100,000 Miles

It is increasingly beginning to appear that I am like the dependable little car that ran quite reliably (yes quite reliably, thank you) for many years, then reached 100,000 miles and ... had every single thing go out at once. 

Battery. Transmission. Spark Plugs. Blinkers. Brakes. All shot. Maybe the whole engine.

I'm afraid that is me!

And I'm only in my 40s for crying out loud. (Though it is the latter end of my 40s I suppose.)

But I thought ... well, no, I never thought about it at all actually. ... But if I had had a thought about it, it would have been a thought like this: "I will run like a top until I'm 80."

Only now?

On top of my troubled Achilles, and my tonsils having needed parted with, my TMJ has been acting up rather badly, I had to go to the eye doctor the other day after accidentally scratching my cornea (I didn't know I had scratched it, I thought something was stuck in it!), I wake up with my limbs tingling or numb several times a night, I've begun experiencing occasional tinnitus (rare, but alarming--no pun intended), and I recently injured my knee and may need surgery to repair a torn meniscus.

What's to be made of all this? What is to be done? It's an entire list! Just like that little Peggy Ann McKay.

I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye. ... 

Except I don't think my troubles will all disappear the minute someone tells me it's Saturday.

Still, it would all be tolerable (not overly tolerable, but tolerable enough) only ... running. 

Running!

If only none of it were interfering with running.

"Mostly," I told the knee doctor, "I'd just really like to be able to keep running."

(Knee doctor? [I suppose he has some more formal specialty name than that.]) 

"Yes," he shook his head and waved his hand. "You all do. Whenever I'm driving home and see someone out running, I'm tempted to just pull over and give them my card." (As if to say--"If you want to participate in that activity, it's my office where you'll end up.")

But he did tell me that my knees do still look to have few good years left in them, and that I am lucky to have run so much for as long as I have. 

And I know. 

It's true.

It's true! 

What an amazing blessing to have run through all the seasons -- seasons of weather and seasons of life (including 10 pregnancies!) -- for so many decades!

I am grateful!

But that didn't stop me from calling Mike the minute my appointment was over to moan that nothing else gets me outside so regularly in all sorts of weather, and nothing else opens my mind so, well, openly in prayer like running does. (Something about that in and out, and in and out breathing, and the steady strike, strike, strike of each footfall. It's almost meditative.) 

Mike, stinker that he is, suggested the perfect substitute: feeding the animals at the farm (outside, and in all the weather) while praying ... for our chickens. (Haha. Oh our poor chickens! We've even installed a coop door that automatically closes at night. "What more could I have done for my vineyard chickens?" But somehow they keep getting eaten. We think it's a combination of this fellow [who we have caught multiple times now on our game cam] and ... neighborhood dogs.)

Perhaps, rather than this feeding-the-animals substitute for running, I should just be put out to pasture altogether! It appears to be the direction I'm headed.

Though, truth be told, there is something about feeding the animals. (Shhh. Don't tell Mike I said that.) Especially, oddly, in the cold of winter ... and if dusk happens to be falling. It's not at all fun, mind you. That's not the word. Your fingers freeze trying to break ice or hold metal bucket handles, your arms and back ache carrying water, hay gets stuck in your clothes and makes your eyes itch, the grain can shrinks onto its lid in the cold and becomes impossible to open. And yet ... I can't properly word this at all, you likely won't know what I'm trying to explain, but you feel like you are watching yourself from a different place when you are out there in the dusk and dark, somehow remembering the chill of those nights and the sound of the cows chewing their grain (such a homey, comforting sound), even though you are doing it at that moment and it isn't memory yet, but reality. It's as if time shifts. And some future you is remembering these moments of chill, dark nights, your breath on the air, and crunching over stiff grass or frozen snow to the animals.

(Here Starling and Hans are the other evening. I'd loaded the kids up in the van to drive to the farm with me for animal feeding. It was cold and I'd told them to keep in the van, but the two of them ran out to the dock [Starling in Mette's shoes] while I gathered eggs from the [remaining] hens.)

Goldie Runs . . . and so does Abe

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she’s up while most of the house still sleeps. We meet in the kitchen and, half awake, swallow down a bowl of cereal or piece of toast. “Drink lots of water,” I remind her. “You don’t want to be thirsty.” -- and she fills her cup.

While breakfast settles, I get my contacts in and set my GPS watch to searching for satellites. Goldie goes upstairs and puts on her green/gray reversible, running shorts. The ones that I gifted her when I realized she was serious about sticking with this. We meet back in the living room, tie running shoes, and head out the door.

“Which way today?” I ask her. “Over towards the school? Up the steep hill to the canal? Or . . .”

Most days she’ll say, “I don’t know,” and, deferring to me, “you choose.” But some days she’ll ask hopefully, “Can we drive up and run on the dirt road?” and we will.

Her original ten-minute pace for one mile is now a nine-minute pace for three. Her once slightly unpredictable gait – now smooth and fluid. I still remind her occasionally to “take it easy – we still have a long way to go”;  but not so much anymore. I can trust her now to find her own pace – one she can keep. When we get to a downhill, I remind her to relax her arms and let the hill carry her. When we get to a climb, she leans into it and lifts her knees the slightest bit higher – just like a good runner should. She doesn’t like to let hills slow or discourage her. She digs in and powers up at a slightly harder pace than what we’d been running. “Goldie!” I call out. “You’re amazing! I think hills are one of your strengths.” And, as usual, my mind starts intertwining running with some larger metaphor for life. Only now, the metaphor includes my nine year old daughter.

This almost didn’t happen.

Initially I answered “no” more often than “yes” to her requests to come running with me. I only had so much time; I’d find other times to train my little girl; I had a loop in mind, and it didn’t lend itself to circling a little person around for a smaller run and dropping her back home; etc.

But as I ran one day (without her) I began asking myself the questions most mothers would have thought to ask much sooner: “Why wouldn’t you want to encourage your daughter to do something good for her that she really wants to do? Why wouldn’t you want the gift of a few moments of time to spend with just her? Why wouldn’t you want her to develop a love for something you love?” And, of course, I knew I absolutely did want all of those things, so . . . we began our little training routine.

I figured it would be helpful for her to have an exciting goal in mind, and this past Saturday she completed that goal by running her first official 5K.

And, while this post was primarily about Goldie, it wouldn’t be fair for me to neglect adding a bit about Abe. Somewhat out-of-the-blue (and fairly last minute) Abe decided he wanted to run the 5K with us. He didn’t seem to feel any strong need to train – only running with Goldie and I a handful of times beforehand, but, despite my worries over his lack of preparation, he held his own just fine! And . . . look at that kick he had left at the end!

Bravo, kids! (And 8 months pregnant mom.)

I don’t particularly care if any of my kids interests or talents ever match my own. I love seeing them develop into their own little selves – little selves who are far more than simply something I have made them; still, I will admit that having them take an interest in something I love so much – and getting to do that with them – has been very happy! (And, it was also very happy that Mike showed up –- with one or two other messy-headed, just-out-of-bed children in tow – to make sure Abe and Goldie were met with plenty of cheers as they finished their first race.)

Tying Shoes

Just now, tying my running shoes felt like some sacred rite. I did it slowly and carefully; hyperaware of the whole process, struggling to remember how I ever could have tied them mindlessly – over, under, pull, loop, over, under, pull, double knot – a quick process, a habit done without thinking -- with no mental fanfare.

But today? I haven’t put on a pair of running shoes in . . . months. It’s still probably far too soon. Simply tying them I felt more excitement – and more trepidation – than I have over any big race. Three miles. That’s all I’m hoping for. A distance that, on past occasions, might hardly have seemed worth leaving the house for. And yet . . . excitement. Fear.

I’ve had some nerve problems in my left foot. Then surgery. Then an infection – far worse in pain and in recovery than the surgery itself ever was. And, mostly, I’ve had a lot of fear. I’ve been on constant “silencing” patrol to a little voice deep in my gut (I know . . . gut is kind of weird . . . but it feels like it originates there) that has been sending pulses of panic and little jolts of despair up and outward – where they wrap strangling little fingers of thought tightly about my throat and whisper, “You won’t run again. You can’t be a runner now.”

I know. It’s running. Surely, should the worst case scenario be realized: should the surgery have left me worse-off than I was before and altogether unrepairable, I will find other things to fill the hole. Life won’t lose all meaning. . . .

It’s just I’ve had some of my most spiritual moments out running; I’ve composed blog posts and talks, Relief Society lessons and Primary sharing times out running; I’ve worked through what to say, or what to do about difficult or awkward situations; I’ve prayed my most sincere prayers over loved-ones in need, I’ve made mental notes and whispered breathy thank yous  up to the heavens over taken-for-granted blessings; I’ve had soul-strengthening conversation and developed close friendships; I’ve tried to start labor, wrestled out frustrations, and committed to lofty goals out running. I’ve experienced nature with a completeness and awareness I’m sure I never otherwise would have: I’ve run near blind into pelting rain and near-blizzard like snow, curved my lips tightly over teeth that threatened to crack in the cold, tucked my chin down snug to avoid having my breath completely taken away by giant gusts of wind, or been pushed near to sprinting by those same gusts at my back; I’ve nearly passed out – dripping and flushed – in temperatures far too hot for strenuous exercise; and . . . ohh, weep, I’ve felt the first real hopeful bits of spring – bare arms and legs finally not stung by cold, nostalgia sweeping over me as I catch a hint of Russian Olive or Lilac in the air; and, the first hints of autumn! . . . I might be able to fill a lot of these holes . . . but can life really ever be quite what it should be without getting to run with the sun filtering through orange and yellow leaves – feet crunching over the fallen ones that have blown their way across a trail or collected to the side of a road? Sigh. I don’t want to have to find out.

If I’ve romanticized an exhausting and miserable activity; if I’ve made it into poetry, it’s because . . . it is to me. Every run is like a tiny, little mini metaphor for life. I’ve grasped all kinds of things about what it means to have a physical body – even with it’s limits and pains and problems; I’ve learned a lot about what it means to be living here at all.

My life has always been full, somehow, of ability (and what feels like a promise from long before) to figuratively “run” as needed. As I’ve gone without tying my running shoes these past months, I’ve realized that even if I can’t run in the technical foot pounding/arm pumping sort of way; my greater blessing is in being able to do and accomplish and cope with the demands and stresses, obligations, and good and necessary calls for attention that make up my life. If “run and not be weary” only ever applies to an ability to keep doing the things that need doing, that will be more than enough. . . .

But, perhaps selfishly, I hope it doesn’t have to be.

So . . . wish a little luck to come swirling down on me as I head out on this run today, and, if you’re the praying kind, . . . I wouldn’t mind you sending up one or two of those for me as well.

"A Proper Welcoming" or "Our Story isn't Over Yet"

Last night I told Mike I could never think of anything to blog about anymore. "Maybe our story is told," he said. It was a good run while it lasted.

He should be the first to know our story isn't all told. In fact, our story has just begun . . . again . . . with the purchase of our new van.

When I called my sister Megan today to tell her about the van (see previous post), she said, "Sweet! Now we have a van to run the Ragnar!"

We were just joking at first. The Ragnar is a 189 mile relay race through some of the hilliest places around here. And, of course, everyone uses vans to transport/sleep in as they pick up runners, drop off others, and wait their turn.

Before long, Megan and I were working out all the details about really running the race. (Yes, I know my foot is a wreck, but we aren't considering that). When I told Mike about it, he asked how it came up -- if it had come up because of our van, and, I had to admit that it had.

"See," he said, "Our van is a dream maker!"

Then, when I told him about my last mean post about our van, he told me I was approaching it all wrong. My van post should have been less, "I'll never be cool again," and more, "Good news! I am now officially and finally THEE coolest person ever. That's right. I own a full size van. Look at it and weep!"

So, that's what this new post is. A proper welcoming to our van.

Dear Van,

Welcome. I am so happy you joined us and that you are clean and new and a comfy ride. I am so excited for this Summer when my sister Shannon and I want to take our kids swimming or to the zoo because we'll all be chilling together -- in you. I like that my kids think you are the greatest thing that ever happened, and even though I am a little vain, I have only talked nicely about you to my kids so they won't ever think you are anything but AWE-SOME. And, even though I still mostly drive the truck, I realize from this sudden Ragnar business, that Mike is right -- you are a total dream maker. Who knows what adventures we will dream up now. And that is good because it was looking like our story was done -- it had all been told, but now that you are here, we will still have a stories to tell for years to come. Plus, it turns out that ONLY the coolest people even own full size vans. I can hardly believe I am now one of them.

Love,
Nancy

GPS

See this? It is my Garmin Forerunner 405.

A watch? You are wondering. Is that what this is?

Yes, a watch.

But, a watch is the very least of what it is.

On the box it is called a "GPS-enabled sports watch with wireless sync." Older models are big and bulky and people wear them up high on their arms. But this one is like -- a watch.

All day long my Garmin and I sit and stare at each other.

It used to be on my nightstand table, so I could lie there on my bed -- staring -- as it stared back.

But, I knew that a spot like that was too low -- too easy for little grabby one year old fingers to reach, so it moved to the tall dresser at the foot of our bed.

Now, it stares at me from up there -- asking me why. And I sit at the foot of my bed -- staring back -- shaking my head.

That is what we do. All day long.

Well, maybe not all day. Sometimes, sometimes, I have to do one or two other things.

A dinner here. A car ride there. A laundry load everywhere.

And, sometimes, SOMETIMES, I take my Garmin Forerunner 405 down from the dresser and push the little finger touch bezel to switch it to training mode. Then I look at the training mode and think what a great mode it is.

Other times, I touch the top of the bezel to see it switch to the screen that tells me how much battery life it has left before needing to be charged. Today, when it beeped, "battery low," I rushed to charge it back up again -- because, at least, that was something.

Mike bought me this for Christmas. It can do all kinds of crazy stuff and relay that info to your computer, but the main thing really is that it tells you your distance as well as your pace as you run.

I have been so excited about this cool present. Some elite and granola groups of runners act too cool for GPS watches. I don't know why. Maybe it isn't cool to pay more attention to a device telling you your pace? Maybe you won't listen to your own body anymore? Maybe it isn't hip to be aware of your exact distance?

But you know what I like.

I don't care.

I say pshaww to those fancy pants runners. I say, I am a runner, and I can love and enjoy and be excited about my GPS all I want. It's fun. It's awesome. Take that.

h

Only, I can't enjoy it yet.

I can only look.

But I will enjoy it. I've run since I was 14. I can listen to my body pretty well. I know about how long it takes me to run any given distance, etc. But it will be so fun for me when I am training for longer races to just head out the door and run wherever the wind takes me with out having to chart a course the night before -- with out having to stick to that course if I feel like turning a different direction. Plus, I am wanting to work on my pace. How fun to keep tabs on it as I go!

A few days before the gift was unwrapped found me sobbing unreasonably into Mike's shoulder that I would never be able to run again. Weep wail. All was lost. I loved running. Did he understand that I LOVE RUNNING?! How could he understand? Sob. How could anyone? And now, it was certain I would never ever ever run again. Ever.

h

Of course, I had been reading things online.

And Mike thought that perhaps, one day of severe pain in my lower heel didn't necessarily mean I would never run again. Yes, he knew I loved running. And maybe (very gently suggested maybe) maybe it was a bit premature for sobbings of, "I'll never run again."

It's called plantar fasciitis -- the foot problem. Something to do with the tendon that runs along the bottom of your foot from you heel to your toe -- supporting your arch. I always thought injuries were for . . . well . . . other people. People who weren't me. Or, maybe even . . . sheepishly I'll say it . . . people who were too wimpy to push through a tiny little bit of pain?

I see I was wrong. I see I've needed a little humbling. A little punishing?

I keep getting all messed up. My knee. My ankle. My foot. Only this one scared me the worst because everything I read sounded like you were doomed forever. "You must never wear bare feet." (I love bare feet). "Orthotics." "Pain." "Never run hard. Always take it easy. No hills. No speed." "Ten years with no relief."

Those were the things I was reading.

But, I've calmed my little self a bit. I've been talking to folks. Asking. Listening. It's starting to seem like everyone has had it. My sister-in-law has had it before. She doesn't have it now. She is almost an Olympic level marathoner. My neighbor has it. It flares up now and then. Etc.

It isn't so hopeless.

Mike was right.

He's always right.

h

I love him.

That's why he still gave me my GPS (not because I love him -- because he knew he was right -- he knew I'd be up and running ere long). That's why I love it.

I'll run again . . . soon. I've been wearing arch supports, and stretching, and rolling my foot on a ball at night, and being careful. I'm a little impatient because I want to run hard right now and I'm not always in a season of being able to run hard. And, well, I want to train for another marathon soon. As in very very soon.

In the meantime . . . my forerunner 405 and I will keep staring at each other . . . waiting . . . waiting and waiting.

On a positive note. I got a gym membership for the first time ever. In the past it was always too expensive or too far away. Plus, finding the time to work out at all has been so hard at this time in my life that when I have found it I have always wanted to be running. BUT, with running on pause, I've tried the cycling class twice (no foot pounding there) and I have to say that it felt like a seriously amazing work out. Of course then I come home and must glance guiltily at my Garmin. He looks back -- questioning my loyalty.

I should add that it is not as if I am ever getting to run (or now go to the gym) easy as pie. I always feel sad when I think of those of you who can and do. I'm lucky if it is three times a week and that usually involves getting up at 5:30am -- not something easy or pleasant for someone who rarely gets to bed before 11:30pm.

Nancy Tag

I know I am boring you all to death with my lack of posts. Abe gave a valiant try in resurrecting my blog yesterday (well . . . "valiant"? maybe . . . more . . . "feeble"?), either way, despite his attempts to give my blog life, it just lay there (or probably lie there), motionless.

I am here today -- topicless -- simply trying to break my dry spell. I'm trying to squeeze the tiniest bit of blogging rain out of the dry dry clouds floating through my head. Here is why: contrary to what you would think, the longer I don't blog, the less there seems to be to blog about. You'd think a few quiet weeks and I'd be brimming with tales to tell. You know, tales of Thanksgiving and snow, of Christmas decorating and treats. But no. The quieter I am, the quieter I get. My blog is in real danger of drifting into a very long and peaceful sleep. A hibernation even maybe.

And now you are all thinking of how it has only been about two weeks.

Well, what do you know.

What about last year at this time when, despite all the holiday goings on, I was blogging my little heart out? Of course, I had to post all my angryness over never ever going into labor with Jesse, and then, after Jesse finally showed, I had ever so many hours to blog one-handed as I nursed.

h

So, I suppose we can't fairly compare this year to last.

h

Anywho, I am going to pretend I was "tagged" -- you know, with one of those silly little questionnaires that you fill out? Only I haven't been tagged, so I am just going to tag myself with whatever questions I make up. I know what you are all thinking now, "Oh, the vanity! To think you can make up your own list of tagging questions!" But someone somewhere must. Right? So, why not me? Soon you will be seeing Nancy tag alllll over cyberspace (because of course you are all now "tagged" yourselves simply for reading this).

Anyway, let's see what I've got.Thinking . . . thinking . . . waiting for the flood gates to open . . .OK, I've got one . . . oooh, I'm so excited! Let's see if there is a domino affect and more keep coming!

1. Have you ever been compared to a movie star?

Well, I know everyone is now thinking how I made up this question just so I could brag, and maybe I did, but it isn't really a movie star so much as a day time TV character. Besides, I am excited because it happened only today and it is the first time I have been compared to a star. See, I was wearing this hand-me-down sweater from my sister Megan, and I was actually thinking how particularly cute I must be looking, and then it happened. Goldie said to me, "Hey Mom! You look just like that guy from Blue's Clues! What's his name?"

Me: "Steve?"

Goldie: "Yah! Steve! You look just like him."And then I looked down at myself in my cute hand-me-down sweater and knew it was true. I looked just like Steve. I looked just like a STAR!!

2. Where do you get all your cute clothes?
Alright, fine, I'm not above admitting that the half of my wardrobe that doesn't come from Target comes from my younger sister Megan's cast offs. It's worked out well for me -- even if it does mean that I am a step down in coolness from her (obviously she passes to me only when she has updated her own wardrobe with something more hip). As far as I know it has only backfired once. (See answer to question 1). P.S. Megan, I think it's time you went through your closets again -- the season of giving and all that.

3. Your son Abe guest posted for you yesterday. Would any of your other children make interesting guest bloggers? (You tagged people can shorten this question to "Would any of your children make interesting guest bloggers?").

Oh yes, if Penny could talk the things she could say. Oh wait, she can talk, and she does say those things. I was just thinking of the old "if these walls could talk, the things they'd say" because it is kind of like that. So, if Penny could type, the things she could blog. I always get a good glimpse into all the "dirt" in nursery because Penny loves to tell me things days later like about who ate whose snacks or who cried when someone took the baby stroller they were using. Who knows what light she might shed on our own family dramas.

4. What were two high lights of your day today?
Well, I'm just going to tell you that I ran 10 miles so fast this morning. When I got home I excitedly went to the computer to plug my distance and time into my little pace calculator. I was going to be so bummed if pushing as hard as I'd tried had only gotten me a medium good pace, but it was a better pace than I run my usual much shorter runs. I was quite happy. Plus, I got home just before it started snowing which was much better than the last time that it started snowing and blowing all crazy at the end of one of my runs. I still had about two miles to go and the wind was blowing snow so gustily into my face that I had to glue my chin practically to my neck and stare straight down to run. I decided it was a good time to try out the cosmic connection that assuredly must exist between Mike and I by thinking (as loudly as my brain could think), "Mike, come get your wife! Mike come save me!" and I sent my message on to him with all my mental strength . . . only to discover that the better connection between Mike and I would have been a cell phone connection (as I had considered taking one with me running but had opted not to).

Anyway, that lovely connection was proven a better option for us again just today -- as high light #2 was hanging out with Abe while my little kids slept and Daisy and Goldie made gingerbread houses at my sister's house, and Mike called me from his cell phone to say some clever and funny things. So . . . I guess we can still be soul mates cosmically connected by our cell phones even if we don't have telepathy or ESP or whatever it is where you can read your loved one's mind no matter the distance.

Oh for crying out loud. This little tag thing has spiralled out of control. There are only FOUR measly questions (and we all know a good tag has no less than 50 questions), and yet it has managed to be one million sentences long.

Maybe tomorrow I'll continue this little game with loads of short answer questions. I'll end tonight with a practice one.

5. Do you think it is pleasant to change crib sheets?

No, I think it is a hideous chore. Even more hideous when bumper pads are in the way. Putting on a crib sheet = no fun.

Marathon Day

Well, Saturday was my marathon. The title of this post was supposed to be something like, "I am going to Boston!" or "I am the coolest runner ever, and I am going to Boston." In fact, I have to admit that I was feeling confident enough . . . maybe just cocky enough to be about 99% certain that was what the title of this post would be. My past two marathon times were qualifying times and I had no reason to doubt this one would be the same. This poor marathon didn't even get its fair shakes because I wasn't actually training for it and running it for its own self, it was all to qualify for Boston. And then . . . I didn't.

Before I give the run down (no pun intended) on this race, I should add that out of the four marathons I have ran, this was by far the most miserable and so this should not represent what a marathon is to those of you who may be considering doing one some day. I felt much better on my first three and had much better times on my last two. Whether it was the training troubles I had with my ankle, or the cold and slight stomach upset I'd had all week, whether it was the fact that I ran the first half much faster than I should have, or just a case of elements combining less than perfectly for a little old fashioned bad luck I can't be sure, but it was rough. It was miserable.

Clearly I didn't just up and run 26.2 miles with no preparation. For the last four months, I have run very consistently during the week and slowly increased mileage and endurance with long weekend runs, but there are a few reasons why the marathon itself still ends up being so tough. First, you always run faster on the actual race -- I don't know if it is just adrenaline or what, but what would be a fast training pace feels painfully slow during the race. Second, very few marathoners actually run 26 miles in training. The standard longest training run is around 20 miles. That might sound contrary to reason -- surely you'd want to have your endurance up to the full 26, right? Well, yes, but the problem is that as you reach those 20 mile type of distances you begin walking a fairly thin line -- increased endurance on the one hand, injury and inability to recuperate enough to keep increasing your running ability on the other hand. So, a 20 miler about three to four weeks before marathon day is usually the peek of your training -- you then taper off til the actual race so that hopefully your body will be recovered from those training runs in time to give it one last miserable push.

Anyway on to the marathon . . .Here I am at 4:00 am on race day. Incidentally, anything in the four o'clock hour still seems like night to me. 5:00 am is insanely early, but at least it's morning! I got to bed at about 10:30, was woken at midnight by a slew of high-schoolers loudly painting some homecoming stuff on the road outside our house. Woken again at 3:00 by Goldie (I don't recall why). Nerves wouldn't let me fall back to sleep and I was up at 4:00 so I could get ready and drive the 50 mins. to where I would wait in the dark in a long line with thousands of other marathoners to board one of the TONS of buses that would take us up the canyon to where our run would start at 7:00 am. (The lack of sleep wasn't that big of a deal though -- I don't think anyone plans on a great night of sleep the night before a marathon).

Oh here I am at 4:00 am showing off my temporary marathon logo tattoo and trying to look a little more pumped for what lies ahead (but mostly just succeeding in looking a little creepy).Our bus driver was the peppiest lady imaginable -- particularly for that insanely early hour. Maybe it was her personality . . . or maybe she was just happy that she would be driving (rather than running) from where she would be leaving us.

It was a bit lonely what with the dark and not knowing or recognizing any of the other 2000 some odd runners. My first two marathons I had sisters to giggle with while we waited to start, and even my marathon up in OR had a few girls that I knew from training a bit together. Here, I only recognized an old microbiology professor from college, and I should have told him I was one of his students and made a little small talk, but I was feeling too nervous for small talk.

At 6:45 am they told us to toss our numbered bags (with water bottles, sweatshirts, etc.) on the bus. So we left the bonfires (it was cold) and began lining up at the starting line. The gun went off for the wheelchair racers -- which meant five minutes to go for us. I kept my eyes on the steady stream of people frantically running down the hill from the port-a-potties and I wondered if they'd get to the start by the time the gun went off or if the race would wait for all of them before it started or if they didn't really care if they started the minute the gun went off anyway since their final time maybe didn't matter so much to them as the fact that they ran 26 miles.

I don't recall if they got there or not. The sun was coming up now, and I was looking around at the canyon and mountains and listening to the talk of runners. Then our gun went off. A cheer went up from all of us and we were on our way . . . sort of . . . when you are in the middle of 2000 people, it takes a bit to actually get going. It probably took me 30 seconds to even get across the starting line, and we were still pretty closely packed even at mile seven . . . which set me to wondering how on earth things would ever thin out enough to get into a smooth gait with the 20,000 runners at Boston (which I was still sure I would be going to at that point).

I felt great for the first miles. I was running about an eight minute pace and it felt just right. In the past, I have forced myself to go much slower than that for the first nine or ten miles -- just to make sure I'd have enough energy to see me through. I'd usually be chomping at the bit to really take off though and by mile ten I would. This time, since I was so set on a certain time, I felt nervous to do my first miles so slow -- thinking how much faster those middle miles would have to be to make up the difference -- so I started at about the pace I wanted my race to be. Which might have been fine, but then I did a dumb thing, I still took off at mile ten. I felt so good, and I just felt like I could go faster . . . and I could . . . for about six more miles. I got a bad side ache by mile 15 and by mile 16 was starting to think, "OK, I'm hurting . . . just keep this up to mile 20 . . . and then . . . well, I don't know what then . . . but maybe then you can just will yourself through the last six?"

At about mile 17 when the "just focus on getting to mile 20" was starting to seem much too difficult, I started hearing my name shouted. My eyes were a little blurry and I couldn't tell who was cheering for me, but as I got closer I saw this (notice how I used the paint program to scribble out my uber top secret last name from blog land):My sister Megan, my niece Ashley (the one who has tended for me during the past FOUR months of training runs), and my niece Karin were there. It was a total surprise and made me so happy. Things are a little emotional during the race -- there is some tie between our spirits and doing something that so forces them to conquer our bodies that is well . . . like I said, emotional. So, having them there to support me even though they must have woken very early to get up there made me start to cry . . . only for a minute though because I couldn't afford to start gasping for air!

That gave me an extra boost, but by mile 18 the side ache was still going nowhere and my body was really really hitting a wall like it never ever has before. I truly was starting to want to just quit, but I didn't want to disappoint them and I knew Mike and the kids would be waiting at the finish, so I kept going.By mile 21 I was pretty well over Boston and only wanting desperately to even finish. Every fiber of my being was screaming "QUIT!!" Seriously, it was like it was shouting in my head. I can't go back and pinpoint exactly what was wrong. My breathing was OK. My ankle was stiff and sore, but it wasn't just one single or even several pains or aches that you could name. I think I had just totally exhausted my bodies reserves and it felt like it was saying, "Alright, will yourself on if you want, but I'm no longer giving to this effort. I'm done."

I'd taken a Gu (carbo/energy gel things) earlier and I should have taken one again, but I didn't feel like my stomach could handle it, so I just kept up with water and Gatorade. I'd run through the other water stops, but at mile 23 I stopped to walk through. This was a mistake of course. The minute I stopped, the full weight of my muscle aches and ankle aches crashed on me. And I found myself pretty much unable to start again. I kept walking for about a half block wondering how long it would take me to finish if I walked the entire last three miles. Funny. At the start, miles fly by and three miles seems like nothing. At this point I couldn't even really fathom what it would take to make my body move through three more miles. But, some little spark made my awkward legs start moving again. And, for the next few minutes I felt -- OK. It didn't last long, but really, for a half mile maybe I felt like I could keep going. I truly felt and was sure that a little wind of prayers was blowing all around me. I kept thinking about that and wondering -- is it just that my family has been praying for me, or is someone really praying hard for me at this moment? I wasn't sure, but I was just happy that I could physically feel the buoyancy prayers were giving me. Once again, there is something spiritual about doing something so physical.

Later, it brought tears to my eyes to find out that at that very time, Ashley was panicking as they waited at mile 24 -- I wasn't there yet and she knew I should be to get the time I wanted. She and Megan and Karin got in the car and said a special prayer for me. Ashley also texted pretty much my whole family to tell them to pray. Also, unbeknownst to me again, I had another surprise group of cheerleaders waiting not far off and likely praying and willing me on as well. My sister-in-law Kimberly and her family also came quite a long distance at an early hour to support me. When I saw them I started to cry a little again. They were waiting at about mile 24 as well with Mike and the kids. It was so cool to me to so literally feel an awareness of the prayers and thoughts aimed at me. Really, I did, and it makes me cry again to think of it.So, honestly, I think it was Mike and my kids and Kimberly and her family and Megan and Ashley and Karin (as well as others' prayers) that allowed me to finish. It didn't take me to Boston. And that was OK. Every step of those last miles was nearly impossible. If I'd had it in me to give one more ounce of effort, I would have felt regret about not having given that effort and made the time I needed, but I crossed that finish line with literally nothing left. Cute little kids were along the last stretches holding out their hands for high fives, and I felt obligated to oblige little ones being so cute and encouraging, but even stretching out my arm to them was a massive effort. At mile 26 -- with only .2 measly miles to go -- when I should have been feeling like, "the end is in sight! You can do it!" I still really truly wanted to quit. That is how zapped I was. So I maybe could have run a smarter race and done better, but I definitely could not have given one ounce more to the effort than I did.

My final time was 3 hours and 44 minutes. Four minutes off what I needed to qualify for Boston. It isn't a bad time really. My overall pace still works out to be about 8 minutes and 33 seconds. Even at mile 20, with all the misery I was already feeling, I could have run super slow miles (for me) and made the time . . . I just couldn't run super SUPER slow miles (which, apparently I did). Judging from how slow those last six miles were and the fact that my average pace was still in the eight minute range . . . I must have run those miles between ten and eighteen very fast . . . very too fast. Oops?

Anyway, it is OK. It has felt great to push myself so hard for the last couple of months. It has meant so much to me to have my training runs made so easy by my sweet sweet Ashley -- to just be able to get out and do them with out having to juggle everything. And I have so much appreciated Mike who has had to get up with our little ones every Saturday for weeks and weeks because I was gone at the crack of dawn to get my long runs in before the Summer sun got too hot. It was great to see loved ones rooting for me (even though I would have preferred they had seen a more triumphant finish) and to see Ashley crying not because she was sad I didn't make it to Boston, but because she was so worried I was going to be too sad.

Some of the women of my family have had a little ongoing email discussion lately about the gift we have in a body. I don't know that all of you reading this share my same faith, but we believe that when Satan chose to rebel against our Father in Heaven, he was cast out -- he lost the chance to move forward in our eternal progression. He lost not only the chance to come here and be tested, but to gain a body. Somehow we needed these bodies to be able to fully continue progressing. They aren't perfect here, and won't be until they are resurrected, but my wise sister Amy reminded us of how lucky we are to have these bodies -- even with their aches and pains -- to feel the things they can feel, to push them and occasionally conquer their weaknesses. Satan, and those who followed him will never get to experience the things that we get to experience with these physical bodies, and at the moment I feel amazed at the range of experiences I've been able to have with this body in the last year or so -- from creating a little living baby, filling it kick inside me, nursing and snuggling him; to pushing my body from the three miles it could barely do after his birth to a point of being able to go out and run 26.2 long and exhausting miles through some of the prettiest scenery around.

So, it hurt, and the not doing as well/feeling as well as I have before was a disappointment, but really, amazing to even have had the experience. Saturday scared me enough that for most of the day I was sadly thinking how I would never dare to try that again, how I was too terrified of having another experience so hard . . . but our pain memory is a little short because already I am thinking how before too long I will need to prove to those darn marathons who's boss.

Now for a few last marathon pics:

My shoes honestly did get several compliments shouted at them during the race.How is it I look so smiley in these? That is not going to convince anyone I was dead at the end. Trust me, I was. All I could do was lie there on the wet soggy ground.

Oh, yes, and Megan's little Reed screaming his tiny little head off for me.

Brave Girl and Lunarglides

This afternoon Goldie was perched atop one of the coolers we have out for camping when she took a little tumble. I know a good mom would be nothing but love and concern, but since I am a medium mom, I was hugging her with a little bit of an, "Uugghh . . . why oh why were you standing on the cooler?" Even though I should know, because why wouldn't a kid stand on a cooler really? Anyway, I don't think she was hurt very badly, but it has been a hectic day and perhaps she was feeling a bit overly emotional because the crying continued for a verrrry long time. And even when the crying was done, there was plenty of whimpering and moaning to be had.

At one point, wanting to assure her that it was going to be fine, I had her open and close her wounded hand for me a few times and then squeeze it tight into a fist. "See," I said, "that is a great sign. If it was broken then you wouldn't be able to do that because it would hurt too much. So that means it is fine and will feel better in a few more minutes."

"But I don't know if it hurt bad when I did that (opened and closed it for me) . . . maybe it did." Goldie sniffled, holding her hand like a limp little paw.

"Oh no," I insisted, "if it was broken that would have been so painful you would have screamed."

At that moment Jesse chimed in with an ear piercing (though not unhappy) scream himself.

"See," I said, "like that. Since that didn't happen, we can be sure it just got a little jammed and it will be just fine."

"Well," Goldie said in a state of nearly new sobs, "what if it did get broken and I'm just a really brave girl?"

And, on another note: I might be a little bit in love with my new shoes (Kelly pointed out that it could just be a strong sense of middle school pride that draws me to them so -- as our middle school colors were blue and yellow). My Nike Lunarglides maybe don't really deserve all the praise for how I am feeling. They may just be one part of a number of things that are hopefully colliding and fates that are hopefully aligning to make my ankle well. Maybe. There have been prayers (thank you), and I took that full week off. Then, the following week my ankle still felt the same so I resigned myself to just making it that way to the marathon. Then, this week, it started to feel better; and today, when I nervously tried these shoes for the first time (nervously because I wasn't positive if they were the right fit), I seriously was only a tiny bit aware of my ankle being off at all as I ran! Perhaps the prayers, maybe the rest, maybe my tendon just finally started healing even with the continued running . . . or maybe the shoes. Maybe maybe maybe it will actually be fine for the marathon! Maybe! I hope!

Now, please leave me alone, blog, I have camping with the birthday boy to prepare for (I'm only typing this to put that preparation off because packing two adults and five small kids for camping isn't much different than doing a full scale move).

Iced Ankles, Blueberries, Chocolate and Maslow

I'm sitting here icing my ankle. I don't even know if that is what should be done, but I don't know what else to do. I'm taking ibuprofen too . . . and soon, I'm going to try heating my ankle! I also wanted to buy some special topical herb that heals tendons the minute it is applied (I mean it probably does) but I couldn't remember what I'd googled to find it and I couldn't find it again. Also, I bought new shoes. I may or may not have been influenced by how cool they looked. Clearly that should be low low on my priority list, but, I have been wearing shoes all about stopping pronation for so long and they have been booooring to look at. So when this particular shoe claimed to be pretty much the best running shoe in the world . . . AND happened to be blue and yellow . . . well, I bought it. I'll let you know if it is the best shoe in the world later . . . when they aren't being shipped back because I accidentally bought the wrong size. Boooo. (That is boo like I'm booing at myself -- like two thumbs down . . . not boo like a ghost trying to scare you).

So, tendons. Tendons connect muscle to bone -- as opposed to ligaments that connect bone to bone. But tendons and ligaments don't have a super great blood supply coming to them, so they aren't speedy healers. It is very frustrating to me because I know the real cure is a lengthy rest period followed by sloooowly easing back into exercise. But that would mean not having my endurance built up to do awesome on this marathon . . . but I already don't run awesome because I literally run with a weird hoppingish gait because of my ankle. The real reason this is sad is that this has been thee most perfect training opportunity I have ever had all thanks to my AMAZING niece Ashley who, of her own free accord, comes over like ten mornings a week (is that even possible) to let me run. I seriously pray thanks for Ashley every day (between my prayers for my ankle to get better). It would never occur to me to do something so nice and so time consuming. So, with such a perfect opportunity, I am extra grumpy at my ankle for acting all wounded.

Anyway, I finally decided to take a week -- ONE WEEK -- off. I will lose one of the twenty milers I had hoped to get in and a week probably isn't enough time to heal much anyway, but like I said . . . there is the ice! Go ankle go!

And, on an unrelated note, I like how you always see studies in health magazines, etc. that say something like, "Good News!! Chocolate is actually good for you!!" and then proceed to say, "one ounce of DARK chocolate is super great to have each day -- but just one ounce -- and the more bitter the chocolate the better. So indulge! Enjoy yourself guilt free!" They should end those articles with, "HA! Suckers!" because they day an ounce of dark chocolate is indulging will be a sad sad day.

Oh, and here is something for my WA friends. Look how sad! I bought this today for $4.00 -- on sale! They aren't even fresh! All of you go pick your huge bowls of blueberries and shed a tear for me.

Another something: The other day my sister and I found a skirt in a catalog that said, "Meets all of your physical needs." That made us chuckle. Maybe you could eat it, but then how could you use it for shelter? Perhaps it meets your needs consecutively -- like wear it for a walk, use it for shelter from a storm for a night (when you get lost on your walk), and then eat it the next morning for breakfast. That doesn't leave you in a great situation in the end though, does it.

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But thinking of all the possible physical needs one might have (and whether or not this skirt might meet them) caused me to think of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs (are you all familiar with this?). It is a pyramid and the idea is that you can't fill the higher needs until the lower needs like food and shelter are met. Wouldn't it be amazing if this skirt could actually help you to reach the top of the pyramid, which, as we all know from our studies of Maslow, is "self actualization."

I think these new blue and yellow running shoes are totally going to help me achieve self actualization! Not that a new skirt couldn't help.

Alright, my twenty minutes of ankle icing are up. Think what might have come out of this post had I had to ice for forty!

"Track!!"

So, this is not a "pet peeve." I am sure we all have little pet peeves, but there is something about those little things that seems to show some smallness of character or an intolerance that isn't attractive. Maybe it is bundled up in the word itself? Petty and peevish.

I try to stifle those little annoyances. So, as I said, this isn't a pet peeve. I wasn't mad at anyone, but as I was running on the track yesterday I found myself wishing that more people knew track rules of etiquette. They don't, so it isn't their fault. It is like anything. I'm sure there are all types of activities that have rules I don't know so I ignore them. Just like the rules of where and when you should use cell phones. I have forgotten what proper etiquette says so I am sure I don't follow it.

Once a friend explained to me a "bowling rule of etiquette" which was -- you don't bowl at the exact same time as a person in the lane next to you. I was quite surprised to learn this because I hadn't realized there were certain good manners in bowling. Still, I have tried to observe that rule when, about every other year, I happen to be bowling -- just in case the people next to me are serious bowlers who recognize good etiquette and appreciate my observance of it.

On to the track. It is basically the same rule as driving -- if you are on the inside lane and someone comes up on you, it is always polite to move over a lane. Everyone who ever ran on a track team knows this rule. In fact, it was considered fine to call out, "track!" as you came upon someone so they would know to scoot over a lane for a moment. It made sense because sometimes someone would be practicing a precise time on a 200 meter run and naturally they would be coming much quicker than someone doing a warm up or the 2 mile. Alas, it would be considered rude or simply very strange to call, "track!" in the ordinary non-tracky world.

Just as there are some who stubbornly refuse to move out of the fast driving lane because "they are going the speed limit" there will be those of you who like to use the track and feel it a violation of your rights to have to move to lane two just because someone else is running faster. And if that is how you feel, so be it. No one will arrest you, but if, perhaps, like me with bowling, you want to know good etiquette, there it is. Inside lane is for whoever is running the fastest. You are under no obligation to move if you are already in an outer lane, and you can walk at a snails pace in lane one if you don't mind simply walking over a tiny bit for a moment when you hear faster steps approaching.

I don't even like to run on a track. I'm surprised how many people do. I always prefer to be out enjoying different scenery on the roads (or preferably trails), but when I am training for something, I try to throw intervals into my weekly runs. Intervals are basically speed work. So, instead of running for distance, you run miles, 800's, 400's, etc. at an uncomfortably fast pace. The idea being that it will help increase your normal running pace. A track is nice for these simply because you can so easily keep track (no pun intended) of your distance.

Anyway, yesterday I was nearly killing myself trying to sprint 400's (once around the track) and 800's. And at every lap I had to run out and around groups of mom's moseying along with strollers along the inside lane. Occasionally even just standing and chatting in groups along the inside lane. I know they weren't intending to be rude. But I was seriously barely making each sprint and it seemed oh so difficult to have to interrupt my goal each time running out and around. I just found myself wishing they knew and ever so grateful to the occasional runner that knowingly stepped to the side to let me pass.

So, now you all know. Now maybe I need a more interesting post seeing as this was boooooring. Probably none of you ever run on a track and have no real need of knowing this tid bit of information. I will tell you this though: "Track!" was such a great word to be able to yell. I find myself wishing I could use it all of the time -- in the grocery store when carts are blocking the isle and not realizing someone is behind them, "track!" I'd simply call and they'd scoot right over. On campus I was always one that preferred to walk quickly to my destination. How convenient to have called, "track!" all along the crowded sidewalks.

Running Pains and The Old Days

I remember at the end of my senior year my body kept trying to be sick, but what with state track, AP tests, graduation things, etc. there was simply no time for such nonsense. So, I simply had to put off being sick as best I could. It worked pretty well . . . only in the end I lost my voice for about a month's time.

The same thing happened occasionally as a semester would be ending in college. There would be papers due and finals to take. The flu would be knocking, but it simply had to wait until the day after all was done -- then I could hold off no longer and it would claim me.

Something similar (only slightly different) seems to be happening to me now. My knees were beginning to hurt running (as they have before) so I got some new pronation control running shoes (my ankle turns in too much during my heel toe strike -- which stresses your knees), but now my right ankle is developing tendonitis and hurts all the time (my sister-in-law Missy -- champion runner and Physical Therapist -- thinks these shoes have too much pronation control and are now stressing my outer ankles). I know my poor joints are trying to give out -- trying to be sore and have a good long rest, but there is NO time!! How can I let my injuries take over and expect to complete the training I need to for this Sept. marathon? I can't. No time now for such weakness. I just keep barring the door as best I can and hoping the latch will hold until after the race. Then the injuries can go ahead and claim me if they must.

Whatever happened to the old days when, if an unexpected rainstorm began during a mere stroll to a nearby manor, you would be immediately taken with a raging fever? You would most likely not even be able to finish your walk before such a life threatening condition would set in.

I guess it was probably best that women were all so frail back then. What other chance would there have been for some rich and noble bachelor to chance upon a woman in her moment of despair and carry her to safety? How else could he be expected to court her so devotedly and lovingly as he might whilst she lie in tremors and tossings on her sick bed? Eventually the fever would break, he would bring flowers, she would gaze serenely into his eyes, and a wedding would be forthcoming.

I suppose it would never have done for her to have been running about the countryside, miserable and sweaty with an aching knee and a sprained ankle. I can't imagine what kind of prospects that might have produced for any woman.

I guess it is lucky that I have already been courted and wed. Now Mike doesn't even have to send for the local doctor and bring me flowers and wait patiently night and day at my bedside. He just might have to buy me a new pair of running shoes . . . again . . . like he surprised me with only a month ago . . . because it would immediately fix all my knee problems (I'd assured him) . . . and there certainly wouldn't be more problems.

So, it actually might be easier for Mike if he could just toss me -- soaking wet, and in a feverish delirium -- over the back of his horse and trot me to safety. Maybe we are supposed to be frail after all. Who went changing things?

Running, Garage Sales, and Red Hot Pokers

I ran 14 miles this morning. It didn't feel good. It wasn't the distance so much, mind you. It was just that mostly my body loves to be running, but every now and then, something goes awry and from the get go it just feels unnatural and all wrong. I could never get into a groove, my knees hurt, and I kept having a stitch in my side that wouldn't leave. I guess it is OK to have those days once in awhile training so long as you don't on race day, but I had big plans for being productive and weeding more of our jungle today, and now all I can do is lie here feeling weak, useless, and unable.

At least I can lie here all useless for now. Jesse is napping and Mike took the other kids to some garage sales. I have mixed feelings about this garage sale business. I despise having so much "stuff" around, and honestly my kids each have about 8 million stuffed animals now. But, the kids think it is the funnest thing ever. Even Penny will excitedly ask, "Garage sale?" when Mike's around in the morning. And, it gives me a chance to have a little time to clean up the house and relax all alone on Saturday mornings. And all alone is worth quite a bit.

Anyway, look at these "flowers." Pshaw. Flowers?! Amidst all our weeds, we had tons of these monocot style groupings that I just knew were some type of lovely Day Lilly. I've mentioned I love flowers, so I was quite excited for all these pretty lillies to bloom . . . but when they did bloom, they were not lillies at all. Even as I saw the bizarre triangles developing I kept refusing to believe they wouldn't somehow change into a traditional flower shape. I was out running one morning when I saw some that were further along than my own. I ran past thinking nothing but then stopped cold as the realization hit me. The things I had just run past were the same things that were growing in my yard -- everywhere in my yard. I didn't have lillies, I had RED HOT POKERS!! (Only I didn't know they were called Red Hot Pokers til my friend Kelly told me). I felt like I had been duped -- like someone had played a dirty trick on me. I don't want to offend anyone who thinks they are lovely, but I went so far as to call them "ridiculous." Sure I could see a few strategically placed in a well landscaped area looking alright (mostly behind other prettier things -- just to add a little drama), but all on their own they seemed totally inappropriate.

But that was before the birds came. It turns out birds love these little Red Hot Poker guys. It is like we have hundreds of tiny bird feeders in our yard. At all times of the day you can look out and catch various little birds landing on these things and looking for bugs or drinking nectar or whatever it is they are doing. I took this picture of one just to show you what I mean. I feel like we have a little wildlife bird refuge in our backyard now (patrolled by a giant and somewhat clueless dog). And oddly, these pokers don't look quite so silly to me anymore. I am maybe even starting to like them. It's just like Rudolph. Everyone thought he was totally ridiculous looking until Santa paid him a little attention . . . next thing you know, everyone wanted him to play their reindeer games (like Monopoly). Yes, that is how I feel. Thanks to the attention paid to these flowers by a few birds, I see them quite differently. I think I might even want to invite them to play Monopoly now.