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
 

Boozer Street

I visited my parents in Omaha this weekend. 

The three day weekend started by almost giving my dad a heart attack.  For once, my mom and I kept my visit a secret.  She picked me up from the airport, made plans to meet him for lunch, and the second my dad got in the car, I jumped up from the back seat and said nice and loud, "Hi, Dad!" My dad jumped backward out of the car, tripped on the curb, and left only the elegant words behind, "OH! SHIT!"

Yeah, I have that effect on people.  Once everyone dried themselves from the pee inducing laughter, we had a great weekend.  We ate some great food, I made late night sand angels in the sand traps of their local golf course, and I had a nice 6 mile run at what felt like sea level.

My mom and dad recently moved to a new side of Omaha and I don't know the area well.  So my mom offered to help by plotting a path along the "Boozer Trail." She said it would spit me out somewhere near a lake.  Sounds good.  But who is the drunk guy?

Dad's theory was Boozer must have been some infamous drunk who got hit by a train years ago and they renamed the road after him to serve as a lesson to future drunks.  I cackled at my dad's hilarious theory.  "Hey kids, don't pee on the third rail.  Look what happened to Boozer!" 

Unwilling to leave it at that, I grabbed a smart phone and I found the story of an incredible man. Bob Boozer was not a drunk.  He was born in Omaha, Nebraska in 1937.  He was an African American who graduated from Kansas State University, won a gold medal in the 1960 Summer Olympics, and was drafted into the NBA where he played for the Cincinnati Royals.  As if that wasn't enough of an illustrious career, when he retired from basketball, Bob became an executive for Bell systems (the phone company), and dedicated much of his wealth and volunteered endless hours at Boys Town, a local home for troubled youth.

Bob Boozer's honorable image is the one I carried with me on my 6 mile run to Lake Zorinsky.  The trail follows the Boozer Highway, which is situated next to the rail road tracks.  It winds next to some high school stadiums, a few neighborhoods, and many quiet hidden gems along the way. 

While many of the runners on the path were quite rude, refusing to return a smile or "hello," I felt honored running in the shadow of a great local man.  I would have never known of Bob Boozer had running not created that connection.

Denver Rock 'n Roll 2013

After every race, I have a myriad of mixed feelings.  Did I go hard enough?  Did I start too fast?  Should I have stayed with a pace group?  Overall, I am happy with my new PR at the Denver Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon yesterday.  I earned a 1:52:06.  Compared to last year's time of 2:01:49, I'd say that's a worthy improvement. 

Before the race. It was actually a pleasantly warm morning!

Monica, my husband Randall, and I all stayed ahead of the 1:50 pace group for the first 10 miles.  Somehow at mile 10, there was a crowded water station that forced people single file and the next time I looked up, not only were the 1:50 pacers ahead of me, but I'd lost my friend and husband in the crowd. 

My husband photo-bombed me at mile 4.  I love running with my husband and friends.  They keep it light and fun!

I didn't start the race wanting a specific time.  Start strong, finish fast.  That's it.  I wanted to improve on last year's 2 hour finish and I knew I could accomplish that goal.  If I felt good I would maintain between an 8:20-8:40 pace, averaging right at 8:30 miles.  Every time I looked at my watch it read right at 8:30.  Seeing the reality of that goal, mile-after-mile, boosted my spirits and kept me feeling strong right to mile 10.  I knew the 1:50 pace group was right at our heals starting at mile 8 and if I wanted to stay ahead of them we'd need to speed up for the finish. 

The 10th mile was at the top of a long but not very steep hill.  People were tiring out and the water station was extremely crowded.  I saw Monica slip behind me, as did Randall and I assumed they were grabbing a drink.  Then the dreaded pace flag bounced along in front of me and I became really mad at myself.  How can I hold them off for 10 freaking miles, and let them go just like that?  I surged forward as fast as my tired legs could run, but those 15 people kept pulling away slowly and I couldn't keep up. 

A man at the back of the pack kept belching out weird support-driven tirades, "Don't fade now!"  "Keep going!"  "PUSH! PUSH! You are stronger than that weakness in your knees!" "Finish strong and speed up, even if you might pass out!"  To be honest, he provided the demotivation I needed to slow down a bit.  I didn't want to hear him screaming at the top of his lungs for 3.1 more miles about how good he felt and how crappy I was suddenly feeling.  It is funny how one moment I can feel unstoppable but the second someone screams at me not to be tired, my legs feel instantly wrecked and I need  to find a cold place to cuddle up in the grass with a Tangerine Gu.

From the Oatmeal.

I put headphones in my ears to drown out the sounds of my heavy breathing and suddenly exhausted thoughts and pushed towards the finish.  Last year I felt like a complete rock star when I crossed the finish line.  Crowds were screaming, lights were flashing, music was playing, and I was smiling at cameras left and right.  This year, I am sure all that stuff was equally as thrilling, but I was focused on a ruthless lady in green.

She was wearing a long sleeved, green pullover and her blonde hair bounced in unison with our steps.  I felt boxed in and tried to move around her.  I surged forward but I was in no way racing her to the finish until she suddenly sped up and wouldn't let me by her for anything.  I found that insulting and made it my life's goal to pass her.  No success was more important at that moment.  We raced each other those final 200 yards to the finish in an all out sprint.  Why?  I don't know.  If I had that in me still, why didn't I use it to catch the Oatmeal's Blerch in that damn pace group?  Where was my fire 20 minutes ago? 
 

My husband Randall, me, and Monica

I crossed the finish line excited about my new PR and felt suddenly remorseful for engaging with that green lady.  I walked over to her and patted her on the shoulder to make amends.  After gathering a banquet of Gatorade, water, chocolate milk, bagels, and granola bars, we headed back to the car to nurse my chafed legs and enjoy some nicely stocked warm sweats and Irish hot cocoa.    

My precious Irish hot cocoa post race listening to Atlas Genius.

I am strong

While I was training for the Colfax Marathon, I came up with a really simple mantra to get me over the hard spots during training.  It wasn't anything awesome, but it worked.  "1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3..."  Mind-blowing, eh?  Yeah, I tried more creative sayings like, "Run harder!" or "Keep Go-ing," or "Get it done."  I found those sayings downright distracting and they defeated their purposes entirely.  The reason I employed self-talk, was because I couldn't run harder.  I was desperately trying to get that 20 miler in the books, and I didn't know if I could physically run anymore.  Counting seemed basic.  I found myself getting from one step to the next and starting all over again.  My feeble mind couldn't think of much else. 

I've used my counting strategy often while running the trails behind my house this summer, but it lost its effectiveness.  Every time I try to count my way up a hill, I get distracted and find myself counting the actual steps, which only leads to me thinking of how many more steps I must have until I get to the top of that awful hill. 

My mom suggested a long time ago that I sing a song in my head instead of repeating a mantra.  She thought "Ants go Marching," would be relevant and slightly hilarious.  How many revolutions of that song could I get through when running 26.2 miles?  I tried it and it quickly changed to "The ants go marching 4 by 4, Harrah, Harrah.  The ants go marching 4 by 4, the little one stops to wretch on the floor...."  It didn't work. 

This morning I ran my 5 mile loop on the same trails behind my house that find me every morning.  This particular loop has a mean 2 mile long hill that feels relentless.  It's grade varies from 5% up to 12% inclines.  Halfway up the hill I desperately wanted to stop and walk, but I thought about all the goals I have for new PRs in the half marathon and full marathon distance.  I can't get there by walking.  I told myself, "I am strong."  Instead of counting, I repeated, "I am strong. I am strong. I am strong," with each step. 

It worked.  I got to the top of the hill, tired as all get out with another 2 miles of hills to go, but I made it and I wasn't slow.  I ran those 2 miles under an 8:30 pace.  I AM strong dammit! 


What is your running mantra?  When do you need it most?

~Roadburner

Mama Penguin

It is 2 days after the Highlands Ranch Half Marathon and I still couldn't run if a bear chased me!  It was a point-to-point downhill race.  With 1,000 feet of total elevation loss, I banked time in the first 6 miles, letting gravity push me down the hill at 7:30-8:00 miles.  Using gravity to push me down those steep grades felt like flying at the time, but getting up the next day made me feel like I jumped off a 10 story building and let gravity do its worst.  My legs, butt, back, arms, shoulders, and stomach all feel like I was hit by a city bus. 

My kids have aptly named me "Mama Penguin," over the last 48 hours.  I waddle like an Emperor Penguin and take nice slow steps wherever I go.

Stairs are my nemesis and I've been reduced to crawling up them slowly, belly down, grunting like an angry bird.  If I could install a slip 'n slide inside my house, I would slam the floor, belly down cruising from room to room, avoiding all contact with my legs for a week!

The idea of an ice bath has never looked so appealing!  I've never had to ice my legs this much after a race.

 
The race itself was a blast.  It was the inaugural year and of course there were some kinks that will need to be worked out: excessive waiting lines at the packet pick up, limited or no water for post two hour finishers, and a 10 minute delayed start, but overall it was very well managed.

I ran with 5 great friends.  We each ran our own race and met at the end for a good beer and constant laughs.

 

If you've never run a race with a group of friends, I highly recommend it!  Monica, my training partner, shopped for all of our race day throwaways at the local Savers and she found some treasures.  The race start alone, made everything worth it.  I haven't laughed that hard before a race, EVER!

Thank you Caitlin, who played volley ball in '05. 

I am not sure why any Grandma would have thrown out this invaluable purple valour jumper, but this women's medium sacrifice made my husband look great on race morning!

Throughout the race, we passed each other, cheered one another on, and took bets on who would bomb out first.  My husband finished first of our group in 1:46:43.

We waited for all 6 of us to cross the finish and each complained equally the next day about our unmatched sore muscles and nasty feet. 

While the race "hangover" left me swearing I would never run that hard again, I woke this morning proud of my new PR (1:53:40), and desperately trying to figure out how I can run the Denver Rock 'n Roll faster than my 8:40 average pace.

Sick Pup

Tucker runs with me every morning.  He pulls me up the hills and is relentless when I beg for a slower pace.  He hasn't run with me in over a week.  Every dog needs dental work now and then, but somehow his dental procedure ended up far more complicated.  He was sedated for over 7 hours and had 6 teeth pulled.  Afterwards, I was instructed he would be okay to run again in a day or two and expect normal behavior within 24 hours.

Sadly, he was severely allergic to every medicine they administered.  The night after the surgery I sat with him outside for hours as he laid in the rain, ill beyond belief, and unwilling to come inside.  I finally wrapped him in a warm towel and held him on his bed until he fell asleep.  We've been in and out of his veterinary clinic every evening and while I know he hates me every time I bring him in for more examinations, I see his unconditional loyalty.

When I got up on Sunday for my long run, I looked at him laying fitfully in his bed.  I expected him to jump out the door and demand his leash, but he rolled over and let me leave without incident.

Obviously, he will be fine in a few days.  It is five days post operation and he is finally able to eat rice and chicken broth.  He is only 7 years old and Brittney Spaniels live a long time, but it made me think how lucky I am that my dog is the type that can run 14 miles without hesitation.  He can outlast me in almost every distance and can maintain a 7:00 per mile pace for 10K.  Tucker is amazing.  I know someday he will loose his ability to run.  That happens to all of us.  But for now, I love the look in his eyes when he sees my running clothes.  He doesn't love to run.  He loves the run.  Yes, there is a difference.


Who is your favorite running partner?  Do you like running with your pets, or without?  What is the one thing about running that you can't live without?

~Roadburner

Runner's lows

If there really is a runner's high,  I have perfected the runner's low.  During the longest run before every major race, I get sick.  I am not sure if I push my training too hard, or if I just psych myself up too much a week beforehand, but there is definitely a level of consistency here.  Last year, I ran 5 major races all within 8 weeks of each other, covering over 50 miles total.  I knowingly didn't give myself proper recovery time and I paid the price in the final 2 races.  While running my 20 miler for the Colfax Marathon in May, I ungracefully pushed back vomit the last 8 miles or so until I crossed the 20 mile mark and killed the grass while young kids watched in horror.  This weekend, I ran 12 miles on an extremely flat trail.  It should have been an easy run and yet, I stopped 3 times, throwing my head between my knees as my running partner, and good friend, bantered, "Should I get out my camera?" 

Heck, why not get out the camera?  Maybe it will serve as a good reminder for future training runs. I take great care of myself just before a race.  I tell myself things like,

• "Start drinking loads of water 3-4 days before the race."
• "Load up on healthy carbohydrates."
• "Don't drink too much wine, beer, or other stuff." 
• "Taper properly.  Don't overwork your muscles."
• "Don't eat junk, it will taste awful tomorrow!"
• "Start slow, finish strong."
• "You love running and you love competition.  Have fun with it!"

Somehow all those ideas only apply to racing weekends and I find myself miserable on many long training runs. 

• "That pizza, wings, and beer tasted better the first time!"
• "Cross training makes me faster, so why not double up workouts?"
• "Run your training miles fast!  Forget LSD Runs (Long Slow Distance).  Go quickly and move on with your weekend!" 
• "Why am I up at 4:00 am?  This is not fun!"

Maybe I need to feel miserable sometimes to help refocus my priorities.  I love that racing is not a one day commitment.  It takes months to train and life happens along the way.  The Highlands Ranch Half Marathon is Labor Day, Monday.  Wish me luck, I promise not to vomit!



Do you ever feel horrible during training runs?  Is it something that you could have avoided but did it anyway?  How do you enjoy life without messing with your training?


~Roadburner