much I can rotate; she had me unsuccessfully try to touch my toes; she took "before" pictures, she pieced together the puzzle of my injury more capably like Will Shortz at a crossword tournament. I almost started crying a few times when I couldn't perform as she asked me to; not because I couldn't (although, I will admit, that didn't feel great), but because her new perspective and thorough examination was finally, finally getting to the root of the problem. I did let the floodgates open when I got into the car and called Grant, who has promised to help me with my new PT regimen.

The new routine is embarrassingly simple--and ridiculously hard for me. Six moves, every day, until I finally get both hips even in one-legged bridge pose, which shows my glutes are finally willing to work. Then we get to progress to the advanced beginner level. Those six moves are my only priority, exercise-wise, for now. I'm not going to dwell on how slow and unfit I'll be when I can fire up my heart and lungs again, because if I can't nail this, I'll never be able to fire them up, pain-free.

I haven't been optimistic about my body for months, which is why I haven't written about it for a while, but now, as I sit here, back and glutes still aching, I can finally see a tiny, tiny light way off in the distance.

And that is, in my mind, the best Christmas present ever.

If I didn't have self-esteem issues before...

2008-12-16T20:57:00.000-07:00

Sunday night, our furnace is, as I now know, on its way to dying--great time, given the single-digit highs recently--and, chilly, stressed and tired, I head up to take a bath after making an early breakfast dinner (eggs, microwave pancakes, fruit) for the kids and Grant. "Just give me 20 minutes, then they can come up and get it," I tell him.

Seven minutes later, as I'm just remembering where I was in Three Cups of Tea, Ben comes barging in. Amelia follows a minute later, and within seconds, they're both submerged with me. I put the book down, and start chatting with them.

Ben points to my chest--which, it should be noted, was, pre-nursing, a B+ on a generous day and has shrunk accordingly since then--and says, "Mom, you have some bad bug bites. Really bad."

I don't have the energy to explain, so I just laugh.

We have some fish wars and squirt each other. Amelia aims for my belly button. "Mom," she says, "You have a really big tummy. Are you going to have a baby?"

Thankfully, no: not sure I need another self-generated critic.

Personal Space

2008-12-09T15:54:00.001-07:00

As I type this in an nearly empty coffee shop, I've got a man sitting three chairs down from me, tip-tapping away on his computer. In between key strokes, he takes a bite of a cinnamon roll the size of a hubcap, then sucks the remnants of frosting off his fingers with a very clear and punctuated lick.

I feel like I'm about to strangle him.

Thing is, two hours ago, this place was packed. I was sharing a table with two guys who, I guessed, were either in college or about to be in college--lots of talk about class lists and course work. They were IM'ing their friends, gabbing on their cell phones, eating sandwiches, slurping coffee and otherwise adding noise to an already loudly humming scene. I couldn't have care less. I was actually working on real work--not just spouting off on a blog or answering e-mails--and I was in the zone.

But now? Now that I really have space to breathe, I feel like I need like I could suffocate amidst the slurps.

The same thing happens to me at the gym. When I'm there pre-7 a.m., it's usually crowded enough that I can't, in good faith, hog the machine I work on the most (two cables attached to movable arms, stack of weights, lots of exercises that promote stability from an unstable position), as I usually do when there are fewer people around. I'm diligent about asking nearby lurkers if they want to rotate in. (They usually don't, thankfully.) If somebody jumps on the elliptical next to me or starts doing lunges within inches of me doing sit-ups or somehow invades my personal space, I'm fine with it. That's what happens in the early morning.

But at 10 a.m., when the crowd numbers less than 20, I can hardly stand it when there are six other empty machines available and somebody sidles up on the one next to me and their sweat starts flying. I feel like I could scream if they decide they need to do their planks in the exact same corner I'm doing mine. Really? I think. We've easily got 20 feet of mat here, and you need to plop down 2 feet from me? I sometimes try to give the offender a WTF look, but they're clearly oblivious: they don't notice my 6'3" frame next to them, so they're clearly not going to recoil from the intricacies of my face.

The examples go on and on. An airplane: (relatively) fine if I'm in a middle seat and feeling squished; about to go postal if the middle seat is empty, and my rowmate monopolizes the space with her carry-ons or legs or--the worst--raising the arm-rest and taking two seats so she can take a nap. A grocery store: cool with a cart traffic-jam. Not cool if you park your cart, in an otherwise empty aisle, within inches of mine.

I'd chalk up my neuroses about needing a wide personal wake to being a mother--even though I'm no longer nursing, there isn't a five-minute span, I'd guess, when I'm with my kids that one of them isn't sitting on top of me, grabbing my leg, being carried in my arms, dancing with me (read: helping them jump really high) or otherwise touching me--but I've always been very particular. Maybe it's stems from being so tall; the higher you rise, the bigger radius of personal space you require? Unlikely.

Or maybe something more Zen is at work. I can surrender to circumstances when they're clearly beyond my control. But when a situation clears enough so that I can taste a slice of autonomy, but I can't influence the whole shebang, I'm beyond annoyed. Or, in other words, I want everybody else to be the change--or at least give me the space--I want to see in my world.

Maybe being more tolerant of space huggers is something to work on for my 2009 resolutions. Probably won't, though.

A better call: buying my own cinnamon roll, and doing my own lip-smacking goodness.

A Nearly Perfect Winter Day

2008-12-04T20:44:00.000-07:00

9:30 a.m. With another packed work week--and snowy roads that trapped Grant in Denver for two straight nights--I gave myself an early Christmas present: silence for six hours. I dropped the dogs off at doggy day care (something, it should be noted, I swore I'd never do, until weird circumstances forced me to do it once and they came home so exhausted, they couldn't even bark at the UPS man) and tacked an extra day on Ben's normal MWF daycare. No "mom, Mom, MOM!" cries, no toenails clacking on the hardwood floors, nothing but the sound of my clacking on the keyboard and sipping tea. The experience could potentially snag a best-gift contest, if I hosted such a thing.

2:00 p.m.: Jammed on the work I needed to, so headed to the Y for planks and arms and more abs before the three-stop (kindergarten, kid daycare, dog daycare), pick-up route. The first song on my iPod--I'd had enough silence--was Queen's Bicycle Race. The first line? "I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike." Embarrassing, but it made me teary. I'm six weeks+ of not having a real cleansing sweat. Strong arms are good, but a rejuvenated spirit is much more valuable to me. I feel so emotionally stopped up, I couldn't even open the new Runner's World that came later today, even though I knew I had two stories in it.

4:30 p.m.: Snow patrol. They loved it so much, they wanted to stay out past dark "shoveling" (read: sliding their shovels along nearly clear sidewalks).

6:50 p.m.: I'm confident Oliver's mother is the smartest pig that ever lived. (Sorry, Wilbur!)

Mother sat down in the big chair.
"What are you doing now?" asked Oliver.
"Resting," said Mother.
Amanda climbed into Mother's lap.
Oliver got his circus book.
"Read to me," he said.
"Not now," said Mother. "Now I would like a quiet time. I would like to be alone."
"Alone?" said Oliver. "You wouldn't like it. You would be so lonesome."
"I don't think so," said Mother.

Later, Oliver and Mother have an exchange I replicate easily 100 times daily:
"Maybe I am thirsty," said Oliver. "Bring me a drink of water."
"Please," said Mother.
"Please," said Oliver.

7:30p.m.: My dinner. No, I'm not kidding.

Well, actually, I did have a glass of wine too.

Craving the Straight and Narrow

2008-11-25T21:15:00.000-07:00

Last night, I had one of those sleeps. You know the kind: where you know you should be asleep, but you're not, and you watch the clock relentlessly march from 2:11 to 2:58 to 3:47 and beyond. I counted sheep. I got up with Ben once to help him find his lovey dogs. I tried to relax from my toes on up. I flipped my pillow over and slid my legs around the bed, searching for the sweet cool spot that would coax me into sleep. I went the opposite way, and snuggled into my husband, thinking heat would make me pass out. No game.

The problem? A combination, I think, of not enough activity over the past couple weeks--weight training doesn't tire me to my bones like a run does--and too many thoughts swimming in my head.

I relived the short, frustrating conversation I had with Amelia's dentist yesterday when she told me that my five-year-old has a cavity. I was clearly in disbelief--I'm a stickler for teeth brushing and try to limit her sugar--and asked her what we can do to prevent further ones. Her response? "Less juice and milk," before she started walking away. Amelia only drinks one cup of juice a day, and I'm not limiting her bone-building milk intake.

I worried about my doctor's appointment on Wednesday to figure out what's going on in my leg. And then, as I lay there, my leg seemed to ache slightly, reinforcing my neuroses.

I mentally edited some of the 12,000 words I wrote last week, a super heavy, super stressful one. And then I wondered why, if I met all my deadlines, why I couldn't just relax and sleep. So then I thought about two upcoming challenging assignments, both out of my comfort zone, because if I was going to think about work, I may as well not stress about stories already sent to editors.

I thought about Grant's second week at his new job in Denver, and whether or not we should think about moving to circumvent his 1.5 hour commute. That led to, if we do move, will we be able to sell our house and at least break even? Will we find a house in Denver we love as much as this one? And a school that can meet the high standards set by Amelia's kindergarten?

I wondered how my first Thanksgiving turkey would turn out. I thought about what games our family might play after the meal (out: Charades, as my sister's beau was given "From Russia with Love" on our last round, and I think is still scarred by the experience).

And on and on. Until, finally, I thought about what I was going to do as soon as I could. I planned a swim: what would my set be? Maybe I should go long, with a main set of 500/400/300/200/100 or should I go for 15 or 20 x 100 on an interval? But what should the interval be: I'm good for 1:35 with the master's team, but by myself should I gun for 1:30's? Or would 1:35 without a draft send my shoulders into overdrive?

When I saw the clock turn to 4:45, I cried uncle. I got up, slinked out of the house and was at the Y by 5. (Here's how detailed my thoughts were: I was worried the pool wouldn't be open, so I also brought my regular gym stuff, including my shoes.) The pool was open, and I swear, I've never been more relieved to see that long, unwavering, boring black line snaking underneath me.

Stare at the line, empty my head. Flip turn, repeat: stare at the line, add up my yards, empty my head. And so on and so on.

Swimming doesn't have the instant mental clarity that running does--and most of the time, I bemoan the black line--but this morning, its total, boring reliability unlocked my head, stuck in overdrive. 3,350 yards later (my main set, made up on the fly, turned out to be 2 x 400, 2 x 300, 2 x 200, 2 x 100), I left the Y feeling like I'd reset my body's equilibrium.

But just to be sure, I'm using my sleep insurance (aka Tylenol PM) tonight. If nothing else, it'll soothe my leg when my attention heads there.

Lemonade, Served Up

2008-11-20T18:28:00.000-07:00

Typical fire-drill morning: hours seem to yawn in front of us--kids rise around 6, and Amelia needs to be at school at 8:15--and then suddenly, it's 7:45, I haven't made her lunch, she can't find her must-have folder, Ben's diaper needs to be changed. This morning was especially stressful, as I wanted to go directly from school drop-off to the Y, where the plan was to strength train, then shower, then head to Ben's "gymnastics" class, which, as a side note, was a total waste of money. He either doesn't participate or hogs the trampoline; either way, I look like a mother incapable of controlling her own child.

Gear check: Amelia's stuff for kindergarten. Ben's stuff for an hour daycare at Y (diapers, wipes, water, snack). My stuff for gym (clothes, toiletries, iPod, etc.).

The whole time I'm scurrying around, grabbing jackets and brushing hair, I'm thinking, "Don't forget your shoes. Don't forget your shoes. That would suck if you forgot your shoes."

Check in at daycare isn't as smooth as I'd hoped--I always feel so guilty walking away from my crying child, even though I know they get over it in about 15 seconds--and I get to the locker room. Pull my stuff out, and, of course, no shoes. Dang it.

Plan A: Wear my pseudo cowboy boots I have with my Nike capris. Um, no.
Plan B: Drive back home, grab them, drive back and jam on workout. Too stressful.
Plan C: Relax, take a long shower, lotion up, breathe.

I opt for C. In the shower, I make a plan: I'll strength train after lunch, before we pick up Amelia. Then I remember a story I wrote once about what do to if you forget something for the gym. I thought it was kind of ridiculous at the time, but maybe it had more merit than I gave it. (If you forget your sports bra? Snug up your regular one and either do low-impact cardio or strength train.) I couldn't remember what brilliant advice I came up with for the shoeless Joes.

I get out faster than I anticipated--standing in an open-doored, lukewarm shower with a slightly skanky floor isn't really relaxing--and think, who am I kidding? I'll never exercise at home. I've been meaning to get in the paltry 25-minute routine since Monday, and always lose momentum or find something else much more important to do.

Plan D: Use what I have.

Two minutes later, I slink out of the locker room, feeling awkward with wet hair and wearing capris and socks, but then I realize my co-work-outers at this 9 a.m. slot are either mothers (they're either too tired to notice or give a nodding grin, like they've been there before) or senior citizens, whose velcro'ed sneakers aren't exactly high fashion. On the gym floor, I ask a trainer if I can weight train in socks, and he says no, for liability reasons.

I'm relieved: at least I tried. He apologizes. I say, "It's my fault, not your's," and turn to leave. Then he says, "But you can be in the stretching room."

And there, with my tunes cranked up to create a mental vacuum, in my bright white socks that overemphasize my water-ski feet, I plank, hamstring curl, side plank, push-up, squat, sit-up, back extend and clamshell .

I walk back to the locker room, put on the lotion I skipped post-shower and drop a orange-ginger nuun into my water bottle to toast to my own version of lemonade.

I rigged it.

2008-11-16T18:57:00.001-07:00

4:55 p.m., Halloween night. Amelia's had her princess costume on since, oh, about noon. Ben, 2.5 years old, is not sure about the whole thing, except the mention of free treats has piqued his interest slightly.

Realizing that this will be my final year to have sway over costume choice--and loving a good photo op when I dream one up--I pounce. When I give Ben multiple choices, his developing brain always picks the last option. Easiest to remember, I guess.

For example: Do you want to bug your sister, throw a tantrum or not eat your veggies?
His answer: Not eat my veggies, Mom.

Real Exchange:
Me: Ben, for treats tonight, do you want to wear your cape and magic hat, Spiderman or unicorn?
Him: Unicorn.

Bingo.

I think his cowboy hat and shirt balance the outfit out nicely.