Ann's Running Commentary

The life of an endurance athlete can be excruciatingly difficult but not for the reasons most people would think. It isn’t because of the long hours spent covering insane distances. It isn’t because many of us have to wake before dawn to put in those miles. It isn’t even the pain from the overuse injuries we endure. No, these are things we can handle. They are par for the course, worn as badges of honor by endurance athletes.

The difficult part, the part that guts every endurance athlete without exception, is the forced rest – the days, weeks and sometimes even months following an injury when we are told we cannot run, bike or even swim. These are the days when we wish we had never found the sport. Because knowing how great it feels to be out there on those roads before most people are even out of bed, knowing how incredible it feels to cross that finish line after running fifty miles, knowing how great it feels to push ourselves beyond the limit, and missing those moments is absolutely gut wrenching.

And knowing that for the most part it was something we could have prevented had we just listened to our bodies, makes it all the more difficult. As endurance athletes, we often know when an injury is coming before it is even a niggle. We feel a twinge in the knee or the foot and we can tell you which tendon that is. But we justify. “It’s just that my right hip is a little sore so I am compensating. If I concentrate, I can strike just right from now on and that left ankle won’t be a problem.” Or, “No, it’s not really an injury. I can run through this.”

The problem is that we can run through it. We have built a pain threshold that most people can’t understand and often we can run through the pain, sometimes to a point where it seems to disappear completely. To be fair, half of the time, we are making the right decision. Half of the time, we can work on our form and keep an injury from fully developing, or we can keep running, warm the muscle up and never feel the pain again. But when we are facing an actual injury, it is hard to give ourselves a break. We kick ourselves for not listening to our bodies at the first sign. We kick ourselves for not calling the doctor and getting it checked out.

When we are injured, everything we know about ourselves as endurance athletes is questioned. Maybe we are not as strong as we thought we were. Maybe we will not be able to get back into condition like we have in the past. And the worse, maybe we were just being a baby. Maybe the pain isn’t quite as bad as we thought.

This is the one that does us in. This is the one that has us putting the supportive boot aside and just testing ourselves a little to see if we can run. And this is the decision that takes us from three weeks without running to six weeks without running. We are endurance athletes. We push ourselves. It is not just what we do, but who we are.

As I sit here writing this, my right foot, securely ensconced in a protective boot, is propped carefully on the stool under my desk. A bottle of anti-inflammatory and a large glass of water sits beside my computer. Today, I am lucky. Today, the pain in my foot is horrendous. I tell you, as only an endurance athlete can, that the pain is a good thing because today is a speed workout day. Today is an important run in my marathon schedule and diagnosis or not, without the pain, I know the temptation to test the foot would be too strong. I know that the minute the pain stops I will start mourning the marathon that I am sure to miss while this foot heals. And I know that instead of remembering that rest and recovery is my job right now, I will remember the joy of being on the roads, the joy of losing myself in the sound of my feet slapping the pavement and the joy of completing another marathon.

Being an endurance athlete is difficult but it is what I have chosen to do. So today I remind myself, as I sit here twitching with the desire to be out there doing what I do, that it is through our struggles that we discover our strengths. And so, I struggle with this enforced rest. I am an endurance athlete and I will endure.

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Lately, I have found myself questioning the marathon. Why do I bother? I may be getting faster but I have still not broken four hours and even after I finally I do, I still have ten minutes to cut in order to qualify for Boston. Boston has always been my aim and if that isn’t going to happen, maybe I should just hang up my shoes. Why should I keep putting myself through the stress of training?

This weekend, I found my answer. For three years my daughter and I have made an hour long drive to Olympic Development soccer tryouts. Over the years, Meg has put every ounce of herself into the tryouts only to be cut on the third day. This year as tryouts approached, I found myself dragging my feet. I knew the registration was open and I was well aware that she would want to tryout. But personally I dreaded it. It wasn’t the two hours spent in the car each day or the hour and a half spent standing in the cold watching my daughter play her heart out. It was the disappointment I have witnessed as she looked carefully through the call back numbers and didn’t see hers. It was the look on her face the next time she was on a soccer pitch. A look that told me she wondered whether she was good enough to play at all. There was a part of me that hoped she would change her mind. She would decide not to go. She would not have to face the disappointment again.

Still, as the day approached, she made her way to the computer and found the tryout times. She told her club coach she wouldn’t be at practices because she would be at ODP tryouts. And she made it clear to me that it was important to her. As in years past, everyone showed their confidence in her. “This is the year, girl. This is the year you make the team.” And I cringed as I wondered how high up they would push her and how much harder that would make the fall at the end.

But this is her dream. She believes she will play on the US Women’s Soccer team. It is all she wants. If you ask a hundred people who know her what her favorite thing in the world is, you will get only one answer, “Soccer.” The walls of her room are covered in soccer posters. She dresses for soccer every day, whether she has practice or not, just in case the opportunity to play should arise. She spends hours of her week thinking of new plays for her team or new moves she might try.

I sat in my warm car on Sunday afternoon and watched out the windshield as Meg ran across the field in pouring rain and thirty five degree temperatures. I watched as she hopped up and down before the scrimmages began, trying to stay warm, as she used every move she has ever been taught on the soccer pitch, as she offered a hand to the player who fell in the middle of play and even as she stayed on the pitch juggling the ball and practicing her moves during the water breaks. I watched her playing and realized that that is what it is that she loves – the playing. When she arrived back in my car every layer of clothing was soaked through, but she had a smile bigger than the Cheshire cat’s. She had had a blast. I asked how she played. She didn’t answer with her thoughts on her chances. Instead, she told me about the rain and the girls, the coaches and the goals.

Today was the last day of open tryouts. The cut sheet will go up later this evening and my heart is in my throat as I wait. Megan keeps checking the computer screen in hopes that this will be her year. I hope beyond hope that she will make it but tonight I know that it doesn’t matter. If she doesn’t make it she will be back next year and the one after that, if that is what it takes. I realized while watching this beautiful girl playing in the freezing rain that it isn’t just about a dream to make the Olympic Team. It isn’t just about the chance to see if she is good enough. It is about the moments on the field, every moment on the field. It is about the joy of the game.

As a mom, there are hundreds of lessons I try to teach my children. Once in a while though, the shoe is on the other foot. Seeing Meg’s love for the game, with or without the outcome she hopes for, reminds me of why it is I go out there. Why it is that after twelve marathons without qualifying for Boston, I still find myself at the starting line each year. Watching Meg has helped me to recognize the love I hold for my sport. So, yes, I will sign up for the next marathon. Maybe I will qualify for Boston this time, maybe I won’t, but now I know, it really doesn’t matter. I love to run. That is why I do it. The rest is just icing on the cake.

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I have run in the front of the pack in plenty of races. I have even crossed the finish line first in a couple of races. Unfortunately though this has only happened in my nightmares.

The nightmare always starts the same way. I am running in the middle of the pack when I spot the row of port-a-potties and decide to make a stop. And thus the nightmare truly begins. I come out of the port-a-potty to find no runners, spectators or volunteers any where. Figuring I must have been further back in the pack than I had thought, I start running in the direction the race had been heading. That is when I realize I have five choices. The road splits like the railway exchanges on my son’s Thomas train table. I have to make a choice. As I make my way through a grandmother’s kitchen, climb up a ladder into the attic and have to slide down a twisty slide to get back to the race course, it becomes apparent that I have made the wrong choice. This obstacle course goes on so long I am completely surprised to find spectators still lining the course leading to the finish cheering wildly for me, the last runner. I know that I said the nightmare had started earlier, but as I cross the finish line and photographers snap my picture and Michael Jackson steps up to hand me the winner’s check I realize it has only just begun. Sometimes it seems to go on for days as I try to explain that I didn’t really win the race, I had gotten lost along the course and must have taken what turned out to be a very convoluted shortcut. Unfortunately, no one listens. Instead, the crowd starts accusing me of being the next Rosie Ruiz. The good news is I do eventually wake up from this dream and I am always grateful that it was just a dream.

So, earlier this year, when I found myself leading the pack of our local half marathon, I was very careful to watch for the arrows on the road, not head through any doors or stop at any port-a-potties. I was also very careful to savor the experience. With nobody in front of me to follow and no feet coming up behind, I felt as though I had the course to myself. The water stops were a smorgasbord of beverages and the cheers were all for me. I waved at the children and thanked the police officers along the route for being out so early on a cold, wet Sunday morning and I tried to stay focused on running a good race. About twenty minutes after the turn around on the out and back course, I started seeing the other runners. Some, clad in USNA shorts and tank tops, ignored me as they focused on completing their race but others looked at my quizzically, as though questioning my position in the race. As I made my way further back along the course, some started to comment on how fast I was running, how I was the first one they had seen. I started hearing “Wow, she must have headed out really fast.” This is when it became apparent to me that some of those who were behind me didn’t realize I had started with the one hour early start.

Yes, I was leading the race but only because the other early starters expected to take several hours to finish the course and needed a head start. I, on the other hand, expected to complete the course in the middle of the pack range but had begged my way into the early start the day before so I could get back to help with the food tables at the finish. Since I had never run an early start before, I was not prepared for the quiet and the small crowd. I was so unprepared that it wasn’t until the second mile that it occurred to me that the water stops might not be up and I might be completely on my own. I should have given my local running club more credit. They were more than prepared. Not only did they have the water stops ready but they had requisitioned volunteers to meet us along the trail and cheer us on.

As I approached the tenth mile, the crowds thinned out a little so they could be back with the real race but being a front runner for the first time in my life gave me all the boost I needed to run the last three. I ran as though I were Paula Radcliffe. I imagined the throngs who would meet me in the stadium, well not the stadium really but in the bus circle at the high school. I ran as though I were the winner of the race. As I approached mile twelve and spectators did begin lining the last mile and continued to comment on the fact I was in first place, I smiled and waved and had my moment of glory.
There are five pictures of me crossing the finish line with a grin that beats the Cheshire Cat. Several volunteers offered me bottles of water and Gatorade, people congratulated me on a good run and nobody accused me of taking a short cut to get there. I may not have won the race and Michael Jackson didn’t greet me with a check but overall, I would say it was good to be a front runner for the day.

Originally published in the September/October 2009 Issue of the Washington Running Report.

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Yesterday was the last day of school in the county. The kids have a whole week to enjoy the beginning of the holiday season. In celebration my family decided to take part in the Dashing through the Snow 5k. What a great way to start a holiday week. The idea, set up through the Annapolis Striders and benefiting Anne Arundel Medical Center is to run through the Christmas light display at Sandy Point State Park and finish with cookies and hot chocolate. It is one of the many family friendly events hosted by the Annapolis Striders and by far one of the most entertaining.

Our plan, as a family, sans hubby because he couldn’t get back in time for the early start, was for my fifteen year old son to entertain his three year old little brother with a walk through the light display and then wait along the course to cheer my daughter and me on.

My daughter and I went back and forth before the race started. Should we run it or should we race it? Just before the start we came to our final decision. We would just run it. We are both running a race on Thanksgiving morning where we will definitely be racing so we decided to take this one easy, head out at a nine minute pace and enjoy the lights.

But, we all know what they say about the best laid plans. Even at a nine minute pace we knew we would be in the front of the pack for this crowd so when they asked the “serious runners” to go to the front, we did. Still we planned on taking it easy, floating around the course with little effort. Of course, I seem to have had a lapse of memory. I had somehow forgotten who I was running with, Megan aka Maverick (I feel the need for speed) Brennan.

As it was a holiday event, Santa had the honor of starting the race with an “On your mark, get set, ho-ho-ho!”

And we were off. We started off at a seven and a half minute per mile pace and I tried to slow my speedy thirteen year old daughter down. “We aren’t going to be able to see the lights at this speed, sweetie,” I told her while huffing and puffing along beside her.

I do believe she was trying to slow down. She was at least thinking about slowing down, but in the end, as we approached the half mile point, she just shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, Mom. I just can’t.” And she was right – going slow is not something she does.

She took off. She quickly passed six people and I was left to make my own decision. Should I slow down and chat with the other runners or should I pick up my pace and try to keep Meg’s bright orange soccer jersey in my sights? Well, she is my daughter and she did get her competitive genes from somewhere so, I picked up my pace to try to keep her in my sights.

I have been in that position before, running behind Meg, trying to catch up, thinking maybe I might be able to pass her but knowing that my chances were slim. I watched her as she passed runner after runner and to keep up with her I found myself passing runner after runner. As we approached the finish line I knew she would have a kick I didn’t have, she always has had, but this time I decided I would give it my all and I kicked my pace up and moved one runner closer to Meg.

In our race that had started as a friendly run, Meg crossed the finish line as the second female finisher and I, her dear old mom, finished in fifth.

I admit things didn’t go as planned. I hardly noticed the lights and I didn’t get thirty minutes to chat with Meg. But sometimes, when the best laid plans go awry, we get a nice surprise. Meg and I would have had fun taking it easy. We would have enjoyed the time to talk and laugh our way through the course, but what we ended up with was so much better – the exhilaration of a race well run. Besides, there was still time to chat and laugh and share our race stories over cookies and hot chocolate.

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Two things you should know about me before I start this post. First, I have never in my life written a product review. And second, I hate the color lavender. I mean hate with a passion. Yet, here I sit, in front of my laptop, writing a product review about my new lavender top from Thriv 1st.

When Jonathan first emailed me about trying out the new top I thought I loved the idea. Then he said it was eco-friendly and made from Bamboo and I thought, oh no. I was not at all sure what I was getting myself into but I imagined running in a burlap sack. This did not sound appealing. I double checked with Jonathan to make that I would not be obligated to write about it and once I was clear on that I agreed. “Go ahead send it. I will give it a try.”

Everybody loves getting something new in the mail and for me new running gear is just the ticket. So, the day it arrived I was so excited I opened it before I even made it back into the house. Now here comes the moment of honesty. I looked at this lavender shirt, sat it on the dining room table and didn’t pick it up again for over a week. Lavender? Yuck. I definitely was not going to wear that.

Eventually though the dining room table needed to be dusted. In the process of clearing the table of built up piles of mail, school books and other miscellaneous items, I came across the top again. Picking it up and taking just a minute to examine it, I was surprised by how soft it was. Then I noticed how light it was. I began to have doubts about a sports top that was so soft and light. Could it really perform?

Oh, there is one more thing I should have told you about myself. I am from Maryland, the home of Under Armour and quite honestly I love their gear. I was not at all convinced that this super soft and lightweight top was going to be able to compete with my hometown team.

Maybe I was trying to stack the field against it but I decided to try the new top out on my hardest workout, my 5×7. This workout calls for running as fast as I can for five minutes then running downstairs to the free-weight room doing three sets of weights, then repeating this seven times. This means I keep my heart rate elevated for over an hour and a half. When I finish this workout I am pouring sweat. This is a tough test for even the toughest of sportswear.

In all respects, the Thriv top performed above all expectations. The most important thing for me was that I didn’t chafe. I have had an issue with chafing with every sports bra I have ever owned and I didn’t chafe even a little bit. I would have been sold on this product on this point alone but to top it off, it wicks better than any shirt I have worn and it dries in record time.

I still hate lavender, but I find myself rushing this top to the washer as soon as I get home from the gym in order to make sure it is ready for the next workout. Considering my distinct lack of domestic goddess genes,this, more than anything, proves how quickly this top has won a top spot in my sportswear drawer.

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My son hates running. He has told me this everyday for most of his life. Even as he was getting faster and faster over the cross country season he would assure me that he hated it. Even after getting in my car after practice one afternoon and telling me he wanted to run the marathon. He just does not find the same joy in it that his father, sister, grandfather, aunt and mom do. When I tell him I think he might like it just a little bit, he completely denies it.

I, on the other hand, being his mother and knowing him better than he knows his self, know that deep down he enjoys it. I understand that he has convinced himself that running is not for him, that it is too hard and boring. I do get that. But I also know that when he runs, whether it is for an hour one day or on a regular basis as he tries to stay in shape for soccer season, he is a nicer person.

This is not a small feat. It is not that I am trying to take a sullen teenager who sits in his room, refusing to converse with another human being. It is also not that I have a surly teenager, with the rolling eyes and “Mom, you are so embarrassing” attitude. With a teenager like that I any improvement might seem like a big improvement. But Blaise is a “practically perfect in every way kind of teenager.” He gets good grades, he gladly spends time playing with his baby brother, and he will even have full conversations with me about the things that are happening in his life. To improve on him is not a lot to ask.

And yet, even he can be improved with a run. Please do not approach him to confirm this because you will be disappointed. He may even resort to rolling his eyes before answering you with a, “No, I did not enjoy that run” sneer. But I am here to tell you that I left the house with a pouting unhappy teenage boy who had to be forced to lace up his shoes. And I returned with a laughing and chatting young man who had run seven miles without complaint.

I am loath to say, I told you so, so please don’t mention it to him, but I did tell him so. He spent the entire morning moping around my house, complaining about anything he was asked to do and in general being a real curmudgeon. When I had had enough I told him (I know I should have asked but I had had enough) to lace up his shoes and meet me outside.

Oy, the complaints that came out of the child. “Why? I don’t want to go? Why can’t I just run on my own? Why do I have to run with you? I don’t want to go.” Pretending not to hear him I loaded my youngest son in the jog stroller, put the leash on the dog and headed out the front door to await his grumpy presence.

That is exactly what I got. A complete and total grump who refused to engage in conversation, rolled his eyes when I tried and kept pushing our pace in an attempt to out run his mom. But, I know I have already said this, mom knows best and by the time we reached the paths onto the cross country trails two miles from our house, he had started talking. Okay, not to me but at least he was talking to the dog. That was a step. A mile later he started talking to his little brother. By mile five he was pushing the stroller and talking to his dear old mom. And by the time we reached our house again he had left every bit of surly teenager along the trail and become my practically perfect in everyway kid again.

I would love to say that my son loves running, that he will grow up to be a runner like most of the rest of his family. I would love to know that he will have this to fall back on the way I do when the world around me is spinning out of control. But I don’t know. Maybe he won’t. Maybe he will continue to believe that he truly hates running. But maybe, just maybe, he will remember the times running made the day brighter and better and he will grow to love it. Maybe.

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All of the veteran marathoners in my running club told me not to have a goal for my first marathon. They explained that there was no way to know what to expect out of a marathon until I had run one. They tried to explain the vast difference between twenty miles and twenty six miles. Thankfully, I listened. I woke up the morning of my first marathon to rain that poured so hard it truly looked as though it was raining up and to temperatures that were twenty degrees below any of my training runs. Halfway through the race I realized that the niggle I had been feeling in my left knee was actually an injury. It was the sort of injury that had the spectators commenting (loudly I might add) that I looked hurt. That first marathon took me five hours and five minutes to complete. The good news is I knew in my gut that that was not my best time. I knew I could do better.

Six months later I did. I finished a local marathon in 4:26. This was my personal record. Yeah me! Unfortunately ten years and eight marathons later it was still my personal record. Somewhere along the way I had let myself believe that I was a 4:26 marathoner at best and really more of a 4:45 marathoner as witnessed by my eight most recent efforts. At the same time I started to believe I would never lose the last fifteen pounds I had been trying to lose for those eight years.

Then the unfathomable happened. I woke up one morning and suddenly realized I was going to be forty in less than eight months. Suddenly I knew that I would either lose the fifteen pounds or I wouldn’t but this was the do or die moment for me. If I carried that weight over the forty year threshold there would be no turning back.

So I started working harder and watching what I ate. I started acting like an athlete that had run ten marathons, several triathlons and even a fifty miler. I trained with purpose. I gave up on the marathon because I felt like this would distract me from my goal of losing the weight. I focused on running faster because it burned more calories. I added more cardio sessions and weight training and the weight started coming off. A pound a week was all I asked and it happened. Suddenly I wasn’t the runner who elicited the patronizing “Good for you comments” from truly athletic people. I was fit and I looked fit.

In the process of this physical transformation the funniest thing happened. I became faster. I ran a local memorial half marathon for a member of our club and finished five minutes faster than my fastest half. I got the bug. If I could do that, I thought, I bet I could run other races faster. I entered a couple more races and got a couple more PR’s. So I decided to go for it. To test and see whether 4:26 was definitely the best marathon I had in me. I signed up for my fifth Marine Corps Marathon. Maybe I was trying to sabotage myself. The Marine Corps Marathon is a great race but it isn’t exactly the kind of race where you get a PR. As a matter of fact my worse time, my first time was in the Marine Corps Marathon. But the decision was made. I was going to get a PR in the Marine Corps Marathon.

I kept training and kept racing and kept getting PR’s. Two weeks before the race I came in almost ten minutes faster than my best time in a metric marathon. A race I had said I wasn’t racing. I was just using it as a training run because I was tired of doing the long runs alone.

The registration form for the Marine Corps Marathon had asked what time I thought I would finish in. I had written 4:20. I felt ambitious. After the metric marathon my husband and I talked about it and I decided I would try for 4:15. On the day of packet pickup, feeling giddy from the expo atmosphere maybe, I picked up a temporary tattoo from the Saturn booth with the splits for a 4:10.

That was two days before the race. Two days in which I ran my children from game to game and had little time to think more about my goal. The night before the race I still wasn’t thinking much about it. It was just a number. I got my things together and just before I climbed into bed my husband helped me to put the tattoo (my guide to a 4:10 marathon) on the inside of my forearm. Four hours and ten minutes. Sixteen minutes faster than my best marathon. Ten minutes faster than my goal when signing up for the marathon and five minutes faster than my most aggressive goal. Needless to say I hardly slept. When I did, I dreamed about waking up with the tattoo transferred to my forehead and magnified times ten so that everybody could see what I failure I was when I once again crossed the line in 4:45.

Race morning was better than expected. I wasn’t really nervous. I had decided after the tenth nightmare that I was just going for the 4:20 mark and would be thrilled with 4:15 if I could do that. Heading out of the train, I approached the start with a good feeling. 4:20 was doable. I could definitely do that. I was fifteen pounds lighter and much stronger than I had ever been for a marathon. Plus, I was experienced. I had the mental tricks down. I knew that when everybody else was dying between mile 21 and 22 on that lonely stretch of highway, I would be okay. All I had to do was get through that mile and I knew I would be okay. I knew what to expect of the race. I knew the ups and the downs and how my body responded to them.

But I forgot that every race is a new race. Like fingerprints no two marathons are the same. Not even one organized by the ever efficient United States Marine Corps. As bad as the weather was for my first marathon that is how perfect it was on race day. Cool and sunny – a beautiful day for a footed tour of Washington, DC and all of its monuments.

Of course, the other runners surrounding me that day might not have known I thought it was perfect as at every mile I would mutter an expletive not quite under my breath. No matter how hard I tried, I found for each of the first eight miles I was going too fast. I was well below my tattooed pace and all of that experience was haunting me. I knew what bonking was and was sure I was going to do it. I just knew that I was going to hit mile twenty and suddenly completely blow it. Still, a small part of me found that hard to believe. I felt great. I was focused. Whereas I would usually run and talk to the other runners in a marathon I was completely silent other than the expletives at the mile markers. By mile seventeen I realized I had set a PR for my the 5k, 10k, the half and the metric marathon and was praying that it would not be to the detriment of my goal.

But now what was the goal? What was I aiming for? I had told myself just that morning that I would be happy with a 4:20 and thrilled with a 4:15 but now I was looking at doing better than the 4:10 tattooed on my arm. What time was I going for and how could I decide this in the middle of the race?

In the meantime, my husband, my son and one of my friends were all receiving my splits every five kilometers and were texting back and forth about what would happen. Would I break four hours or come crawling in at five after I bonked? It was the same question I was asking myself on that lonely stretch of highway I had prepared myself for. But I had prepared myself for it and I knew that all I had to do was get across that bridge and I would be fine. My husband would be at the end of the road and would bring me in. It was his job to talk to me and encourage me and not let me quit after that. And it is a job that he rocks at.

I made it across the bridge and another mile after that before the wheels fell off and I started feeling like the times really didn’t matter anymore. All I wanted to do was be done with this damned race. Then I looked again at the tattoo and imagined scrubbing it off of my arm at the end of the race. Imagined the fury I would feel looking at it and realizing that four hours and ten minutes had been within my reach and I had let it go because I was tired. If ten marathons had taught me anything, they had taught me that I was not going to be satisfied no matter what my time was. I never had been. But I knew that if I didn’t give it everything I had at the end I would not only not be happy with my time I would not be happy with myself. All of the work I had gone through to be a thinner, healthier me before I turned forty and here I was thinking about throwing it away.

So, my pace that had slowed enough between miles twenty three and twenty four to prompt a text from my son to my husband that said simply “Uh-oh” began to pick up. My husband gave me one last shout of encouragement and I headed up that last hill. Using the crowd’s cheers, I sprinted for the finish. The funny thing is that it was captured on film. In the stills at the end of the race I am sprinting toward the finish and then I look up, see the clock and smile and then cry. The smile came when I saw the clock time of 4:12. The crying started when I looked down at my watch and realized that my chip time would show as 4:07:59. And the laugh that was not captured on film came as I realized I was thrilled with either time.

A year later, I look back at that PR with a different attitude than I had before. I am still thrilled that I did so well. I am still happy that I beat my previous PR by almost 20 minutes but I know I am not a 4:07 marathoner. I don’t know what I am yet. But I intend to find out.

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It’s here. Marathon week is finally here. Yippee! This one, the Baltimore Marathon, will make it an even dozen. Thinking about the number of marathons under my belt, the seasons of training and the weeks leading up to marathons past, I have made an interesting discovery about myself. I don’t get nervous about the marathon. I haven’t since the very first one. I get excited, anxious for the day to be here already and to get going. But it isn’t the marathon I get excited about.

It is the day after. It is knowing that I don’t have to get up every weekend and trudge through the long run. I can run three miles or ten miles and know that it isn’t going to affect my training. I can go hiking and trail running without worrying about breaking an ankle and ruining my marathon.

More than that though I look forward to the day after the marathon, when I get to go back to the type of training I really love – the short fast runs, jump roping, weight lifting, spinning and clubbing cardio workouts that are more fun than work.

I train for two marathons a year. That is thirty two weeks a year of living strictly by the training schedule. The other twenty weeks of the year I train for fun. I still push myself. Most of the time, I push myself harder than I do during marathon training, but not because it is on the schedule. I do it because I like the results. But mostly, I do it because it is what makes the rest of the year worth it. It is truly fun.

Some have suggested that I would enjoy this type of training all year long, that I should give up the marathon training, but I don’t think so. Part of what makes the crazy hard ten weeks between marathon training fun is going into them tired and bored and ready for something different but going into them marathon fit. Going into the ten weeks with a confidence that few know better than a marathon runner. A confidence that my body can survive a marathon.

So, no, I am not nervous. I realize there is a marathon on Saturday. I realize I have to get through the 26.2 miles and that they might even be painful miles, but I also know that there is a reward at the end. A reward that lasts ten weeks. That is what I am focused on this week as the marathon approaches. I have looked at the course. I have developed a strategy. I will run two more easy runs before the marathon begins, but really, what more can I do? I am ready. Ready to run, ready to be done with it and ready to move on to the next thing.

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After delivering my first child, I decided that most women are just wimps. The entire process was painless. Certainly nothing to make a scene over anyway. I held to this belief for twenty six months, the day my second child came along. Having decided giving birth was easy, I declined the drugs the second time around. I was not like other women; this would not be a problem. Boy was I wrong. Apparently those drugs make all the difference and the other moms are not quite as wimpy as I thought.

It is amazing what a little perspective will do for you. I have been reminded of this recently as I struggle to find the time in each day to get to the gym or fit in a run. For the past eleven years I have been a stay at home mom and have made it a priority to get my workout in first thing each morning. I have preached the importance of finding the time to stay fit. Truth be told, I have been a bit of a know it all.

Suddenly though, there is a perfect storm in my house. My older children and built in babysitters, have both returned to school after their summer break. My three year old, who is still home each day, would prefer to be entertained by mommy. And I am spending more and more time each day in an attempt to launch a freelance writing career. Suddenly, I can understand all of the women who have told me they can’t find the time.

But fitness is important to me and so I practice what I preach. I have to carve out the time and become truer to a schedule than I had to during my non-working years. I also have to compromise. I can carve out an hour or an hour and a half each day but that will have to do. I will have to increase my intensity to burn the same number of calories, but I don’t have the time to spend two to two and a half hours a day at the gym.

As embarrassed as I am about not having had more sympathy for the moms who told me they didn’t have time to exercise, I am also pleased to see that I was, to a certain degree, right. It is about making a choice. It is about making a sacrifice in another part of my life. Beyond that, it is about giving myself a break. Sometimes, one of the kids has to empty the dishwasher. Sometimes, my husband has to run a kid to and from practice. Worse still, there are days when things simply don’t get done.

The lesson is one I have preached but never been forced to apply. The time has always been there for me. Now that it isn’t, I am walking in the shoes of those other moms and finally, I can feel their pain.

Originally published at Irongirl

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I haven’t hired a doggie therapist, but I have made a discovery about my four year old Weimeraner, Jackson. He has Multiple Personality Disorder.

Jackson, like most weimeraners, is fiercely loyal. Of the five people in the house, I am the one he has to be near twenty four hours a day. This means I am also the one who is run into and knocked over on a consistent basis. In the house, Jackson is a terror. He runs into everything, banging his head on the table or wall several times a day, slipping as he rounds corners and basically seeming like the world’s klutziest dog. He is also horribly disobedient. I can yell,”Come” until my face turns blue and get no response. But if I yell, “Treat” he comes running. He pulls things off of the kitchen counter; noses open the pantry for a late night or early morning snack and digs in every trash can in the house. He jumps on beds and he runs to the front window to bark at every dog who dares walk by our house. In the house, we have taken to calling him Jackson the Terrible.

But when he sees my running shoes being laced or even hears the word run, he becomes Jackson the Magnificent. He waits patiently by the back door and is ready to go the minute I am. As we head out the door, the anticipation is apparent but not in the tugging and pulling way that my other dog exhibits. Instead it is his raised and wagging tail that gives him away.

The first part of the run is fun for Jackson the Magnificent but it isn’t what he is here for. The first half is where I first noticed the split personality disorder. The dog that stands at my front window and barks like Cujo at any dog that passes the window tucks his tail between his leg and jumps to the other side of me if a dog comes running to its window. He gives me the “Mommy, that dog scares me” look and refuses for the rest of this part of the run to go back on the other side.

Other than this refusal though, he becomes the world’s most obedient dog. He runs without tugging, doesn’t stop to smell every tree and never barks at another dog. This obedience becomes even more pronounced as we hit the second part of the run, the trails. On the trails through our woods Jackson listens to every command. I can whisper the word “come” and he returns without hesitation. One “This way” and he changes course on the spot. “Wait there” and he stops and sits quietly until I release him. Things I have tried in the house to no avail are obeyed completely on the trail.

But the biggest difference between Jackson the Terrible and Jackson the Magnificent, the two very different personalities of my Weimeraner, is his gracefulness. On the trail Jackson becomes Mikhail Baryshnikov. He glides gracefully through the landscape with his limbs all in his command. He soars over the low brush. He cuts in and out of the trees. To see him in the woods you would never guess he is the same klutz of Magnolia Lane. He is graceful and sleek as he bounds through the thick forest of trees.

On the trails, he is the dog that every trail runner dreams of owning. He scouts the terrain ahead and comes back to my side when there are other runners about. He is the perfect off leash dog. Jackson the Magnificent becomes the dog I beg him to be inside.

Once we return home he remains Jackson the Magnificent for about an hour, as though he is basking in the glory of all that he was. But then it is over and he goes back to the same klutzy, disobedient, barking dog.

I am not sure there is a cure for multiple personality disorder in a dog but if there is I wouldn’t want it. I have begun to see this daily transformation as a gift. And it makes me wonder, would I appreciate the grace and beauty of Jackson the Magnificent if I couldn’t compare him to Jackson the Terribly Naughty?

Originally Published in Dog Living Magazine September 2009

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