Aging Gracefully From the Back of the Pack

My husband and I met really young.  We are high school sweethearts and he has been my best friend for over 15 years.  During that time we always promised each other that we would age gracefully.  What the heck that even meant, I have no idea.  I think we were aiming at the beautiful ideal where you don't fight the aging process, you accept it as it comes and whamo, you are old people smiling at each other from your front porch rocking chairs. 

We were young and so naive.  I think part of aging is learning to fight it.  The older I get, the more I find myself trying to prove that I am better than my age.  I must remain invincible, untouched by wicked wrinkly fingers and gray hair.  I found my first gray hair a few years ago, plucked the imposter immediately, and soon after found a few more.  I have yet to break down and color the bastards, but one day I will.  Until then I age gracefully, while my hair thins with a sturdy pull at each white strand.

On my 30th birthday my friends told me these would be my golden years.  My thirties were supposed to stand for knowing who I was, not having small babies in the house, having a strong career path, and money finally in the pocket.  Finally, I was old enough to enjoy the spoils of life, but not too old to feel burdened by pain and popping joints.  That's why I feel betrayed by my defective hip. 

For months now, I've embarked on a journey deep within my head.  I'm soul searching in a last attempt of a quarter life crisis.  If my body shows signs of aging, wearing away at the joints at just 30, what should I do with my remaining time?  At first I thought I should hide in a corner and protect the precious moments I have left with my working limbs, but that's a waste.  Why would I fix my broken pieces if I plan on letting them collect cobwebs? 

My husband and I discussed moving somewhere new.  Maybe a small town would do it for us.  No more over-crowded suburbs.  Our boys could grow up under the stars, climbing trees, riding bikes in the forest, and learning to kayak down mountain rivers.  That sounds like a peaceful existence.  Every morning, I could wake up to the rushing stream, hop in my canoe and enjoy the silence.  Maybe I could run a couple days a week, but I wouldn't need it anymore.  I could avoid further injuries by falling in love with my hollowed out tree trunk and a paddle.  Better yet, I could finally become a cross country skier, and plow new paths on rolling hills. 

Sadly, we need money and that lifestyle is not conducive to a paycheck.  My husband has a very specialized skill set and I like food on the table and a roof over our heads. 

Honestly, I don't know where this leaves me.  I'm not invincible.  It sucks, but someday I am going to get old.  My right hip is "50% healthy," which isn't a great score when I plan to live another 60+ years.  My left hip has the same condition as the right, but hasn't reared its ugly head yet.  I've watched my mom struggle with arthritis for a good portion of her adult life and I always thought, "Man that is horrible.  Good thing I won't have to deal with that."  I assumed I got other genes or something.  She was unlucky, while I knew I would remain untouched.

Instead of adjusting my life's trajectory, I am making small changes which I think are making me a better person.  I completely jumped outside of my comfort zone and learned to swim.  At first I was terrified of being judged by the lifeguards and natural swimmers, but throw on a swim cap and goggles and no one knows who I am.  The safety of anonymity is exciting.  I enjoy the water and monotony of laps.  It is the same action over and over, lending itself to a beautiful repetition that creates a meditative state. 

Now I live at the back of the pack.  Walking with a group, I am always last as I can't keep up, but I have more time to observe my surroundings and for the first time in my life, I enjoy simply walking from one point to another.  It is nice to not train for a race, the pressure of certain paces and distances are obliterated.  My old calendar was organized from month-to-month from one race to the next.  Now, I am looking forward to trick-or-treating with my boys this Halloween.  Small goals don't have metals and praise, but I am learning to appreciate their merits. 

Unexpectedly, I've improved through this process.  I know I have a lot of great healthy years ahead of me and it is now that I must take the time to decide how to spend those precious moments.  I took my body for granted, expecting it to age without much wear and tear.  I thought I could pound out thousands of miles without consequence, but luckily I now see it is about balance and enjoying the effort.  With a healthy and strong body I can challenge myself in ways I've never dreamed.  I thought I was a runner.  That was it, I ran.  But I am not just a runner.  I am a mother, a wife, a friend, a marathoner, a swimmer, a biker, a hiker, an adventure seeker. 


~Roadburner

Mother's Marathoning Guilt

Six years ago my first son, Ethan, came along.  I quit teaching 8th grade American History and became a stay at home mom.  I about drove myself crazy.  My A-type personality desperately needed goals and stress.  And worse yet, I didn't sleep for the first 14 months of Ethan's life as he had allergies, colick, and severe reflux.  He slept 2 hour stints at the most, and pretty much cried the other times he was awake.  It was a really trying first year and while I would like to look back at that time with a great sense of humor, you couldn't pay me a zillion dollars to go back to that stage.  My poor husband must have thought I was going to jump off the deep end any moment as I cried a lot and rolled my eyes at him equally.  Fast forward six years and Ethan is healthy, happy, hilarious, and vibrant.  Oh, and he SLEEPS!  Thank God. 

My boys at the park this summer.

Anyway, the point of my story is that I needed something to hold onto.  I needed a firm rope to keep me grounded.  My husband took up running around this time and I thought he was crazy to run 6-8 miles in one day.  "There is no way that is healthy!" I would grumble.  But I was secretly jealous that he had the strength and courage to run out that door every day and somehow run back in an hour later.

My husband at the Air Life Memorial 10K in 2012 where he PR'd by over 5 minutes!

Somewhere along the line, I started running to save my sanity.  I desperately needed those few hours a week to myself.  I didn't push a jogging stroller, EVER.  I didn't want a baby with me.  It was, and still is, MY time.  I am a better mother, wife, friend, and person when I run.  My weekly mileage stands for so much more than a number.  Those are the steps I took away from my family every week.  They were the moments where no one asked me for the 14th snack of the day, or desperately needed to know right now, at this very moment, "WHERE is my bear?"  No one is grabbing my legs or pulling my fingers one direction or another.  Orange juice is not being spilled all over my freshly cleaned couch.  I am alone for that one hour and holy bonanza, I LOVE it!

When I walk back in the door every morning, my boys greet me with a much anticipated, "Good morning, Mom!"  Their little smiles bring me back to reality, and in my post run high, I run up to each of them with big sweaty hugs and kisses and find out about last night's dreams. We immediately begin planning our daily adventures together while I make breakfast.

When I first started running, it was only 3 days a week, maybe 10-15 miles.  Over time, that number has dramatically grown and my commitment to the sport has tripled.  I ran my first marathon using the Hal Higdon training method, which dedicated 25-35 miles per week.  For my second go at the Colfax Marathon, I've taken on an entirely different training strategy that requires 50 miles per week on average, spread out over 6 days. That's about 8 hours a week.  In short, my kids hate the new schedule. 

Daily, I return from my morning runs as my boys greet me with amazing hugs and then quickly ask, "Why do you ALWAYS have to run?  When are you going to stop this?  Didn't you just run yesterday?"  I tell them that running makes mommy happy and healthy and it is the only thing that I ask for every day that is strictly for me.  They don't understand that yet, and I hope it will someday sink in.  My husband is extremely supportive and he tells them the same things, but I can't help feel the insane amount of guilt when their little puppy eyes beg me to stop this nonsense. 

I've begun getting up an hour earlier (5:45am or before) so that I can run and be finished, or close to being done by the time everyone else in the house wakes up.  But I still hear complaints on the weekend when I run longer, or if I miss their waking up by 10-15 minutes.  I started this nonsense to break away for small fractions of time.  I needed goals outside my kids.  It was a way to find me again.  Yes, I am a mom, but I am more than that.  And running proved it.  When I am with my kids, I give them 100%.  I love them desperately, but there has to be a balance. 

I don't want running to get in the way of everyone else in my family.  They didn't sign up for the marathon, I did.  It shouldn't affect my kids or husband, but the reality is, you can't train to run 26.2 miles without putting a little pressure on the system.  It's with their unwavering support and patience that I will cross the finish line again in May. 


How do you strike the balance between parenthood and mileage?  
Does your family make you feel guilty for running?

~Roadburner