The Most Important Mile of My Life: Katie Garrett
Katie with her daughter Seraiah and her best friend Emily at the Hoosier Half Marathon. Katie ran while pregnant with Seraiah, and then during this race when she was 4 1/2 months old; Katie pushed her in a stroller.
December 28, 2012 marks my most important mile. As a mother runner, each mile of pregnancy is a mile shared with my child. I ran all through my first two pregnancies and loved it. As I was training for my first marathon, I was excited to discover I once again had a running buddy on board. With the go ahead from my midwife, I carefully continued my runs and anticipated crossing the finish line for two.
On Dec. 27, 14 days before the race, we found out that our baby no longer had a heartbeat. While I was comforted that my midwife did not believe my running (or anything else I had done/not done) had caused the miscarriage, I was still devastated. I was scheduled to leave for Israel six days later, so she scheduled a D&E for the following day.
I woke up the following morning and had a few hours before surgery, so I did what I would normally do — I went running. Despite the fact that I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything after midnight, and the nurse who would later attempt to start my IV was not altogether fond of my choice, I went out for one last three mile run with the baby I would never get to hold or push in the jogging stroller. As I circled the park, I thought about our miles together—the first terrible run I had when I didn’t yet know I was pregnant, the evening runs past houses covered in Christmas lights—and I smiled at happy memories.
As I turned the corner and ran the final mile, I said goodbye. I would never get to talk to this child as the miles ticked by, or feel him settle into the spot that all of my babies kick when I’m pregnant, but I could be at peace. I was able to have one last run with my baby, and for me, there would have been no better way to say goodbye.
This is an ongoing feature on the website. Best way to submit is to email us your story with a picture: runmother {at} gmail {dot} com with “Most Important Mile” in the subject line. Please try to keep your mile stories under 300 words. Thank you!
#123: Ultrarunning Mother—and Daughter
Pam Smith with her daughter (and 24 hour race partner) Megan
Buckle up: Dimity and Sarah cover a lot of ground in this podcast, starting with a half-marathon race recap by SBS, and some thoughts from Dimity about her rapidly approaching Pikes Peak Ascent. The ladies are joined by Pam Smith, M.D., a pathologist, mother of two, and kickass ultramarathoner. Pam has them hanging on every word as she tells how she went from being the fourth-to-last finisher in the 2012 Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run to winning the prestigious ultra the very next year. (!!!) Yet it’s refreshing to hear Pam admit, “there’s gotta be some peer pressure to do burpees.” Pam also tells the tale of how she and her 9-year-old daughter completed a 24-hour race around a 1-mile loop; with plenty of rest breaks and, “about 80% walking,” the youngster covered 34 miles.
The conversation also covers the joys of a cotton T-shirt (Sarah can’t get behind that notion), then culminates in Qatar. From there, it’s a wild ride in which the topics flit from the first-ever AMR running retreat (next April in Little Rock, Arkansas) to our third book coming out next spring, plus the announcement of the AMR Running/Reading Club (AMRRR, pronounced, “AM-errrrrrr”). First book on the docket: Rachel Toor’s young adult novel On the Road to Find Out, about a high school girl who takes up running and navigates the gauntlet of college admissions. Read it by September 8 to be able to submit questions that we’ll ask Rachel (another ultrarunner) on air. (Hope that doesn’t sound too much like a homework assignment!)
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Half-Marathon Race Report: Bridge of the Gods
The don’t-look-down Bridge of the Gods that racers immediately crossed in Sunday’s half-marathon (Photo credit: Adam Lapierre)
Last Sunday, standing on the Washington side of the Bridge of the Gods in the Columbia River Gorge with almost 700 other half-marathon participants, I felt primed to take on 13.1 miles. All the pieces were in place: I’d been training since early June with Coach Briana “Bri” Boehmer, pushing out paces I hadn’t clocked in several years in pursuit of a speedy times at October’s Victoria Marathon. I’d carb-loaded and hydrated with an intensity I don’t think I’ve ever done before. I had a jammin’ new playlist on Spotify (set on shuffle, if you can believe it!!). My running partner, Molly, and I had done a great coach-prescribed warm-up that left me feeling loose and peppy, if a bit damp already. Yes, the course ahead was hilly and the sun was already shining too brightly, but I was optimistic.
As Bri had instructed, I eased into the race for the first two miles. The first few hundred meters were across the grid-bottomed bridge, giving a view straight through to the rushing green river below. Freaky! I didn’t glance down at the GPS on my wrist or the rushing water. Bri and I had agreed I’d run at a rate of perceived exertion (RPE) of 6 or 7 (out of 1-to-10 scale) after mile 2; she thought this would average out to about 9:02-minute miles over the course of the race.
The race was almost entirely on a paved trail that loped through woods, occasionally having us run parallel to a highway. The canopy of trees offered welcome shade, yet when the trail went near the road, we were blasted by direct sun; the contrast was striking. I picked a few women, close to my age yet far more lean than I, to try to hang with in the early miles. One was a tall, slender triathlete with a race-bib belt and matching aqua-blue tank and Lycra shorts; the other was also lanky with a pale yellow tank and patterned shorts.
As we wound past towering pine trees, the course rolled up and down; it never seemed to flatten out. On the longer climbs, my two tall “rabbits” would get 10 to 30 feet ahead of me, but I consistently reeled them in and passed them in the top third of every hill. I felt immense pride every time.
One of the long, steady climbs in the race’s first half. (Photo credit: Adam Lapierre)
On the hills, several of which were a quarter-mile or longer, my RPE climbed up to 7 and sometimes to 8. I was feeling powerful, yet my mile splits were nowhere near the 8:50-9:10 pace “window” Bri had suggested I run. Except for the hills, my RPE was where Bri wanted it to be, but with the unrelenting climbs, my mile splits ranged from 9:17 to 9:55 in the first half. This situation left me feeling confident during the bulk of the the mile, but when my GPS would inform me of my pace for the last mile, I was bummed. By Mile 5, I knew the hills would be defeat my pace goal. I was disappointed, but not out of the game (yet).
Just after mile 6, we were greeted by a particularly punishing climb: switchbacks in hot, exposed sunshine. It was like something a runner would encounter in Utah or Colorado, not verdant, rolling Oregon! On the final switchback, I was delighted to spy Molly toward the base of it; I yelled out to her waved.
It was the last elation I felt in the race.
Shortly after the heinous climb, we reached the turnaround spot of the race. Thankfully, we got to go right back down the switchbacks. But instead of feeling downhill-wheee! I felt all what-the-what? tingly. My arms and legs suddenly felt prickly. “Need GU. Now!” shrieked my brain. Usually I’m a planned-gel’er–at miles 4, 8, and 11 of a half–but the tingly-prickly sensation told me it was time to spontaneously GU. As I sucked down a Blueberry-Pomegranate Roctane and drank some water, I felt a tickle on my shoulder and heard a hastily asked, “You okay?” It was Molly opening up on the downhill. “Go, Molls!,” was all I could muster in reply.
The sugar Roctane quickly made the tingly feeling pass, but it was as if electrical currents had passed through me and fried my circuit board. Even going downhill felt like a major effort. I was confused: I had been nailing workouts for weeks, now running downhill seemed strenuous. Repeating, “strong! strong! strong!” in my head didn’t work its usual mantra-magic. I reminded myself what Dimity often tells people at race expos: “Races mimic the peaks and valleys of life. You can be on the highest high one minute, and the lowest low the next. It’s all a lovely rhythm.” I tried to calm myself, thinking, “Just like Dim says: just because I’m sucking now, doesn’t mean I will for the rest of the race.”
Well, Dimity was right about the peaks and valleys of a race–I just didn’t realize this craptastic feeling I had was actually a high, not a low, in this second half of the half. In mile 9 (or was it 8?), we started up a long, slow climb. Not super-steep, but continuous. My breath sounded like it had when I’d been at 9,000′ elevation in Colorado two weeks prior–rapid and empty. Like with the “GU. Now!” instructions, my brain commanded me to “walk!”
Molly (pink skirt, BAMR blue tank) looking mighty badass crossing the finish line in 2:05. (Photo credit: Adam Lapierre)
Walk: something I’d never done in a race before except when I sucked down a gel or drank. Yet my feet followed the command because my body felt so alien and weak. Even at a walking pace, my breath heaved my chest at a RPE of 5 or 6; my heart was a burning muscle in my chest. I was briefly dejected, thinking I was letting down Bri, but mainly I just felt confused and panicky. Why was I breathing so rapidly? Since when was walking uphill so challenging?
Eventually I started running, but when I encountered the nearly mile-long climb at mile 10, I reverted to walking. I channeled my inner Dimity at Ironman, trying to powerwalk. I was in good company–many other racers were walking by this point, too. I walked at least half a mile, averaging 12:50 for that mile.
Much of the final 2.1 miles were in direct sun, but I gutted them out as best as I could–I wanted this race to be d-o-n-e. The final mile was one of the longest I’ve ever run. I was mad and dejected, but mainly still confused. I had been cruising along, then my plug had been inexplicably yanked.
Running on fumes: me in the straightaway to the finish. (Photo credit: Adam Lapierre)
Molly was cheering for me as I crossed the line, motioning me to raise my arms in triumph. Ever compliant, I mimicked her gesture, yet as soon as my Sauconys touched the timing mat, I jack-knifed at the waist, resting my hands on my super-slick-with-sweat knees. With the help of Molly and our 10K’er friend Joanne, I stumbled toward a grove of trees to collapse in the shade; my kind nursemaids got me a chair, where I slumped like a convalescing senior citizen in a wheelchair.
Describing my nauseated, tingly dizziness, Dr. Molly (a veterinarian) initially diagnosed heat exhaustion, but later she–and Coach Bri–decided I had hit the electrolytes too hard the day before the race. Bri had told me to hydrate really well, so I’d dutifully drank bottle after bottle after bottle after bottle of Nuun, sometimes dropping two Nuun All Day tablets into 24 ounces of water. (Proof there can be too much of a good thing: I took in 8 to 10 tablets on Saturday.) As Molly and Bri see it, I overloaded my system with electrolytes, raising my blood pressure. Then my heart (and lungs) had to work extra hard during the race, causing my panting, burning heart-sensation, and energy drain.
My 2:12 finish was my slowest half-marathon save for a runDisney race or two, yet without the “excuse” of stopping for photos opps with Mrs. Incredible or the Lost Boys. On a morning run, Molly once blurted out to me, “You really are unrelentingly optimistic.” For that very reason, I’m not dwelling on this disappointing race result. I know I can prove myself marathon-ready plenty of times in the challenging workouts Bri will set out for me in the coming two months.
The tree is doing ALL the work keeping me upright in this post-race pic.
In Her Shoes: Running in Liberia—and against Ebola
Bev, tackling a red hill among the green green near Foya, where the ebola outbreak is greatest. (Picture by Joni Byker)
We have been editing a bunch of different things for the third book, out next March. One section in it is going to be called In Her Shoes, which is first-person accounts of different running situations and tales. (So far, running a naked 5K is my—Dimity’s—favorite…but I’m not done yet.) A few of the In Her Shoes relate to running in foreign lands, and Bev Kauffeldt, a longtime mother runner, lives and runs in Liberia. The western African country is all over the news right now because of the Ebola virus and Bev is on the frontlines, so we thought we’d publish her experience published now, instead of next March.
My husband and I work for Samaritan’s Purse International Relief in Liberia. He is the Country Director and I oversee our community development programs, which include water and sanitation, literacy, sports programs for kids, and community health.
Normally, we, along with our two boys, live in Monrovia, the capital, which is where our main office is. We do mostly development long-term programs outside of Monrovia in the rural areas of Liberia. But with the serious ebola outbreak, my duties concern the disaster response. I am doing water, sanitation, and hygiene services for our case management center in a northern community called Foya.
Right now, our working days are long, usually 15-17 hours. Today, part of my job was to put on a full protection suit and remove two women who had died from ebola. One of them had a little boy who is still in the clinic but is now without a mom. It was a hard morning.
I’ve got to run—or I would stress too much about ebola and about the safety of our staff. I run to clear my head and know that God will give us all strength. We must keep fighting for these people who have nothing and are scared of this disease.
Bev and her husband, who was training for the London Marathon but had to pull out due to his leadership role in the ebola outbreak. (Photo by Joni Byker)
When I can, I run on red dirt roads or jungle trails near our Foya base. Everything is all jungle and green: Every shade of green you could imagine. Like a large petri dish. I either smell burning grass (passing by farms) or urine (going through a village). There is not a lot of sanitation here and men pee everywhere. As I pass through little villages, I hear kids yelling “Poomwee!,” which means “white person” in the local dialect. Not my favorite name.
Sometimes I run alone, but only during the day. I would never run in darkness here; our organization’s safety policy is that no men or women are out after sunset. That said, Liberia is so close to the equator, we have 12 hours of light and 12 of dark. So as soon as the sun is up, I get up and go because it gets hot and humid quickly. My long runs are on Sunday morning: They are my “church” and are the reason why I am still here. I use the miles to refocus, pray, and be grateful.
Although I worry about my safety sometimes, I worry most about snakes on my runs. We have a lot of them, and they are all brutally dangerous—and there is no anti-serum out here! I’ve never seen more than their tracks, but my running buddy saw a huge black mamba once.
Earlier this year, a co-worker and I ran 37.5 miles from one village to Foya. It was epic. The miles were grueling; so hot, and it seemed like there was another hill every time we came around a bend in the road. But it was amazing to run by the communities where we had worked for the past 10 years. It was really gratifying to see how far they had come since the end of their civil war, which ran from 1999 to 2003. —Bev Kauffeldt (Plans to run the Liberia Marathon next January when the outbreak is contained.)
#122: Eat Smart to Run Better [Rerun]
(pic via physiqology.com)
[Note: We’re hard at work on our third book this summer, so today’s podcast has previously aired. Don’t worry – we’ll be back next week with a new show!]
Dimity and Sarah serve up a conversation with Cassie Dimmick, a sports dietician and certified running coach in Springfield, Missouri. She’s also a mother runner who knocked 45 minutes off her marathon PR by making a few simple changes to her diet and training so this woman practices what she preaches. According to Cassie, our gut needs to be trained just like muscles and heart do, so she talks about how to be well fueled for a run and how to deal with GI issues during and after a race. Once this podcast hits, we predict a spike in sales of apple sauce. Oh, and find out about Sarah’s new baby.
If you’re digging our podcasts, we’d be super-grateful if you’d take a minute (because we *know* you have so many to spare!) to write a review on iTunes.
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Martini Fridays: Like I Asked Five Minutes Ago
Having SO! MUCH! FUN!
So far August is not covering itself in glory.
This has long been my least favorite month. It’s usually the hottest, for starters, and I’m much better at pushing through the 20 degree days than I am the 80 degree ones. It’s also the time when summer vacation is starting to wear on everyone’s nerves. My kids still have a month or so before school starts—they don’t get out until late June and don’t go back until just after Labor Day—but my classes will start in two weeks and I need to get on top of syllabi and work email. By the third week in August, I’ll fully turn into Yelling Mommy, who can be set off with the slightest eye roll.
August has always been a month of chaos and transition. But this August has stepped up its game.
For starters, this has been a rough summer for stepfathers. Mine died in June; and my husband’s died this week. It wasn’t a shock, which doesn’t make it less of a loss. And with the loss comes the need for trips to his hometown, Rochester, which is a 3+ hour drive away.
I’m not complaining, mind. I’m happy we can do it, even if I’m sad about the reason for it. One of the reasons we moved back East is to be closer to the extended family. There’s just an added level of logistics and panic right now, coupled with the realization that both kids have outgrown their dress shoes and nice clothes.
Add to that Jerkface. I was already 95 percent committed to the ablation procedure before I asked for your comments. Your input pushed me into the “Go” category. Now it comes down to scheduling. I keep looking at the calendar and sighing heavily. It looks like I’ll be off of my feet right after I get back from a conference in the U.K., which is also the same week that classes start. Because, sure, why not?
Let us not speak of the paper for said conference. I’m hoping for a very small miracle between now and then. I keep leaving treats out for the magical paper-writing fairies in the hopes they’ll tackle it during the night. Stupid, slacker fairies.
(Speaking of miracles, as I’m typing this, my children are downstairs wrestling with each other and yelling, which really doesn’t sound like emptying the dishwasher and/or brushing your teeth LIKE I ASKED YOU TO DO FIVE MINUTES AGO.)
Adding to the list of “sure, let’s have everything happen at the same time in this melon farming month:” later this afternoon, the Tween will be getting braces, which means a week or two of complaining about getting braces. Additionally, the dog has Lyme disease — she’ll be OK — but requires meds twice per day. Additionally, additionally, I’m really worried that all of the Minecraft has eaten the Boy’s brain. And my mom is in town. With her dog, who keeps attempting to have amorous moments with our dog, who doesn’t seem to mind as much as we do. Even though we know there will be no puppies, it’s just not what one wants to see while eating dinner.
It’s just all so very much, August 2014. And we’re not even to the double-digit days yet.
The high point: 6 miles.
Which brings me to my last few runs.
On August 1, I tackled the first 12 mile long run of the 13.FUN race plan. The middle 4 were to be at my 11:30ish race pace. So, yeah. About that.
I was looking forward to the run, truth be told. It would be a nice break from the hurricane.
After mile four, which is where the hills get extra steep, I realized that that middle four at race pace was crazy talk. I was lucky to haul my heiner ever upwards for those steep miles, much less force it to pick up the pace. I couldn’t even get race pace going on the downhill. My step was pep-less.
By mile 9, I just wanted to lay down by the side of the road and whimper. By mile 10, I’d fallen into a well of suck and started outlining each and every failure I’ve had as a human being. There are enough of them that I had lots to do during the rest of the run.
I lay down on my bedroom floor once I got home and wondered how delusional I clearly am to think that I can run another half, much less one at a slightly faster pace. I have zero idea how it’s going to happen, given my current state of conditioning plus all of the life events coming fast and furious. This is what it looks like when a carefully calculated plan meets reality, I guess. I find it both infuriating and disheartening.
Just me and my pain plaster, chilling.
The next morning, of course, I woke up with a familiar pain in my right shin, because, sure, bring an injury to the insult. I’ve been slapping on the 701 plasters, stretching, and hoping for the best. It doesn’t bother me while running. I can hop up and down without pain, a test I hadn’t even heard of until SBS mentioned it. My lower leg just feels too tight, somehow, and has one spot that is extra sore when I poke it. So I don’t poke it.
So, mother runners, how do you get through these curve balls? And how do you keep from letting August make you crazy?