Boston Marathon, Baby!
The ladies had planned to talk race-day preparation, but Dimity turned the conversation into a chat about Sarah’s upcoming race, the Boston Marathon. It felt like a gift to Sarah, letting her talk and contemplate her choices for the race—from what she’ll wear to when and where she’ll eat the night before and how to ensure she stays present in the (glorious, somewhat painful) moment. Along the way, the ladies impart a few race-day tips—and tell a surprisingly amusing anecdote about Dimity’s mom hiding under a desk during a recent bank heist.
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Tell Me Tuesday: Stick to the Prescribed Plan
Don’t make us yell at you!
As readers of our first book
know, I was fortunate enough to be coached by Lynn Jennings for a 2009 marathon. The 1992 Olympic bronze medalist and I often went on long runs or did track workouts together. But even when I did the majority of my runs solo, her advice echoed in my head. One of the most memorable things she told me: “Don’t do more than the workout calls for. You won’t impress me, and you’ll just overtax yourself.” From there, she’d explain that if the training plan said run 14 miles at long run pace, I wasn’t doing my body any favors by running it faster, say, at marathon pace. She stressed that each workout had a purpose—build endurance, increase speed, encourage recovery—and by messing with the formula, the gains could be lost.
I was reminded of Lynn advice on Sunday during my final long-ish run before starting the taper for the Boston Marathon. The Marathon: Own It plan from Train Like a Mother
called for 14-16 miles. I’d been hankering to run part of a route I typically bike, but I wasn’t sure of the distance. A quick check of a map-routing site told me I’d be well within that range.
Levi, me, and Ellison (L-R) at a less sweaty time
Not! Around Mile 10, I realized my long run was going to be, well, too long. All my pals who have run Boston have told me to take the taper extra-seriously so this was definitely not the run to shun Lynn’s sage advice. What to do? Detour by a friend’s house to see if she could give me a ride home? Call Jack and ask him to pile the clan into the van to retrieve me in a few miles?
Hmmm….Instead, divine providence intervened. Running down a random, little-used street, I suddenly heard a woman say my name. It was Levi, a runner I admire greatly, asking me if I wanted to a ride. Normally I’d pass—my overbuilt sports ego wouldn’t permit skipping miles, especially “in front of” a mother (and now grandmother) who used to run sub-3:00 marathons—but today was different. I hopped in, asking her to drop me off a mile from my digs. The ride meant instead of covering nearly 17 miles, my Garmin clicked to 15.16 when I hit home. Instead of feeling like a slacker for trimming my run, I felt proud I’d stayed true to the plan.
If you’re not on a set training plan (say, oh, one of the nine in TLAM), covering a little extra distance or going a little faster isn’t going to set you back. But messing too much with prescribed workouts can wreck havoc with your race day results or your performance in hard workouts. If you push too hard in your weekend long run, chances are good you’ll feel sluggish in Tuesday’s track session. Or run too fast in Friday’s tempo, and your legs might turn to lead on Sunday’s 12-miler.
So ‘fess up: How true do you stay to a prescribed workout? Do you have trouble turning off your inner overachiever?
Freedom Still Isn’t Free
My truest definition of freedom.
After I spent the day going to three Party City locations (woo! party on!) to find a Darth Vader pinata which Ben must have for his sixth birthday party and then cheering on all kinds of tall women at the Final Four in Denver with Amelia, who had tons of questions about colleges and other not-ready-to-go-there-yet places, I had a moment. F*%^. My kids are growing up way too fast. And because I was really trying to stay present and be with them–and not my computer–today, I am late on posting.
The good news is that keeping a blog is kind of like the scrapbook or diary I’ll never keep; I can look back on, say, April 2010 and see what I was thinking. Funny how I was thinking nearly the same thing then that I was today. Thank you for humoring me on regurgitated material. I promise to have a fresh post next Monday.
Scene: Denver Airport, headed to Florida for spring break. (Yes, this post is over a month late.)
Seat assignments: In a crowded plane that had 5 seats across, we had two + two, with an aisle in between.
The amazing thing that happened: The kids, ages 3 and 6, sat by themselves!
I’ll repeat that in case it didn’t sink it: They sat by themselves.
Granted, Grant and I were just across the foot-wide aisle from them, and they chanted, “Mom, I need…” or “Mom, can you…” or “Mom, I’m hungry…” or “Mom, I spilled…” every 90 seconds without fail. But the facts remains: We didn’t have to carry on a car seat. I didn’t have a child on my lap. I wasn’t parked between them. I wasn’t constantly picking up toys or holding their legs down so they wouldn’t kick the seat in front of them. I actually read a few pages of my own book (and reread them and reread them because I kept getting interrupted). I tasted, for the first time, in almost seven years, what it feels like to be an autonomous adult while still traveling as a family.
The liberation didn’t end when we touched down in the Sunshine State. In mid-March, the temperatures were cool–there were days on our vacation when it was warmer in Denver than it was in the so-called tropics–so I wasn’t super psyched to go in the chilly Gulf of Mexico or slightly more temperate pool. As Juney B. Jones always says, guess what? I didn’t have to. I waded up to my knees or so in the Gulf, and my body never touched the chlorine-soaked waters. Amelia was intent on mastering backwards somersaults, and Ben, with his floaties on, was fine tooling around the shallow end. I read (and reread and reread) a couple more pages of my book, keeping one eye on them. The first time ever, in nearly 84 months, I haven’t had a child clinging to me, unknowingly pulling down my suit to expose my sad, sagging tube socks– I mean my chest.
And on it went: they made sand castles and friends by themselves. They went lizard hunting just outside the house solo. They could run a spatula down to the BBQ pit for Poppy by themselves. At times, I almost felt like an accessory.
As amazing I thought feeling unnecessary would feel–Lord knows, I’ve waited for this day for almost 2,100 days –it also made me feel surprisingly empty. I wasn’t sure what do to with myself. Paint my toes? Read a magazine? Fold the laundry? Make a key lime pie? Dream about having another baby? So used to being their life jacket, transporter, entertainment and a gazillion other roles, when they emerged from the shadow I cast over them 24/7, I was thrilled–and saddened–to see two semi-independent kids that will only grow stronger and more capable every day.
I remember I felt this way after both my marathons. All I did was look forward to the Liberation Day: the day–and weeks–after the race when I’d sleep in and cook leisurely dinners and drink too many beers on a Friday night because Saturday morning was F.R.E.E.! and finally be able to stay up for and comprehend Lost. Then I crossed the finish line, and I enjoyed my freedom for a week or so–or until my quads were no longer sore. Soon enough, though, I was restless and missing the routine. I knew I wasn’t ready to train seriously again, but I’d spend way too much time combing the Internet, wondering what challenge I was poised to take on next. I know I don’t need another 26.2, just like we don’t need another kid. But I do need the possibility.
As we flew home from Florida, we had the same arrangement: two kids on one side of the aisle, two parents on the other. As they drifted off (predictably, 30 minutes before we landed) and drooled all over themselves, I closed my eyes too. I wanted to process the vacation, to make sense of why, when I finally arrive at a day I’ve been wishing for, it can feel so bare.
All I could come up with was this: maybe the structure of training and demands of parenting that I often feel stifle me–they seem so mandatory, so inflexible, so mundane, so out of my control–are actually far from stifling. Maybe they give me the feeling of being needed, important, loved and confident. Maybe they’re actually the best part of my life.
And maybe I need to remember that when I hear, “Mom, can you…” at least fourteen times before school drop-off tomorrow.