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Pregnancy fitness fail

Today marks 20 weeks of pregnancy with Baby Brother 2.0, as well as the blessed more-than-halfway! milestone, since my c-section will be scheduled sometime prior to the 40-week point. As of 6:30 this morning, I'm still clocking in about two pounds lighter compared to when I first got knocked up, mainly because I could barely tolerate anything except fruit, yogurt, and the occasional bite of chicken for almost the entire first trimester and some change. Things are back to normal now, for the most part, so in the grand scheme of things what felt like Hell on Earth wasn't completely unbearable, and I know lots of pregnant women experience a far more severe case of morning sickness than I do, but dudes. For serious, I was so damn sick, and useless to my family, and overall just a big blob of miserable.

The blog title, it makes sense now, yes?

I had such high hopes for maintaining an active pregnancy right from the get-go. The week I found out, I was running along the Chicago lakeshore, and at around six weeks I finished a local 5K with only a handful of walking breaks. Running is the only form of exercise I have ever truly loved, and I fully intended to stick with it for as long as I was feeling able. Then, suddenly, BAM! Everything upset my stomach, I was nodding off by 8 p.m., and I was plagued with constant headaches. I couldn't gather the energy to wash dishes at the sink, let alone throw on my gym shoes and log three miles on the trail. And now, at the more-than-halfway! point, sporting a belly that has pretty much collapsed into gestational position and experiencing sciatic nerve episodes, abdominal tenderness, and semi-frequent aches and pains ("You talk like an 80-year-old grandma!" Samantha laughed during a recent phone conversation), I am pretty much thinking that running is off the table until after I deliver. I plan to start walking and hiking outside once the weather gets nicer, and my friend Jen shared with me a prenatal video that I want to try, but I'm still bummed I didn't feel up to doing more when my bodily functions weren't being compared to members of the geriatric population. Back in the fall, I read an article highlighting female athletes who continued running during their pregnancies, and my favorite of the bunch talked about how running eased a lot of the inital discomfort she dealt with in those first few months. I am so impressed with women who manage to do this; it's one thing to push through predictable motivational issues that apply to both sexes, but forcing your body to perform when you physically feel like ass thanks to a HUMAN LIFE feeding on you like a parasite? That is mind-boggling to me.

Not mind-boggling: why I will never be described as an elite anything when it comes to athletics.

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While my prenatal fitness thus far has been nothing to write home about, I'm super optimistic about what I can accomplish during the last six weeks of maternity leave. Delivering in late June means I should be cleared for exercise in early to mid-August; it'll be sweltering, for sure, and last year I learned that my body can't handle long distances in that kind of heat, but I'm already fantasizing about updating my iPod playlist and hitting the trail again, if only for two or three miles at a time. I also remember my initial success with The Shred after having Nathan (I'll take another ten pounds in 30 days, thankyouverymuch) and wonder if it's unreasonable to think I could achieve my third pre-pregnancy weight before returning to work in the fall.

It is not lost on me that at this time last year I was visiting the gym several days a week to train for the Mini, and mentally I'm salivating over capturing that spirit again, of feeling invincible and capable and strong. I watch Luke train for that same half-marathon and hate that I can't show up this year to improve my time. Patience, I tell myself, patience; pregnancy is an endurance race in and of itself, to be approached with the same level of respect to process and self. Once I cross this finish line, only then I can set my sights on another.

Or bust

I am no longer training for the Chicago Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon.

Despite the month-long inner turmoil I have been experiencing over this issue, in the end it was a pretty easy decision. My outside runs in the heat have been brutal, and finding motivation to hit the gym before work has been difficult; therefore, I can count on one finger hand the number of times I've hit my target mileage since starting in May. Not good when you're just aiming to FINISH a half, let alone improve your time.

Plus, the guilt I've experienced over missing these goals is drastically affecting my overall activity--as if strength training is only a reward to be earned through tempo runs and intervals. It's like I needed to abandon this race before granting myself permission to incorporate other types of exercise into my life.

Do me a favor and smack me in the face (live or via e-mail) if I ever contemplate running 13.1 miles in the summer again.

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It seems like I am constantly locked in battle with my best possible self, fitness-wise, trying to strike a healthy balance between how I want to look and what is realistically achievable. Pursuing aggressive goals without setting myself up for failure. Celebrating my progress without comparing it to others. I know it isn't just me, that lots of people have trouble maintaining their goal weight and a healthy body type, but come on now. I am 30 years old, not some in-the-dark teeny bopper who thinks she can eat a cheeseburger a day and not have it metabolize in her ass. I know that my physical AND mental health benefit when I take better care of myself. And yet, I am constantly surrendering to the same poor impulses, forever digging myself into the same proverbial hole.

And the older I get, the harder the battle. When losing weight in my early twenties, I was able to drop 17 pounds by just following Weight Watchers. There were a couple times where I pulled out my Richard Simmons videos, and Luke and I did the occasional hike on the weekends, but exercise wasn't a regular part of my day. Then I had kids, and everything changed. Even after hitting my pre-pregnancy weight last fall after months of careful eating, dedicated Shred workouts, and a semi-regular running schedule, my body was still different. The by-products of my crappy twenty-something choices were still there, only multipled (damn you, tire gut). Drastic changes to flaws I've been complaining about since high school will involve a higher level of dedication than, say, shredding a few times a week. Semi-related to this is the fact that I want to graduate beyond the point where I'm convincing myself to slip on my running shoes or pop in the Shred - rookie motivation problems that should no longer be an issue at this point in my life (HELLO YOU ARE A GROWN-UP JUST GET OFF YOUR ASS AND MOVE ALREADY). I'm tired of using excercise as a means to a tactical end - a way to drop weight, a method for improving balance or gaining strength. It's necessary right now since my body isn't as fit or capable as it could be, but one day I want to do these things just because I enjoy them. How funny that Linda just published a post on this very concept. Her "now" is my goal.

On the bright side, at least reaching that goal feels possible. Next month will mark my first running anniversary - the longest I've maintained any athletic endeavor - and I am so insanely proud of this words can't even express it. Despite a lack of speed, consistency, and flexibility, I can call myself a runner. If I can do that, I can do anything.

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I've been pecking away at this post on and off for more than a week now, and frankly the original point is lost on me. It's not about dropping out of Chicago or chasing down the body I had at 23. It's just that I feel like I'm thisclose to nipping this thing in the bud, this one-step-forward, two-steps-back mentality that zaps my enthusiasm for wellness and short changes my total potential. It doesn't help that my world feels so small lately, so self-absorbed with short-term goals and material objectives (buy a toddler bed replace our kitchen table fix the floor boards the fridge is on its last leg ahhh), and now that Kara and Nathan are older and our family more grounded, it's becoming more important to me to leave a bigger mark on the world, to contribute in a way that lightens somebody's load and benefits society as a whole. There are certainly more important issues to focus on than the size of my waistline. Believe me, I know this. But right now, that has to be a priority, too.

Part of accomplishing this, I think, is working with my reality and not against it. For example:

The earliest I can get out of bed to exercise is a quarter to six. Not 5:15, not 5:32, not 5:40. Blame it on laziness, insanely late bedtimes, the rain, whatever. Either way, I need to acknowledge this truth and plan accordingly (i.e. no five-mile runs before dawn).

Commuting to the gym does not work long term. Sure, I managed to stay on task during most of my training for the Mini, diligently rolling out of bed half-awake two to four times a week to make the twenty-minute drive, but when motivation is at an all-time low, even the thought of packing a locker room bag is reason enough to scrap a workout completely. Plus, I hate starting my days without seeing Luke or the kids, and when I go to the gym, that's exactly what happens.

Luckily, there is a solution, in the form of a YMCA-like facility within walking distance of my house that has a decent enough fitness center, evening classes that mesh perfectly with bedtime, and reasonable membership rates to boot. Luke and I never explored this option before because he wasn't interested in hitting the machines, so it was easy enough for me to just go with my employer's "in-network" option, which is actually the higher quality gym, and suck up the drive. Now that Luke's been running again, he's more open to strength training and cross, so now it makes sense to go with something that accommodates our entire family. And no driving for me + free childcare for Luke = win-win all around. We'll sign up first thing next month, and I can't wait.

Working out after bedtime is the exception, not the rule, and never to be counted on, no matter how appealing it seems at the time. The longer I have to postpone a workout, the less likely it is to happen. (Running dates with friends aside, of course.)

Willpower is good, but abstinence is better. It's much harder to avoid eating the ice cream in your freezer than it is to refrain from buying it at all.

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Okay, seriously, enough navel-gazing already. To make up for the lack of cohesion in this post, here are shots of my kids from two weeks ago, at a park you've never heard of, where we hung out with people you don't know. Enjoy.

Bird-watching at the park's nature center.

Momma: "Kara, can you see anything?"

Kara (Enthusiastically): "No!"

 

Father and son on the move.

 

Stair-climbing to a lookout point.

 

Girl power at its finest, with friends from our Rensselaer days.

 

It all really boils down to this, doesn't it?

Unabridged status updates sorted by topic

FREEDOM: This summer is the first since 2008 that Luke and I don't have a child under the age of one in our house, and it is glorious. Gone are the days of following a rigid feeding schedule or cutting an errand short because you didn't prep enough bottles. Events taking place after seven don't automatically require a sitter. You can get by with two diapers per tushie instead of three or four, and bringing along a change of clothes is now an elective instead of non-negotiable.

To celebrate this new phase in our lives, we are planning accordingly. Evening baseball games and family walks (both sponsored by my employer, thankfully). Plans for our first summer vacation (near the lake) with talks of visiting the ocean next year. Longer day trips farther away home, and more often. These "adventures" are definitely not perfect; sometimes the kids are crabby because they're missing their naps/tired of being in the car/eating a late lunch/angry over leaving/take your pick, but we are no longer letting the benefits of a routine automatically trump getting out and about as a family. Races, bridesmaid responsibilities, birthday parties, and an overall lack of funds will keep us at least Indiana-bound most of the season, but fortunately there are plenty of local parks and kid-friendly attractions to keep us appropriately engaged. I even ordered an Ergo over the weekend to support our new on-the-go lifestyle, allowing us to tackle rocky terrain, city streets, and other walking-centric activities stroller-free. Nathan will be a year and a half soon, but he's sitting pretty at around twenty-four pounds, and the carrier holds forty, so I'm hoping we'll get a lot of use out of it even without the addition of more children. (More on that in another post.)

 

Visiting a local creamery over Memorial Day weekend.

LOST FINALE: What to say about the show to end all shows? I doubt I have anything new to add to the conversation, but LOST was introduced to me during one of the most vulnerable times of my life; it tethered me to the adult, pre-motherhood world outside my apartment when my insecurities as a first-time mom left me unmotivated to even drive to the grocery store. It wouldn't be right to let it ride off into the sunset without voicing my thoughts. Because I'm, like, a month behind, I'll keep it brief.

• I thought the ending was strong. I was satisfied with the idea of the castaways needing to come to terms with their life on the island before they could Move On.
• I loved the scenes between Jack and his father, and the fact that it was Jack's love for Christian, not Kate, that finally triggered his island memory. I loved the reunions between Sun and Jin, Sawyer and Juliet, and Claire and Charlie.
• I thought Hurley was a worthy choice for Jack's replacement on the island and liked Ben as Hurley's number two. I bought that Ben's work in purgatory wasn't finished and that he didn't belong with the core group's ascension into the light.
• I didn't like that Sayid was paired with Shannon instead of Nadia or that Michael was confined to the island forever, especially when he acted as he did not out of malice or jealousy (as Ben often did) but to protect his son.
• I hated that the "Walt is special" and "Aaron is a miracle baby and can't be raised by another/an Other" storylines were never resolved. Also, that Desmond's season-two revelation of Claire leaving the island with Aaron never materialized, when all of his other premonitions came true.
• Still curious about Charlotte's connection with the island and the effect it had on her (i.e. death).
• I don't understand what if any effect the time traveling had on the overall plot.
• I appreciate the island being the life source for the entire world but thought the physical reprensentation of it--light in a cave? Really?--was a bit hokey.
• After what I'm calling the "Island Mythology" episode, I had less respect for Jacob and more sympathy for the Man in Black, along with a lot of questions as to why the brothers couldn't hurt each other and why Jacob could leave the island but Smokey couldn't.
• I may be the only viewer on Earth who didn't like the Richard-centric episode. I thought he was kind of a wimp.
• I'm sad that Jack didn't really have a son or that John never actually reunited with Helen. Those ideas made me so, so happy.
• I bawled my eyes out during the last ten minutes of the show and even harder at the appearance of Vincent at Jack's side near the end.
• I'm still torn over the Widmore-versus-Ben dynamic. Am thinking Widmore was actually the more honorable of the two.

...Okay, so not exactly brief. But man, that felt good.

 

My two favorite guys.

RACING UPDATE: Still training for the Rock 'n Roll Chicago Half Marathon, still struggling to find the motivation to train most of the time. I'm wondering if it was too ambitious to tackle another half so soon after my first? It helps that Jenn, the local blog reader who reached out to me during the Mini, lives in a neighboring town and that we are close enough in proximity to meet up for runs during the week. Running is a lot easier with a partner at your side, and it's been so great to find another mom friend in my general area. Plus, Jenn has two young children who are close in age to Kara and Nathan. Win for the mommies, win for the kids.

Anyway, I've got six weeks until race day, and while I'm not following Hal Higdon's intermediate schedule to the letter, it's a good place to start, and I have been more consistent with integrating strength training between runs. After August 1, I'm going to focus more on shorter races and improving my time. Still aiming to increase my pace to that elusive (to me) ten-minute mile.

Enjoying the waterfall view at Lieber State Recreation Area. You better believe this will be blown up to 8x10 size when they're teenagers, for all their friends to see.

MONEY: After years of struggling to implement a successful household budgeting system, I have finally found a way to at least account for our monthly cash flow. Because we live in an age where writing a check is considered an antiquated means for rendering payment, I've always assumed that the key to setting up a budget is the computer, i.e. Excel, i.e. turning on the damn thing every night, tallying the day's expenses, and reviewing what you have left for the rest of the month. However, because my internal hardwiring isn't programmed to handle anything more complex than watching The Daily Show once the kids are in bed, it's difficult to sustain the mental capacity for something as tedious as sorting through mounds of receipts. Plus, the computer is in the loft, and the loft is upstairs, on the same floor as the bedrooms, away from the TV, and it's all just so very inconvenient and time-consuming I want to scream. So I would painstakingly craft a budget, save it to our desktop, gather receipts accordingly, and...let those receipts build up on our desk until another month came and went and we weren't any closer to knowing where we fell on the surplus/deficit spectrum. Not. Smart.

It's going to sound crazy, but the key to my financial sanity? A notepad. This plain, tiny, white, lined notepad with orange flowers that I received as part of a birthday basket back in January whose purpose in life had been previously unknown. Now every couple of days I pull out my receipts, notepad, and calculator to document which days we spent money, where we spent the money, and how much was spent. Elementary, I know, but it's been so helpful to have a complete record of expenses that I can manage IN FRONT OF THE TV. Those big boxes that run the Internet, they are so complicated.

 

Nathan getting up close and personal with one of the zoo's newest arrivals. 

There is more to share, including the rapid development of my children, but my lunch hour is up and really, it is time to have something at the top of my homepage other than a before shot of Nathan, pre-haircut. So here you go.

Shark petting = awesome.

 

At the "Outrun the Sun" race at Fort Benjamin Harrison State Park. 
 
 

My big, beautiful girl at "Outrun the Sun."

 

My handsome, delicate flower of a boy at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

 

We hope you're all just swell.

No crawling, but close

Well, I did it. I finished my first half-marathon. And there were so many amazing, wonderful things about it. Also, a few terrible things. Mainly miles ten through thirteen. But we'll get to that.

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The morning went like clockwork. I was on the road by twenty to six, second half of my peanut butter bagel in tow, and found parking at the downtown mall with no trouble. It was cold outside--somewhere in the forties, and windy to boot--so I was donning a long-sleeved cotton tee with plans to discard it once I was good and warmed up. Katy and I communicated via cell phone a couple of times to report on parking and wish each other luck, and after a much-needed bathroom break I found my corral near the end of the pack, where I waited for more than an hour for the Mini to begin.

Standing there with runners of various shapes, sizes, and ages, I was no longer nervous about the race, just excited, feeling properly rested, dressed, and fueled to kick some Mini ass. I had no idea what to expect in regards to finish time, but the one ten-miler I did with Katy a couple of weeks back was managed in two hours and ten minutes, and that was with several walking breaks and a couple of torturous hills. Even though I'd been sharing my "under three hours" goal with anyone who would listen, secretly, I expected better. I wanted to hit 2:40:00.

Taken by a fellow racer while waiting for the Mini to start, Indianapolis Artsgarden looming in the background. Not bad for cell phone quality!

The gun went off around seven-thirty. By eight o'clock, I was officially en route, armed with my phone, car key, and a sandwich bag containing pretzels and gummy bears at the suggestion of Dawnie, a seasoned runner who also recommended my breakfast. 

Man, it felt awesome.

I took my PT's "start SLOW" warning to heart and advanced along at a leisurely jog, content to study the crowds, enjoy the live music, take pictures with my cell phone, and overall just bide my time. Thanks to the long gap between joining my corral and actually starting the race, though, I already had to pee, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to go very long without making a pitstop to the bathroom. I saw the first string of porta-potties before the one-mile marker, but the line was longer than the run time for Dances with Wolves, and I was already plenty behind, clocking a dismal 15-minute mile pace. Even on my worst training days, I did better than that. Hell, my one-year-old son who likes to snack on his own SHOES is faster.

Chin up, Frema. You're just pacing yourself. You've got the whole race ahead of you to gain back some time.

When I passed mile two roughly fourteen minutes later, my concern grew. However, the size of my bladder did not, so barely a half-hour into the race, I was stepping in line for a porta-potty. Where I stood for SIX EFFING MINUTES before I could lock myself in a closet-sized stall and relieve myself so quickly that pee was still dripping down my leg when I hiked up my pants and hit the road again. (Not really.) (Well, maybe.) (Let's call it poetic license and leave it at that.)

I was closing in on mile three when the best part of the whole race happened and Jenn, a local blog reader, introduced herself. Jenn, your reaching out meant so much to me. I hope that first meet-up wasn't our last.

Unfortunately, my good spirits were dashed when I checked my cell phone at mile three. Forty minutes. At mile five, well over an hour.

FUCK.

This was not going according to plan. Physically I was still feeling good, but you wouldn't have known it from my time. I re-evaluated my random picture-taking strategy. Did I really need shots of every live band? Would anyone benefit from a low-grade image of senior citizens square dancing? This was a RACE, for cripe's sake, not a freaking city tour.

Point taken.

Mile five led us onto the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, a welcome change of scenery compared to the dilapitated houses, grocery stores, and gas stations lining the streets moments before.

 

Entering the Speedway.

Once inside the Speedway, things started looking up. Something about the track's simplicity made it easier to keep pace, and the gummy bears were a perfect pick-me-up, so as I hit mile nine just outside the track, the face on my phone said 10:03--a little more than two hours after starting the race. For the first time that morning, my 2:40:00 goal seemed reachable, provided I kept at my current pace. Encouraged, I pushed on.

Then I reached mile ten.

It felt like I was the Energizer Bunny whose battery had up and died, because suddenly, my body...just stopped working. Puffy knees, sore ankles, throbbing feet, side stitch--the pain seemed to hit me all at once, to the point that I wasn't sure I could go on. For the rest of the race, I kept my lips pressed firmly together and eyes focused straight ahead, searching in vain for the next mile marker. With each walking break I took--and there were many by that point--I saw my precious 2:40:00 time slipping further and further away. I have no idea why that stupid number meant so much to me, but it so, so did.

Ignore the pain, I told myself. Pretend it's not there. Just a little ways to go.

But I couldn't get past it, and the end wasn't near. Those last three miles were tougher than the first ten, without a doubt, and with each step I took, the lump in my throat grew larger because holy crap, this was not what I signed up for. Luke called me just before mile twelve (I decided against using the stopwatch on my phone so he and I could stay in touch over the course of the race), and I could barely muster the strength to talk to him. He was waiting by the bleachers with the kids, he said. Watch out for us! But my vision was blurred with tears, and I couldn't see anyone.

Luckily, he saw me.

 

"Look! There's Mommy!" Luke shouted to my babies as they froze to their deaths in the stroller, and all I could do was throw up a hand and keep moving. No hello, no hugs or kisses, no thank you for braving the chaos of downtown to watch me sweat like a pig in cheap Target gear. But I was afraid that if I stopped, I might never make it to the finish line. Even that close, it seemed so far away.

 

I cried for the entire last mile, feeling so ridiculous and utterly alone. I didn't even realize I had crossed the finish line until I noticed that everyone around me had stopped running and volunteers were passing out bottled water. I'm surprised I still had the presence of mind to grab my finisher's medal.

I met up with Luke and the kids several minutes later, near a Prairie Farms truck that was distributing free bottles of milk to racers and their families. Once he was in arm's reach, I buried my face in his shoulder and totally lost it. My poor husband, he kept saying over and over how proud he was of me, what a good job I did, and I just kept crying. Because completing the Mini felt nothing like I thought it would. Instead of having a Rocky moment and reveling in my accomplishment, I was disappointed in my performance. Embarrassed over my finish time. Angry over my cavalier attitude for the first few miles. That's what stung more than anything--feeling like I hadn't done my best. Plus, while I achieved my "under three hours" goal, I just made it, with an official race time of 2:53:26. 

I'm capable of more than this, I thought upon reading the results online yesterday. I should have done better.

No matter what bad feelings I may harbor towards my performance, though, I still have a medal for completing a half-marathon. That's still pretty bad-ass, right?

I think so.

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Not quite two days later, I have adopted a more realistic perspective. First off, I'm not even a full year into this running business yet, and taking on a half is no joke (trademark Jillian Michaels). It's not like in high school where you can skip a few homework assignments and still ace a test. You can't trick your body into thinking it's done training that it just didn't do. At least, I can't trick mine. Did I prepare for this race? Hell yes. But did I follow my program to the letter? No. There were days of sleeping in when I should have dragged myself onto the 'mill or at least squeezed in Level 1 of the Shred. I attempted less than half of the allotted cross-training days. And I used my knee injuries as an excuse to take a three-week break from exercise when I should have been focusing on my upper body and core. But I didn't. And ultimately, I paid the price on race day.

But tomorrow is another day, and the Rock 'n Roll Chicago Half Marathon is another race, and this time, I will work harder. In the meantime, I'm going to forgive myself for missing the mark this time and embrace the fact that I finished. Like a wise runner once said, "13.1 miles isn't half of anything."

Damn right. 

The Mini is tomorrow.

Training-wise, there is nothing left to do. Prep-wise, though? TONS. I'm combing through a map of the race course to pinpoint mile markers and potty stations, packing my bag, laying out my clothes, debating whether or not to bring my iPod (leaning towards no), leaving messages for Katy, mentally reviewing the last few months of my training, freaking out over parking, cursing Aunt Flo for her unexpected visit, and worrying that the timing device on my bib will fail to activate just like it did during my 10K training run in March.

Here is the plan so far:

• Wake up at 4:45 a.m.
• Take a quick shower (neck down only).
• Get dressed (trusty blue tech shirt and cotton black capris I've been training in all spring) and eat breakfast (whole wheat bagel with peanut butter and milk).
• Double-check bag contents.
• Leave the house by 5:35 a.m.
• Find parking.
• If time allows, review course map and pray.
• Final corral spot (we're supposed to be in our assigned spots by 6:45 a.m.).
• Wait patiently until my corral crosses the start line.

My mind is racing faster than my feet could ever hope to run come 7:33 a.m. tomorrow, planting reminders in my brain to start out slow, to ignore the pace of the other runners around me, to enjoy the atmosphere, to have fun. As far as goals go, if I were to have gone through training injury-free, I'd be aiming for two and a half hours, but I didn't, so my primary objective is to make it through without being picked up by the trail bus, which collects anybody pacing slower than an 18-minute mile. At best I'm over eleven minutes, at worst more than twelve, so I should be okay, but you never know. If I can hit two hours and forty minutes, even better. (Don't ask me where that particular number came from, because I don't know, except that when I registered for the Rock 'n Roll Chicago Half Marathon a couple of weeks ago I was asked to list an estimated finish time, and I had no idea what to put down, so I went with 2:40. We'll see soon enough how smart that was!

I am equal parts nervous, excited, and ready for this experience to be over. My training kind of petered out near the end as knee troubles, work load, and family responsibilities drained my motivation. I don't know how well prepared I am to do anything but cross the finish line in one piece - certainly there will be no dramatic breaking of tape or winning my age division, but at the end of tomorrow, I will have run thirteen miles, and I couldn't do that in January, and THAT is a pretty big deal to me. Plus, the odds that I'll have a successful race are pretty high, seeing as the weather is supposed to be in the fifties, the course is flat, and there will be water and bathroom stations at almost every mile. This afternoon I signed up to post Twitter updates from my phone, in the event that I am inspired to share deep thoughts with the interwebs en route, but that will probably interfere with the timer, so that may not pan out. My hope is to publish a post-race update tomorrow night because I just know you'll be drumming your fingers and frantically refreshing my home page until you hear from me again. (Ha!) Until then, might I interest you in some pictures?

 

Luke and the kids at the local Best Buddies race a couple of weeks back.

 

Kara and I at the Indianapolis Race for the Cure event in mid-April.

Nathan and I last week during a post-dinner family walk on our trail.

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Okay, it's ten o'clock and Luke is ushering me to bed. Wish me luck, friends!  
 

Picture me holding up my fingers and whispering "Seven" just like Monica in that one Friends episode

Technically seven and a half, but the title was already clunky enough.

I ended up solving last week's problem of balancing a second short run with my first long run in a month by skipping the shorter one completely, allowing me to stay on track with Saturday's six-to-eight miler while also maintaining my delicate balance of training, work, and motherhood. The morning and early afternoon were pretty hectic--the fam and I did the one-mile family walk for the local Race for the Cure and then went on to spend a couple of hours at the zoo--so my legs were already aching as I changed into running clothes, taped my knees, and updated my iPod. But hey, you take the time when you have the time, and it was a beautiful day, and I was itching to see how much distance I could cover after being out of practice for so long.

That distance was seven and a half miles. But at this point you probably know that.

Anyway, it was a great run. Difficult sometimes, in that I experienced a few sharp pains on the outside of my right knee (the more troublesome of the two), but slowing from a jog to a walk gave me the relief I needed to push on. I took several walking breaks overall but still managed to finish in an hour and thirty-five minutes--an average pace of twelve and a half minutes per mile. Not record-breaking, by any means, but a respectable pace for a first-timer, according to my PT.

Speaking of physical therapy, yesterday was my last session. Keith (what, you aren't on a first-name basis with your PT?) had me run a mile on the treadmill to confirm my progress, and I finished in just under twelve minutes with a few short twinges in my knee and calves but no real pain. I should be fine for the Mini, he said, so long as I continue to listen to my body and walk/rest as needed. Katy and I are scheduled to attempt a ten-miler this Saturday, my first and only double-digit run before race day. Keith has instructed me to prepare for this long run the same way I would for the Mini, probably because when he asked me what I planned to eat before and during the race, I raised my eyebrows at him and tilted my head as if he had just spoken French. There's plenty of time to figure all that out! I said. We are weeks away!

That's when he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. Apparently, the time is now.

(I figured it wasn't worth mentioning that I don't have my race outfit yet. Didn't want to give the poor guy a heart attack.)

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It feels so good to finally be on track again, and except for the loss in mileage, the break doesn't seem to have done any major damage to my training. It feels so good, in fact, that last night I registered for the Rock 'n Roll Chicago Half Marathon taking place on August 1. I almost wet my pants a little bit when turning over my credit card information (races sure are expensive when they aren't comped by work!), but it seems like a logical next step for after the Mini. Having one half under my belt will allow me to prepare for Chicago with more concrete knowledge of what I am capable of, timing-wise, and maintain a more reasonable approach to training. Plus, that whole series looks like so much fun, and it's in my hometown, and the course runs along part of Lake Michigan. Why the hell not, right?

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Let's see, what else can I tell you? I'm feeling especially wordy today, as at the time of this writing my coworkers are off to lunch and I'm parked at my desk with a turkey sandwich and absolutely no motivation to eat it.

Those of you not reading this entry through a feed reader will notice I updated my blog banner. It only took two years? Aren't you proud of me? It's not the most eye-catching design in the world, and when I first published it, it took me two hours before I realized I had forgotten to include my blog name, but it features the people most important to me and a cool running quote from one of the most famous ultramarathoners in the world, and I cleaned up the awkard contractions in my title, and overall it just seems like a better representation of who I am right now. Luke has been charged with designing a banner that's a little more creative (see the fun-looking pirate ship featured on HIS blog? All Luke, baby), but he's had no time, and suddenly I just couldn't wait a second longer. You are welcome.

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Two days ago I did something insane and requested information from a nearby university about graduate school. School! Again! WTF? The whole rationale for getting my master's degree right out of college was so that I could focus on the demands of school without the distractions of a family. Now I have an M.A. from a reputable institution, along with a good job working for a great company in a fast-moving field. Mission accomplished, right? Plus there are two itty-bitty children who can't get enough of me as it is and a husband who has dreams and goals of his own he would like to pursue someday, thank you very much, and a running hobby that will have me going after my first marathon before I turn 35, a hobby with the potential to be just as time-consuming as school. Hell, with all the time I would spend researching and studying, I could be learning how to cook something for my family that doesn't involve bread or a microwave.

But...I don't know. For Christmas last year my brother's family gifted me a year-long subscription to Runner's World, and after my first issue I was already salivating at the mouth over the idea of writing for such a neat publication. Reading Kara Goucher's profile in the March issue only added fuel to the fire, so that by April I was asking myself some pretty serious career questions. If I really am going to be the primary breadwinner for my family, the last thing I want to model for my kids is that you can't find joy in your work. Not that I don't like what I do now. It's interesting, challenging, the company I work for couldn't be more family-friendly if they tried, and the people I work with are phenomenal. It's hard to imagine ever wanting to be in a different place. Then again, I'm only 30, and while my education and experience are pretty well matched with my current responsibilities, in order for me to advance to the next level professionally, I need more training. MBA, communications degree, accreditation in public relations, something a little more business-driven than what I took from my creative writing and grammar classes. Which would be fine, if any of those options appealed to me at all.

So, what do I want to do?

My dream job is writing beautiful stories about interesting people, trends, and events; stories that take months of research and investigative reporting and careful editing to convey something important about the human condition. The Kara Goucher profile is a good example of that. I believe I am certainly capable of that. But I haven't achieved it just yet.

Enter more school, in a program specifically grounded in the nitty-gritty aspects of journalistic, magazine-style writing. Like, say, an M.A. in journalism. And the best time to enroll would be when you work for an employer that would fit the majority of the bill.

Like, say, mine.

No decisions have been made yet; all I did was drop an e-mail to the graduate school office asking for information. But the wheels in my brain are definitely turning.

(Luke is thrilled, I'm sure.)

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I'm traveling to Long Beach, New York for a two-day sales meeting this week. My blog will turn six next week. My sister Ryan will be visiting from Germany in May, I've got two work trips in June, and Luke and I will see U2 in Chi-town in July. Samantha is having a baby, her second, in September, the same month I will walk down the aisle as a bridesmaid in my friend Gina's wedding and spend four days in Minneapolis for a conference. The kids are getting older and more easily transportable, as evidenced by our recent weekend activities and travel plans for summer--water parks, state parks, beaches, and museums. Our house is slowly starting to come together with a replaced kitchen faucet here, a dining room curtain rod there, and goals to repaint our kitchen. We're getting ready to celebrate four years of marriage in between potty-training Kara (half-heartedly) and weaning Nathan off his morning bottle, the last of the bottles to go. We are discussing family size and coming to an arrangement I think I can live with.

In other words, we are throwing ourselves into life. And it's pretty damn nice.

Screw perspective.

I want to run the Mini.

This revelation came to me last Wednesday during a ninety-minute consultation with a physical therapist, who diagnosed my knee problems as patellofemoral pain syndrome resulting from overtraining (too much speed, not enough rest) and switching into a shoe with too much pronation (mid-training, bad Frema!), which threw off my biomechanics and brought my kneecaps out of alignment. So, a little more complicated than just inflammation.

I went into my PT appointment with the same C'est la vie attitude I wrote about last time: There will be plenty more races in the future, missing this one won't be the end of the world, no use pushing myself to achieve a potentially unreachable goal. I was patting myself on the back for being so zen-like and reasonable and not assigning more value to the Mini than it actually deserved.

Then I learned that my physical therapist was a runner. And a parent. Who was also training for the Mini.

Being in front of somebody who knows where I'm coming from on a primal level made it almost therapeutic to talk about my struggles and challenges with training--balancing runs with work and home life, playing catch-up when building mileage defers to marketing deadlines and sick children--that it also reignited my passion. Somewhere between the flexibility tests, strengthening exercises, and random shop talk, I knew that I wanted to see this thing through. Of course I do. It's one of my biggest personal goals for 2010. I've worked so hard already, and in the hands of a healthcare professional more appropriately trained to help me with my problems, I could sense it was reachable. After all, the official goal has always been to simply complete the race. How I accomplish that (run-walk combo? baby-crawl to the finish line?) is up to hard work and fate.

Luckily, after a couple of visits and reviewing my progress, my PT agreed with me.

My first set of instructions were to tape both knees during the day to alleviate discomfort, do some exercises at home to build strength, and bike when possible until I could walk without pain (I think I did that once; cycling is boring at the gym). Once I could walk without pain, then it was time to run. SLOW running, he warned, since overexertion is one of the main reasons I got hurt in the first place, and short distances (no more than three miles), with plenty of walking breaks as necessary (another thing I was called to the carpet for--running through pain). I also have strict orders not to schedule my runs back-to-back; there has to be at least one rest day in between.

In the last week and a half I have been to three PT appointments and seen tremendous improvement. The gazillion exercises are annoying to keep track of, and I'm still not good at sticking to a running schedule, but pain is rare these days, with the primary sources being driving (bent knees in a fixed position) or standing in one place for long periods of time.

Because I've been feeling so much better, I broke the tape rule on Tuesday night when a hellish evening with the kids drove me out the front door the minute bedtime was done, because by then it was already dark and I didn't want to wait one second longer than necessary to hit the road, let alone the five to seven minutes it would have taken for me to properly apply the tape. The during part was okay--three miles, handful of walking breaks, 11.5-minute pace (if that, no Garmin to measure my stride)--but by the time I was sitting on my couch to catch the latest episode of LOST (fellow Losties: !), it felt like "shock waves" were running from my knees straight to my toes. I don't know how else to describe it except that it wasn't painful and 20 minutes of ice and elevation fixed the problem completely.

Needless to say I'll be wearing the tape for my next run.

That run should have happened last night, but even with this abbreviated schedule, training is getting tricky to coordinate. For example, on Monday Keith and I agreed that I would do short runs of three to four miles on Tuesday and Thursday and one long run of six to eight miles on Saturday. Reasonable mileage, adequate rest. Perfect, except on Thursday I came home late from work and Luke and the kids had been cooped up in the house all day and the weather was so gorgeous that we went for an after-dinner walk, which threw off bedtime by almost an hour, which threw off the rest of the night. Now I have to get my run in today and move my long run to Sunday, but that's going to throw off next week because I'm out two days for a sales meeting and there's a 5K walk we're doing for work and...

You see how I got into trouble, yes?

It would be so much easier if I didn't like running. It's time-consuming, unpredictable, hard. It pulls me away from my family, challenges my comfort zone (cross-training with free weights, hold me), and drives me to salivate over expensive gear. It seduces me into setting goals I might have no business contemplating--a marathon, maybe even an ultra-marathan, good Lord, am I crazy? I don't even know how many miles make up an ultra-marathon.

But for the peace of mind I experience while trotting along my trail, for the sense of accomplishment I feel when I hit my goal mileage, for the healthy example I'm setting for my children, is it ever worth it.

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Speaking of family, it's been a while since I posted any mugs of the Frema-Useless Clutter clan. Here we are, in the flesh.

My two favorite boys, with Nathan looking so very much like his daddy.

 

Kara enjoying tulips at the Indianapolis Gardens.

 

Nathan showing off his mad utensil skillz.

 

Are these kids shedding their baby skins or what? I swear they were babies, just yesterday. 

To Mini or Not to Mini?

That is the question, as it's been two weeks since my last run due to intermittent pain in my knees that will not go away, even with medication.

The problems started last month sometime after my weekend mileage went beyond the seven-mile mark. While soreness in my knees and ankles isn't uncommon for me after a long run, it usually resides after two or three days and I can continue with training as scheduled. But at one point it just...stopped going away. Not frequent enough or severe enough to interfere with my day to day, but even after a self-imposed running break, the occasional ibuprofen, and applying ice packs to both knees every night before bed for almost a week, the alternating feelings of pressure, tightness, and discomfort still persisted, so last Friday I finally caved and paid a visit to my primary care physician. She diagnosed the problem as fluid in my knees/inflammation due to overuse and recommended naproxen along with a continued break from running for seven to ten days to get me back on my feet. Well, it's been 17 days since my last run, and today is my tenth day on the naproxen, and nothing has improved; if anything, the pain is more noticeable than ever (though still not continuous). I've already scheduled a follow-up with my doctor to discuss next steps, which will most likely involve a referral to a physical therapist for a more thorough work-up.

All of this non-running just four weeks before the Mini Marathon begs the question: have I totally screwed my chances of participating in this race? Because even if I'm cleared to run in the next few days, I'm not sure that the training I do from here on out can make up for such a lengthy hiatus. Then again, maybe it's just a matter of readjusting my goals. As in, maybe running all thirteen miles is no longer realistic, but with frequent walking breaks, I could still complete the race without further injury.

Running this half-marathon has meant so much to me recently that I feel like I should be more disappointed about potentially missing it, but honestly, it's not the crushing blow I once imagined it to be. Competition or not, the time I spent training brought me back to my pre-pregnancy weight and provided a more structured approach to exercise and fitness. Plus, I want to be a runner for the long haul, not just for this race, and there are a bazillion other halfs I can do once my body is fully ready. No need to mope over this one.

In fact, in hindsight, I wonder if I had any business attempting this race at all, being such a new runner. Most of what I've read has suggested logging 20 to 25 miles a week before committing to such an ambitious undertaking as a half, and at the time I registered, I was barely in the double digits (if that). Not to mention that finding the time to train has been hard, really hard, which is partly the reason I got injured in the first place--constantly falling off-schedule, then scrambling to make up for it by sacrificing my rest days. Not the smartest way to cultivate a life-long habit or preserve any level of motivation.

So, I will see the doctor again, and I will follow her orders, and I will do what I can to get myself completely healed and back on track. But I will also gaze longingly at the runners I spot on the trail as the weather climbs into the seventies. This is my time. This is my sport. And I will get back to it.

Onward, again

It happened again. For the second time in my bloggy-blog history, I've let what was supposed to be a quick, fun way to keep tabs on my life silence me from addressing other things. 

Current case in point: My monthly write-ups for the kids. They were never meant to be serious literary fanfare, but somewhere along the way they actually became important to me, lessening my guilt over half-filled and untouched baby books because at least the information was still being recorded. And if I were still posting several times a week like I did for Parents, absolutely I would continue to write them. But with increased work responsibilities including more travel, child rearing, half-marathon training, and random household tasks slowly threatening to overtake me on a daily basis, if I'm going to maintain any kind of regular presence here, it has to be without the pressures associated with have-tos or shoulds. So, effective immediately, I'm exnaying the updates and will instead incorporate those tidbits into my regular posts, which I should have been doing in the first place. In the event I do have specific stories to share about the kids, I'll file them under their individual names for easy searching.

Alrighty, then! *Claps hands* Moving on.

Yesterday marked week five of my training for the Indy 500 Mini-Marathon, and if the athletic powers that be were to assign me a grade, it would probably fall somewhere around a C. On the positive side, I'm faithfully running three to four times a week as dictated by my training schedule, which is pretty much a 16-week version of Hal Higdon's half-marathon novice plan combined with the long runs from Katy's plan, which was in turn inspired by Men's Health. I hit my tempo runs on Tuesdays, strength train on Thursdays (mostly), and long run my ass off over the weekend. In return, I've dropped back to my pre-pregnancy weight (range) (damn you, Dairy Queen and your close proximity), and the hollow of my throat no longer burns near the end of a run. In fact, the bulk of my injuries are mostly confined to my knees and ankles, with the occasional side stitch when I start out too fast and the black toenail on my left foot slowly rising to the surface. I've been trying to stay a little ahead of my endurance schedule, so right now my top mileage is 6.5 for a single run instead of five, and once I hit six, I knew, just knew, with every euphoric bone in my body, that I could go the distance in May. Hurrah fitness!

On the negative side, I have not embraced training with my whole heart. I'm constantly switching my days around so there's little consistency to my workouts. I usually skip Monday with the exception of one Level Two shred and a poor attempt at yoga that had me turning off the video twenty minutes in to catch up on All My Children. Eating habits are still spotty. I'm still climbing into bed far too late, thus sabotaging my ability to spring from the covers at five. I have days where I push my morning workout to the evening and then scrap it altogether because I'm just too tired. I have ended runs early.

There is much room to grow. And while it's easy to visualize logging extra miles, it's harder to imagine reaching a speed that will propel me beyond just average. But it's fun, and I love it, and it's mine, mine, mine.

Watching "Pa" break in his new snowplow over the New Year's holiday.

Kara and Nathan are growing fast as weeds these days. They run around the downstairs together, gathering at their kitchen set to make coffee and graze on plastic utensils, respectively. They continue their love of reading and are going ape over a set of non-fiction books we ordered written by one of our favorite children's authors. Kara is chattering up a storm, parroting random phrases and creating even more of her own. The list includes:

"Daddy helping you?" (when she wants Luke's assistance)
"Oh, don't worry, I'll get it!" (upon learning there were cupcakes for dessert)
"Momma coming soon?" (Grab knife, insert into heart)
"You hungry, baby?"
"Nathan, play with this!"
"I've got you, Momma!"

She also pronounces Nathan’s name correctly and even knows the terminology for natural gas. One night after dinner, it was just Kara and me at the table, and after hearing the unmistakable sound of broken wind, I smiled and asked knowingly, "What was that?"

"Fart!" she replied.

In regards to television, she now splits her love between Max and Ruby and Dora the Explorer. She's also sweet on Dora's cousin, Diego, which appeals to Luke's and my appreciation for nature, so we'll give that a go, too. (We are unanimous in our complete disdain for Hey, Gabba, Gabba!)

Afternoon naps aren't a given anymore, but her cheerful mood is no longer dependent on them. She loves watching family videos on the desktop and riding on Daddy's back and pulling Nathan into well-meaning neck hugs and holding marathon conversations among her Little People villagers. She never sleeps without her bunny, baby dolls, or teddy bear - three, sometimes four stuffed companions gathered to her chest as I cover her with a blanket at the end of a long day, on the nights when it's my turn to tuck her in. Bedtime involves bath, books, and a series of kisses blown to each other before I turn out the light. My baby is gone for good, it seems, and yet, she'll never be lost to me.

Sampling at the stove.

Nathan, on the other hand, is still so very much a baby in my eyes, so tiny when compared to his sister at the same age, even though he's more than twenty pounds with six teeth in his mouth and walking and jibber-jabbing with the best of them. Can you blame me? He's still wearing a respectable amount of 12-month clothing and can still be rocked to sleep at night in a cradle hold. DON'T YOU TAKE AWAY MY BABY.

He is growing up to be such a fun little person, though, delighting in snow and pictures of puppies and books about turtles and chicks. His laugh still mimics a hyena, and he still screams bloody murder during diaper transactions on the changing table (as if we hadn't been doing this several times a day EVERY DAY SINCE HE WAS BORN) and still uses a pacifier at bedtime. He is fighting naps with a passion and often skips the one in the afternoon. He is extremely picky when it comes to reading choices and will reject book after book at bedtime with a shake of his head and a turn of his body and a steady stream of no-no-no-nos until just the right one is chosen. He'll sleep with his lion or his puppy but isn't as attached to them as Kara is to her night time crew. He still has only a mild interest in his Taggies blanket. He does not fall asleep in the car, does not want you to move him off the couch, does not appreciate standing on his feet when he would rather be in your arms. He rarely sits still, but so long as he gets to do his own baby thing, he rarely makes a fuss, and he wears a smile on his face constantly, which (almost) makes up for the emotional turbulence.

 

Chillaxing in a transporation device not intended for actual living beings. 

The first quarter of the year is coming to an end, and I find myself restless thinking about all Luke and I want to do this year - build our emergency fund, decorate our house, take some vacations - in addition to pondering new paths for the future. I'm not sure what exactly will cure this sense of dormancy. A new job? New house? New baby (Luke shakes head vehemently)? New state? All of these (eventually)? None of these? All I talked about in 2009 was owning the sense of calm that would be sure to blanket 2010, nothing changing, just building on what we have, and here I am, two months in, already searching for the next big thing. Silly humans, never satisfied. Oh, well. At least I'm grateful.

 

That's the Jingle Bell Run

When I checked the weather last Friday night and learned Saturday's high would be a respectable 41 degrees, I breathed a sigh of relief. I've run outside in the high to mid-thirties but never in below-freezing temperatures. Seeing as I'm still relying on baggy maternity pants and ratty cotton tee-shirts for training, my wardrobe isn't exactly prepared to handle frostbite-inducing conditions.

So of course I woke up that morning to a whopping 19 degrees. Oh, well. At least it was sunny.

What to say about my second 5K? Luke, Katy, and I participated in the Jingle Bell 5K Run/Walk for Arthritis, and it was awesome. There were close to two thousand people poised at the start line, most of us donning a Santa hat, reindeer antlers, or similar holiday gear. One of my coworkers dressed up as an elf, and we even saw a gal sporting a Christmas tree bodysuit. 'Tis the season!

This 5K was a big deal for the Frema-Useless Clutter household; I was hoping to improve my time from September's Corporate Challenge event, and Luke was marking his official reintroduction to running in general. He used to do it faithfully in college and slowly let it drop off once he graduated, but my company's support of local racing events by paying registration fees for employees and a plus-one had inspired him to pick it up again. This one wasn't originally part of our 2009 line-up, but work will sponsor any race as long as at least five employees are willing to sign up; I learned about the race through a local race event manager, and it only took a week to get 17 coworkers on board. I thought it would have been harder, convincing people to get outside on a frigid December day, but either we're all super ambitious or very, very stupid.

So anyway, Luke and I signed up, and Katy signed up, and as you would expect, it was extremely cold. I was especially thankful for my Santa hat and its ability to provide some much-needed head warmth.

 

Freezing my ass off in the "10-Minute Mile" group.

The race itself was awesome. I had no problems ditching my iPod to chat it up with Luke and Katy, and the time on the course went by pretty quickly. However, my fears about not training hard enough on my trail runs came to life around mile two, at which point Katy sprinted ahead and my legs took on the weight of frozen cement. Luke was keeping my pace and graciously gave me permission to catch up to her. "It's okay, I'll be fine," he assured me, but I just shook my head and willed my feet to keep moving. I couldn't have gone faster even if I wanted to. 

Out of the three of us, I was the last to cross the finish line, gloves off, fleece around my waist, and Santa hat in hand, physically drained but focused on my husband, pushing my body to catch up to him.

At first I was disappointed in myself--I thought that after consistently running a minimum of three miles at least twice a week, I should have been able to keep a faster pace or, at the very least, maintain the pace that I did without feeling like my lungs were going to explode. Luckily, though, Luke had the good sense to glance at the digital clock overhead as he finished, and when he reported a time under 33 minutes my spirits lifted immediately. We may have separated near the end, but he'd stayed in my line of sight the whole time. I couldn't have been more than 30 seconds behind him.

Thankfully, I was right. Official times were posted that afternoon, and despite my less than graceful performance, I shaved a good three minutes off my September time, finishing 33:05:02, and I am damn proud of it. (For more stats, check out my new Races page, where I plan to keep a complete record of my racing history.)

A snapshot of our course courtesy of Luke's cell phone.

Training for the Mini-Marathon starts next month, and there's still a lot to do. I need to pick a training program and find the best training log for measuring my progress. I want some better work-out gear. I would love to get a watch that tracks distance and counts laps. I need to plan how and when and how my gym training is going to take place. Thankfully, I've got few more weeks to iron these details out, so until then, I will continue to research my options. 

I'll also remain grateful for Luke's support and involvement. Running has turned out to be a fun way to feed the non-parenting aspect of our relationship as we help each other clock as much training time as our schedules allow, look for races to run, and share stories about thoughts and dreams born on the trail. Sometimes it's hard to justify spending time on individual hobbies once the kids are in bed because that's the only time we have during the week to be with each other, so we need activities like this that kill several birds with one stone, activities that foster alone time and address personal health and keep our marriage healthy, too. It's a tall order, but Luke is 6'4". I like tall.

 

Alternate route

Today I'm in Tampa to present at a quarterly sales meeting, but since the meeting isn't until tomorrow morning, my biggest accomplishments have included eating a blueberry muffin and successfully boarding my flight. Several of us are meeting for dinner tonight, and since I had several hours to kill between checking in and heading out, I marched off to the fitness room to give treadmill running a try.

In the beginning, I put off investigating indoor training opportunities for as long as I could, determined to start my running career by taking advantage of our beautiful trail system instead of waiting in line for a machine, but now the temperature is dropping and it's getting dark earlier AND we had our first snowfall on Monday, and while I've built my average base to a respectable three miles, I'm only getting out a couple of times a week; come January I'll be doing a combination of running and cross-training twice that often, and Lord knows I have enough excuses for putting off exercise without adding inclement weather to the mix. Time to find plan B.

So yesterday I signed up for a free gym membership through work, even though I dreaded the idea of running inside among strangers. On the trail, I pass runners all the time, but they're all too busy focusing on the path ahead to mentally critique my form. The stationary aspect of treadmill running shines a bright light on everyone's (read: MY) flaws, increasing the chances for raised eyebrows and snickering behind my back. Plus, how can I keep my motivation up if I have to run mile after mile without actually getting anywhere? But since I live in the Midwest,I have to make this work for at least seventy percent of my training in the winter months, whether I like it or not. At least, that's what I told myself before lacing up my shoes this afternoon.

Luckily, I LOVED it.

First of all, it helped that for my virgin indoor run, I was the only person in the room, so I could fiddle around with the program settings all I wanted without fear of embarrassment; good thing, too, because fifteen minutes in I realized I'd been walking the whole time, waiting for the machine to kick it up a notch based on the program I'd chosen.  Then I accidentally hit the emergency stop button and had to start all over again. In the end, though, I think I covered more ground in less time than usual because I could clearly see the instances where my pace was too slow when measured against 5K standards (ten-minute miles are the ideal minimum) and increase my speed accordingly. After today, I'm now thinking I've been slacking off a bit in my trail runs, swappng speed for distance, to the point that I'm worried about even being able to match the time of my very first race back in September. We'll find out soon enough on Saturday, when Luke, Katy, and I will take part in the Jingle Bell 5K Run/Walk for Arthritis in downtown Indianapolis.

Have I mentioned before how much I enjoy running? Because I so do. And today, as my feet pounded on the rotating rubber carpet of the treadmill, I imagined getting up at five in the morning to make the 15-minute drive to the gym, mixing up trail runs with stationary ones, taking classes for strength-training and endurance, and overall just DOING what I need to be doing to complete this half-marathon in one piece. Then suddenly, just like that, I could visualize it, could see myself crossing the finish line in May. It's no longer the impossible dream I thought it would be. I can do this.

I can do this.

Scrambled, grounded

This past Saturday I thought it would be a neat idea to run through five miles' worth of trails, ravines, and puddles in the woods.

On second thought, "run" probably isn't the best verb to describe my experience. When I first signed up to do the Outback Scramble at Eagle Creek Park back in October, I pictured jogging on an easy to moderately difficult trail while admiring the splendid reds and oranges of the changing leaves, smiling at chipmunks as they crossed my path, and bobbing along to Miley Cyrus on my iPod as I slowly but steadily made my way to the finish line. I ran two to three times a week after work and eventually hit four miles in preparation for the event to up my chances of completing the course, if not score an impressive finish. My company paid the registration fees for employees and a plus one for each of us, so I invited Katy of Must Be Motherhood--my Mini-Marathon training partner in crime (MMTPIC?)--to be my guest, and since Katy is a more seasoned runner than I am, I assumed the Scramble would be a fun way to gauge how we gelled together, pace-wise. Sure, the ads warned we'd get wet and dirty, but duh, we were running in the woods; I could handle some raw Mother Nature. I threw on my crappy maternity lounge pants, stashed a couple of towels in the car, and figured I was good to go. Having one 5K under my belt helped to soothe my fears about performance so much that my sole focus was making sure I arrived on-site in enough time to pick up my tee-shirt.

It wasn't until I found the entrance and spotted a sign that read "Are you sure you want to do this?!" that I started questioning my ability to, well, do this.

By the time I parked my car, encountering a helpful "Last chance to turn around!" sign just before pulling into a space on the grass, you could say I was a bit nervous.

I found Katy a couple of minutes later. We didn't know what we were in for but were optimistic nonetheless.

The calm before the storm.

Even talking with several experienced Scramblers and learning we'd made a crucial mistake in neglecting to bring gloves wasn't enough to faze us. "We can finish this in an hour, right?" I said to Katy as we took our place within the crowd. "Five miles at ten minutes a mile should have us done in about an hour."

"I hope so," she said.

You're smart people. I think you know where this is going.

Roughly an hour and twenty-five minutes later, we crossed the finish line--mud caked into the cracks of our hands, gym shoes soaked to the bone (at least mine were), and aches in muscles I didn't even know I had. Meanwhile, the awards ceremony was more than halfway through; I later learned that another member of my department finished the race in 45 minutes, arguably leaving us with a tiny window for improvement next year. Teeny-tiny. Positively miniscule, or whatever.

As you have no doubt already guessed, this was more than just a casual jaunt through the woods. In total, I would guess we only ran about a mile of the entire course; the rest of the time we were parting through trees, sliding down ravines, hiking up the opposite side, and generally praying to God for that branch not to break from the stress of our body weight or our toes not to lose their fragile grip on the various footholds barely visible beneath the earth. We dashed over puddles and balanced on tree stumps. We pulled up on bungee ropes and slid in the mud. And the kicker is that Katy and I weren't even all that slow; we never collapsed in a heap on the grass or took a sitting break or even stopped for very long to catch our breath. It's that the people in front of us wearing their afro wigs and mismatched pajama bottoms combing the grounds for rubber snakes and party hats just to shave a minute off their time were batshit insane.

 

My shoes will never be the same, will they? Sob.

Despite the face that my left arm and both thighs still ache from climbing around like a jungle cat, I would do it again in a second. I had a great time talking with Katy, who I first met at a local blogger thingy at Rock Bottom way back in March 2008, not even a full week after returning to work from my maternity leave with Kara, unfamiliar with the role of working mother and missing my baby something fierce. I felt supremely out of my element that night, to say the least, and quickly declined an invitation to bowl after dinner so I could rush home and cry into Kara's shoulder, clutching her with all the strength inside me after being separated for just two hours. Afterwards, I tried to keep up with everyone's blogs, anxious to make friends in a city that after three years still felt so foreign to me, but I was barely able to stay connected to the bloggers I knew while keeping my own site fresh and making sense of my routine. Failing on all three accounts, I quickly lost touch with everyone, and friendships were formed without me.

You'd think that living in the same city would have me at least bumping into someone at the grocery store, but almost a year and a half would pass before I saw Casey and Emily again, at BlogHer this past summer, once again during an emotional low point as Luke and I had a terrible time managing the kids and I was reeling from the loss of my Parents job, in addition to seriously examining the role that I wanted blogging to play in my life. I wanted to be approachable and happy, I hated being on the verge of tears in my sweat pants at 8:30 p.m. while they were dressed to the nines en route to a party, but I didn't have the strength to be anything else; those three minutes I spent avoiding eye contact in the elevator with a tight-lipped smile frozen on my face were the most awkward of my trip. I can only imagine what they thought of me, if they thought anything at all.

It's only now that Kara and Nathan are older and I'm feeling more confident in my ability to work and parent in tandem that I'm finally ready to reach out, only I didn't have to because Katy did it first by suggesting we train for the Mini together. In addition to enjoying the easy conversation, it felt good to know that at least one mom from that night would get a chance to see the real me feeling comfortable in my own skin. Plus, it was awesome to push my body in ways I've never used it before, on a beautiful day, with the sun shining brightly and Indianapolis fall weather at its best.

Not a bad way to earn my second number.

   

Fireside chat, Internet-style

I think my children are trying to kill me.

For the entire month of October, it seemed, Luke and I were staring into the pit of hell. We slept in couple-hour patches as Kara and Nathan found various reasons to cry their bloody heads off in the middle of the night. Kara was sick three times, the most recent ailment rearing its ugly head over Halloween weekend in the middle of hosting Nathan's baptism. It was especially scary because her highest temperature clocked in over 105 degrees, and she felt so hot I swear I could have fried an egg on her forehead. We debated taking her to an urgent care center or ER but decided the drawbacks of being stuck in a waiting room with the possibility of receiving zero guidance in terms of treatment outweighed any possible benefit. Instead, we made an appointment with our pediatrician for Monday afternoon, where I was privy to the joyous experience of observing my toddler daughter's catheterization to make sure her recurring fever wasn't a symptom of a raging bladder infection. Her culture came back negative for a UTI, so apparently it was just another virus doing a number on her immume system.

So that's (mostly) why I've been MIA 'round these parts, what with the crying from all four of us and no sleep and taking off work to keep a cold washcloth on her face while ingesting hours of Max and Ruby episodes with the occasional Little Bear. As a result, there's a week and a half of unwatched All My Children episodes on the DVR and two layers of dust on this here blog. The hodge podge of images in this entry were uploaded and saved in draft form more than two weeks ago, with the intention of publishing them shortly after my last post. This means you're getting up-to-date content married with outdated photography, which was slightly outdated to begin with. But you're a go-with-the-flow type bunch. You can handle it.

 

Kara, Nathan, and me in the dolphin dome at the Indianapolis Zoo in September. Ah, memories of healthier days.

Let's transition from talk of sick children to my biggest piece of news, an idea that has consumed the majority of my non-parenting-related thoughts almost the entire time I've been away. You know that whole "half-marathon next fall" plan I came up with after my first 5K? Deliberately shelving it until next October so I would have plenty of time to train without overexerting myself? Yeah, well, I've since decided that moderation is for the birds. Not only have I upgraded my registration in the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon from a 5K to the real deal, I also signed up for all three training races that take place beforehand--a 5K in February, 10K in March, and 15K in April--as tangible motivators along the path to race day, set for Saturday, May 8, 2010. According to the Web site, "The Mini-Marathon is the largest half-marathon in the U.S., and overall, the fifth largest running event in America. The 2009 event sold out on December 26, 2008."

And I'm going to be part of it.

When I first learned about the Mini through work (God bless my employer for covering registration fees to such things), I was perfectly happy with running the 5K and absolutely terrified of committing to anything more strenuous than that. I'm new to running and swamped with responsibilities at home and still spotty when it comes to hitting the pavement on a regular basis. Of course I needed more time, right? Surely there were more appropriate endeavors to consider before taking on a lofty pipe dream. Not to mention that it's already November and the race is in the spring and how in the world am I going to train when the sun sets by five and there's snow and ice beneath my feet? It's not like I have a treadmill at home or free time to hit the gym.

So I went for the 5K, and encouraged Luke to do it, too, and that was that. End of story.

Luke and the kids in front of the elephants, Kara doing her best imitation of a stageshow diva.

Except that it wasn't the end. Suddenly I couldn't go a day without learning about somebody finishing their first half-marathon or training for that half-marathon or taking on a half-marathon in New Orleans four months from now or an entire group training for the race together. Marry that with the knowledge that a local blogger was willing to run the race with me, and my coffin was sealed. Suddenly I went from "Oh, HELL, no," to "Why the hell not?"

I've got some programs to review and some races to run before the end of the year, and in January I'll start training hardcore. I have no goals in regards to performance or rank or how much to run and how much to walk, and I still don't know where I'm going to find all this time to train. All I know is that I want to do this. So I will.

These years with young children and modest earnings are full of joy but also limitations. Luke and I won't be tackling an overseas trip anytime soon. We have at least five years before we can think about moving into a nicer house or investing in a better family car, and I don't have the intellectual gumption to focus on learning another language or picking up another degree, despite their attractiveness on my dream list. But completing a half-marathon? That's attainable now. I can run on the trail in my neighborhood or on the streets within my subdivision. I can take advantage of the free gym membership I'm offered at work and come up with a schedule to get myself there. I can train in ratty old tee-shirts and pants or I can pick up some gear from Target. I can change my eating habits. I can cross-train at home with The 30 Day Shred and other videos. I may not win this race, but I can definitely finish it. Is there a better way to celebrate your thirtieth year on Earth?

 

Nathan and I at the White River Gardens, adjacent to the zoo. He's excited about the race, too.

Last week, for the first time since before Kara was born, I clocked in below 140 pounds on the scale. This monumental achievement happened mostly by accident--when Kara got sick this last time I was too busy freaking out to remember to eat three meals a day--so when I weighed myself last Monday and the second number held steady at three, I was like, "Huh. Whadda know," and didn't think much of it. I figured it wouldn't last. Eating and running well enough to stay below 143 pounds is easy; it's pushing myself over the hump to shed another eight to ten pounds that seems impossible. But as of this morning I weighed in at 139.2, so maybe it's not a fluke. My current pair of jeans--size-fourteen, Old Navy jeans that were originally purchased after Kara was born, post-partum transitional jeans that I couldn't button without gasping out loud yet still had to wear to have lunch with my boss the week before I went back to work in March--are distastefully too big. I can put them on and take them off without undoing the button while the butt cheeks sag and reveal the waistband of my underwear when I bend over, so maybe it's not a fluke. There is still Halloween candy in my house a full week after Halloween.

So maybe, just maybe, it's not a fluke after all.

 

Luke and Kara at White River Gardens, admiring some lily pads.

One of my big projects for work last week was to itemize my budget for 2010, and one of the most notable changes from last year is the increased focus on travel. The second half of 2009 has me reaching into different sales territories for field visits and presentations, and that will continue next year, in addition to attending some conferences for my industry and for professional development purposes. Ninety-nine percent of them will be short overnights not requiring even a full day away from home, and I actually enjoy getting out into the field and learning more about what we do, not to mention being able to indulge in a book for hours at a time while I'm waiting at the airport/in flight/passing time at my hotel. Still, though, the thought of missing bedtime even one night a month (roughly) makes me a little sad. I went to Chicago this weekend with Nathan to visit with my sister Ryan, who was in from Germany, while Luke stayed home with Kara since she was so recently sick and also not sleeping well. And even though I had a blast with my family and enjoyed the extra one-on-one with my son, who turned out to be quite the easy travel companion, part of me felt so off because Luke and Kara weren't with us. I never realized how dependent my own personal balance is upon simply having the four of us together.

Kara and I looking for airplanes during one of our after-dinner walks.

That said, I think a key component of 2010 will be placing a stronger emphasis on Luke and I spending more time together as a couple outside of being Mom and Dad. A lack of family nearby and a very tight budget means we haven't solicited baby-sitters unless there's an evening work function I need to attend (awards dinner) or the occasional non-work-related event that doesn't allow for children (Billy Joel/Elton John concert in May, Tori Amos concert in August). And frankly, I am starting to feel the effects. I miss my husband. I want us to spend time together outside of watching Man vs. Food while we fold a load of towels in our pajamas. I want to go out with him wearing boot-cut jeans that fit my ass properly and a little eye shadow and talk over a nice steak and see a movie. Hell, at this point, I'll take sporty sneakers and soup and sandwiches at Panera. I just want us to have the occasional luxury of just paying attention to each other.

Of course, to make this happen, we need a baby-sitter we trust completely who won't charge us an arm and a leg to watch our children, and I still get weirded out at the idea of bringing a stranger into my house. However, the longer we go without spending any real quality time together, the closer I get to believing even that option isn't unthinkable. There are coworkers I know and trust who are willing to do this for us, but they live on the other side of town and, well, they're ADULTS, not twenty-year-olds looking to score extra money for gas or the junior prom. It's hard to muster up the courage to take them up on their generosity, as if they have nothing better to do than keep an eye on kids they aren't even related to. If only we had family nearby to hit up once and a while. If only we lived closer to where they are. But right now, we are here, and we need to embrace it, and I need to stop being afraid of what other people think and start doing whatever is necessity for my family to live a life full of color. And right now? That means finding a baby-sitter.

We have been making an effort to attend church more regularly, and my hope is to find someone there who takes to my kids instantly and is looking to sit at least one night a month. That's not so much to ask, is it? My marriage is worth at least that, right? (God, I'm looking at you. Hook a daughter up.)

Luke and the kids on the way to our walking trail.

There are so many posts brewing inside of me--a nine-month update for Nathan, Christmas shopping, ramblings about my house, more reflections on family planning and life with two children--but on my lunch hour I'm more inclined to click through my blogroll than hammer out a substantial thought track, and when I get home my top priority is to throw on my running clothes, stretch, and get out the door as soon as possible (and it still only happens twice a week!). Then it's bedtime and dishes and tallying receipts and comforting a child who is sick/teething/wet/poopy/determined to see that Luke and I sleep no more than five or six hours a night. I know it'll get easier, but I find myself growing impatient with the timeframe. Will I ever again blog with any sort of consistency, or will it always be feast or famine? Will the puzzle pieces ever just fall into place, or will I always have to work this hard to score any time with myself/my husband/my friends/hobbies, etc. etc.?

 

Don't ask this guy. He's one of them. 

5K Race Day, Part Two

Read part one here.

While flipping through Luke's (most likely outdated) copy of The Everything Running Book, I was informed that I should set three goals for my 5K: one that was easily attainable, one that was difficult but realistic, and one that was significantly more challenging--more of a stretch goal. So I followed instructions like a good little runner and set three goals.

1. Easily attainable: Finish the 5K

2. Difficult but realistic: Run the entire time; no walking breaks

3. Significantly more challenging: Finish the race in under 35 minutes

The rationale behind setting these goals was threefold. First, seeing as I'm young and in good health, I couldn't think of a single reasonable excuse (aside from injury, of course) for not staying on course and (eventually) crossing the finish line. Second, while many runners take walking breaks during races, I believed that for the amount of training I'd completed in the last seven weeks, I was sufficiently prepared to maintain some semblance of a jogger's pace the whole time. Which, in the interest of keeping it real, probably comprises the bulk of my running experience. Third, I remembered Linda's account of her first 5K and reading that she finished her race in 34 minutes (and some change), and if she could do it, why not me? Never mind that she frequents the gym and works with a personal trainer and recently completed her first triathlon. Forget that I never averaged less than twelve minutes a mile in my training sessions. I figured the adrenaline rush I'd get on race day would be enough to bridge the gap between my average and my goal. Plus, I am woman, hear me roar and all that.

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The front runners take off immediately, and the middle of the pack follows suit. It is only a few seconds later that my feet start moving while my eyes scan the crowd for signs of Luke and the kids, my left hand clutching my iPod Shuffle, my index finger still fumbling with the buttons to activate my playlist. More seconds pass as I strain to hear the opening bars of Grover Washington's "Just the Two of Us" over the mass of people pounding the pavement around me, but nothing. I begin to panic. What if the battery is dead? What if I'm resigned to run the full three miles with nary a diddy to be heard? I've run without music before, but it's been several weeks and I'm worried that I won't be able to pace myself without it. I turn the volume up and hit the back button to the last song on my Shuffle, wondering if maybe the song's first few notes are too soft to pick up with all this noise. Sure enough, Rusted Root's "Martyr" pours into my ear drums as I simultaneously breathe a sigh of relief. I skip back to Grover Washington and allow the calm of the music to filter through my body, warning my feet to start slowly, friends, slowly, so that we may finish strong.

We start in the middle of the street adjacent to the outdoor track-and-field complex belonging to one of the local universities, and the course involves running uphill, crossing a bridge, and weaving through several downtown blocks, normally bustling but peacefully quiet on this weekend Saturday morning. As we break off into groups, the stronger runners picking up speed and the novices falling behind, I say a prayer of thanks for the trail that runs behind our subdivision and continues through several area parks; if I had trained on a treadmill, I'm convinced that the steepness of the hill and the uneven distribution of cement on the road would do a number on my ankles.

It's surprisingly difficult not to sprint ahead with the best of the runners. Here it is, race day, and I'm doing it! I'm running! This is easy! But I heed the voice inside my head reminding me that we haven't even finished half a mile, that three miles will be the longest I've run in my whole life, ever, and my pace isn't anything to write home about just yet. So I do my best to focus on the music, time my breathing, and avoid paying too much attention to those who are passing me by. A woman pushing a baby in a jogging stroller comes from behind and continues on with her bad-ass, super-momma self. Steady, Frema, steady. I'm eating the dust of a mother-effing WALKER, for crying out loud. Pay them no mind, Frema. Move along. The Indigo Girls' "Least Complicated" is on now. In training, this is the point where I would pick up the pace, aiming to reach a mile before the end of the song in order to clock a twelve-minute average.

And what do you know. Here comes mile one.

I check the face of my cell phone for the time. 9:12 a.m.

We've crossed the bridge, and there's a big sign, clearly marked, with several volunteers cheering us on. Encouraged, I pick up speed and continue on my way; a couple of minutes later, the opening bars to Rusted Root's "Martyr," a song I love more for the beat than the lyrics, hits my iPod. And I keep running.

We're weaving through side streets, running next to parked cars and pedestrians fiddling with their keys. I briefly wonder if any of them are runners who dropped out, but I decide it would have taken too much effort and planning for them to park their vehicles this far away from the starting line on the off chance they chose not to finish. I pass a water station and grab a little paper cup, allowing myself two small gulps and swallowing them with my next couple of inhales. When walking 5Ks, I've tsk-tsked the runners who threw their cups onto the ground, like, Didn't your mother teach you better?, but faced with the choice myself, the idea of running with a crumpled piece of tree in my hand isn't so appealing, so I toss it to the curb (That's what volunteers are for, right?), apologize to my mother for the blatant disregard of good manners, and keep on running.

I can't stop looking around me to measure my progress against the rest of the group. When I first approached the bridge, I remember gasping a little when I saw that the front runners were directly across the way. Now they are nowhere in sight; the crowd behind me is small. Not too far behind them are the walkers. There are runners walking, too. But I keep on running, downhill now, back towards the track-and-field complex.

Here comes mile two. The volunteers are happy to see me. I smile and wave, check the time. 9:24 a.m.

I can do this.

The closer we get to the complex, the more excited I get. I'm not running very fast, still keeping to the light jogging pace that saw me through ninety-eight percent of my training. Liz Phair is on now, a song from her self-titled album, and adds a little spring to my step. There's a grandmotherly-type woman sitting on the curb before I reach the complex, a young girl sitting beside her, and they both clap and cheer as I pass them. I see runners ahead of me pouring through the entrance and think the end is near. A few steps later, though, I realize the course is not ushering us in. Instead, it continues past the complex for several more blocks before winding around and directing us back to campus. My legs are heavy now, and my mind is tired at the idea of running away from the gate only to go back. But I keep on running.

I see one of our corporate officers, a seasoned runner and long-time triathon enthusiast, securing a spot inside the complex. We lock eyes, smile, and wave. As I approach the cones that direct us to turn around, I find more of my coworkers; one ahead, a few behind. We're happy to see each other. We all keep running.

I'm running uphill again, and I've started searching again for Luke and the kids. I'm forcing myself not to slow down. I don't want to drag this out. I'm ready for this race to be over, but in this moment, I can't run any faster, and I can't walk now, not when I'm so close to achieving my goal.

But suddenly, amazingly, the gate is in front of me--surrounding me--behind me. I can see the finish line. As I sprint towards the huge digital clock fastened to the archway, I notice that we're in minute thirty-five. My boss and her husband are standing on the sidelines, and she's whooping it up for me, shouting "Go, Bree, go!" Rusted Root is on again deliberately, to give me one last extra push. The announcer declares that another employee from my company has just entered the track. That employee is me! I can't stop smiling.

And I run like hell.

My legs are flying, my arms are pumping, and I'm huffing and puffing my way to the arch until the clock is right above me. It's minute thirty-six now, and the seconds are flying away. I'm not sure at which point the electronic chip attached to my left shoe is officially registered, but it doesn't matter because now I'm on the other side, where runners are recycling their chips, eating bananas, and rehydrating with bottles of water.

Official time: 36:15:1, placing me 627 out of the 696 runners in my division (females aged 25 through 29).

Average pace: 11 minutes and 40 seconds per mile.

Boo-fucking-yeah.

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It wasn't until afterwards that I found Luke and the kids. He had trouble getting everyone out the door and didn't even reach campus until a couple of minutes after I finished the race. He felt terrible, but it worked out for the best because he didn't have to occupy them on his own for the thirty-six-plus minutes I was en route. We stuck around to watch my coworkers participate in the tug-of-war competition and walked around downtown for a bit before heading home.

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Because Liz asked, here's the playlist I used for the 5K. It's part-granny, part-Rocky, at least for me.

Frema's 5K Playlist

"Just the Two of Us" - Grover Washington (Reminds me to start slow and tortoise-like.)

"Say That You Love Me" - Fleetwood Mac (For some reason, the opening notes remind me of when Forrest Gump started his cross-country run. Yes, another Forrest Gump reference!)

"The Real World" - Matchbox 20 (I remember our VP/COO once saying that he ran to this song because it reminded him of college and made him feel young. I was a junior in high school when I bought the CD, so now it makes me feel young, too. Not that I'm old. Life begins at 30 29.)

"Least Complicated" - Indigo Girls (The music inspires a fierce, Rocky Balboa-ish attitude.)

"Martyr" - Rusted Root (Insert Rockygasm here.)

"American Girl" - Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (Very suburbanite, I know.)

"Back and Forth" - Aaliyah (Brings me back to a more subdued pace so I can rest. From white bread to flava!)

"It's Sweet" - Liz Phair (To pump me up again; in training I tried "Jealousy," one of my favorite songs ever from her, but it was too fast and I couldn't focus.)

"Least Complicated" again (To inspire me near the end of the race)

"Martyr" again (For the win)

It's important to note that had iTunes not acted like a total douchebag the night before, the playlist would have included a few more songs just in case it took longer than anticipated to finish the race. "Rain King" by the Counting Crows, "Fighting for My Love" by Nil Lara (thank you, second season of Scrubs, for introducing me to that one), and JT's "SexyBack" were all denied access to my iPod, even though two of them were on there the week before. WTF, Apple?

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So, there it is. My first 5K, with two out of three goals realized and the third not entirely out of reach. Obviously, there's endless room for improvement, but overall I'm proud of my performance and look forward to improving it the next time around. Of course there will be a next time. How could there not? Have I been a runner all my life and just didn't know it? Or does it only fit my personality now that I have two more especially important reasons to stay fit? I don't know, but in the end, it doesn't matter how I got here. The important thing is I'm here now and ready (finally!) to challenge my body in ways that I never have before.

Luke and I will walk with the kids in the 5K associated with the Indianapolis Marathon and Mini-Marathon at Fort Harrison State Park two Saturdays from now. We will both run the 5K attached to the One America 500 Festival Mini-Marathon in May 2010. My goal is to complete the mini-marathon at Fort Harrison one year from now. Luke and I hope to participate in several more races before then, in addition to Chicago's Shamrock Shuffle, an 8K, in March.

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In the last few months, I've heard a lot of sad news. Babies passing away before they had a chance to celebrate a first or second birthday; celebrities dying too young; mothers falling victim to horrible diseases and then being tasked with saying good-bye to their families. Some of these people I never met, while others are casual acquaintances I know only on a surface-level basis. But I have cried tears over them, have closed the door to my office to hurt on their behalf. I imagine what it would feel like to know I would never see my children grow up, or, even more gut-wrenching, to live life without them, and my nose twitches and eyes well up and a rock forms in the pit of my stomach because I can't. I just can't. In religion, there's so much talk about emphasizing the mental and spiritual aspects of ourselves because our physical state is temporary that it can be easy to overlook the fact that God made us human for a reason; that having a living, breathing body is a gift we shouldn't take for granted. So I want to use mine better. I want to make it stronger, leaner, healthier. I want to laugh more with it, cry happy tears with it, tickle Kara until she squeals more often and snuggle Nathan close every time I find him attached to my leg or foot or shoulder. I want to make love with my husband even when there's an opportunity to get more sleep. But I want to get more sleep, too, so I can tackle daily challenges and opportunities with a fresh mind and heart.

In between writing this entry, I clicked through my blogroll and came across Emily's post about running in the Baltimore Half-Marathon this Saturday, and how running made her think of little Emily Mandell, who passed away six months ago from a rare form of cancer. What a coincidence, I thought, that the same activity inspired each of us with the same type of thought track. But maybe it's not a coincidence. Maybe it's just being grateful.

 

5K Race Day, Part One

So! I ran my first 5K on Saturday.

THERE'S a sentence I never thought I'd say.

Even more amazing? I absolutely loved it.

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In the days leading up to the race, I was hella nervous because my training could only be described as spotty at best. The couch-to-5K program I started in mid-August had me running just three days a week, and the first two were okay, encouraging, even, because the intervals were manageable and I was fueled with enthusiasm. But the third week was more challenging, directing me to finish a 20-minute run on day three, and the idea of failing was so intimidating that the entire seven days passed without me completing a single run. It was a turning point, I think, giving me an opportunity to re-examine my commitment; how serious was I about adding this 5K to my list of accomplishments for the year? Was I willing to write the whole thing off as another botched attempt at healthy living? Was I okay with publicly falling flat on my face and looking and feeling like a failure?  

As it turned out, I wasn't. So I gave myself a second try. In hindsight, I am so proud of myself for doing that; for not giving up, for investing myself in this training and identifying it as something worth fighting for, even when I had a long day at work, even when I would have preferred rolling around on the floor with my kids. I wanted it for my health, but I needed it for my own sanity.

That doesn't mean I was perfect. Aside from the first two weeks, I never followed the program to the letter again. But I was running. The first few minutes were always the hardest--my breathing was random, my ankles felt like weights--but then my feet made their peace with the concrete of the trail, and my mind settled down, became quiet, reducing the chatter of the voices in my head, and my eyes functioned as catapults, physically moving me closer to each short-term landmark (If I can just make it to the overpass.... If I can just make it to the bridge...), and I called on the breathing exercises I used when in labor with Kara, marveling at their usefulness in situations outside of childbirth (hee hee hoo...hee hee hoo...) and suddenly I was light as a feather, gliding over the pavement, and sharing Knowing Glances with other runners who passed me by. Ah, another fellow bad-ass. Top of the morning to you.

Most of the time I didn't give much thought to my speed, choosing instead to focus on running for the full seventeen minutes or whatever my goal was for that run, but the closer I came to race day, the more curious I was about my ability to finish in a respectable amount of time. From my reading I knew that the usual goal of a 5K was to average ten minutes a mile, so one Saturday morning I started my run precisely at the 3.0 mile marker of the trail, ran straight to the 4.0 and then turned around and ran back to the 3.5, keeping a watchful eye on my cell phone the entire time. The good news: I completed a mile-and-a-half run in 15 minutes. Hurrah, progress!

The bad news: I had to quit running at minute 18--two minutes short of my goal time--because I felt like I was going to die. That morning was the first that I walked home with a stitch in my side. My timing was good, but clearly I had overdone it. Plus, it was one of my first runs using an iPod, and I learned very quickly that the Black-Eyed Peas and Justin Timberlake were no good to me, at least during training. The songs were too peppy, and being a novice runner, I needed something calmer, music that would drive me forward but allow me to concentrate at the same time.

Speaking of time, my time was running out. The following week I stayed on task and ran two miles in just over twenty-four minutes, but it was a far cry from completing a 5K. Beginning of week five I pulled something in my thigh (not a training injury, but it threw a wrench in my schedule just the same), and between traveling to Orlando for work and playing catch-up at home, a whopping ten days passed before I hit the trail again, just four days before the big event.

Hella nervous.

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The night before the race, my preparation left much to be desired. I filled up on turtle cheesecake and Raisinets and bad episodes of All My Children and neglected to drink even a single ounce of water, staying up until two in the morning attempting to create a musical soundtrack destined to propel me to victory. I obsessed over that playlist way more than I should have, I know, but most of the songs I used during training were pretty tame--anything faster than Indigo Girls or Grover Washington and I couldn't pace my breathing--and I was convinced that come race day, I'd need something stronger.

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The next morning, I woke up to my alarm at 6:15 a.m. and promptly got to work. I threw on my clothes and enjoyed a breakfast of a spoonful of peanut butter and a bottle of water. I stretched on and off for a good forty minutes, Kara smiling at me during my jumping jacks, Nathan sucking on my knee while I touched my toes. I spouted off directions to the race location to Luke, who hoped to make it with the kids just in time to see me off. With a filled-up gas tank and four dollars for parking, I was ready to go.

In case I haven't mentioned it before, this was more than a 5K--it was a full-fledged corporate challenge involving 100 businesses in central Indiana--so the starting area was congested with traffic and Hoosier employees preparing for their respective events. I spent ten minutes waiting for a spot in a nearby parking garage and holding back a unrelenting urge to pee the entire time. I made it to my company's tent with fifteen minutes to spare, long enough to pin my bib onto my shirt, attach a tracking chip to my shoelaces, relieve my poor, overworked bladder, and find a place in the starting line, all the way in the back. I was grateful to have stretched so much at home because I was too self-conscious to do more than hop around and pull on my legs. My CEO tapped me on the shoulder to say hi, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Have I mentioned how nervous I was?

We all made small talk for a few minutes until I excused myself to get closer to the middle of the pack. Before I was worried about getting trampled on by the pros. Now I'm just afraid of being left behind.

I checked my cell phone. One minute to starting time. Suddenly, we're counting down the seconds, from fifteen to one.

I take a deep breath. My right index finger is hovering over the play button on my iPod, waiting to sync my shuffle with the exact beginning of the race.

Three...two...one.

And we're off.

The last Forrest Gump reference, I promise

Yesterday, as I pulled into my driveway, Mother Nature bid me a hearty hello by way of darkening clouds and a cool breeze that sent shivers up my spine. Ever the optimist, I reasoned, At least I'll have a more comfortable time out than Luke did on Monday. Poor guy was dripping with sweat before his feet even hit the trail. The smell of his workout clothes permeated our master bathroom for the rest of the night. THAT was fun.

I walked into the house and promptly into Kara's arms, who knows to associate the sound of the garage door opening with my arrival home from work. Luke got dinner started while I hung out with the kids, and then I thought I really ought to get upstairs and into my running gear. I also wanted to jump online to compare the two couch-to-5K training plans I had at my disposal: the shredheads one and the reader-recommended one offered by Liz and Katie.

I was changing into my shorts when I heard the clap of thunder. I was looking up stretching exercises when I saw the downpour of rain.

My heart sank as I came back downstairs.

"I don't know if I'll be able to run today," I said to Luke, gesturing to the raindrops outside our window. "I can't very well go out in that."

"Well, some people do," Luke replied, "but it's probably not the best thing for a beginner."

"Maybe it'll let up soon," I said, and to pass the time, I picked up The Everything Running Book Luke's been holding onto for years in the event he ever got back into the sport. I skimmed information about safely building a mileage base and keeping a training log and how to buy running shoes and types of running shoes and the PARTS of a running shoe and even running socks. Socks! Why didn't I think about socks? I don't even have a damn wristwatch and now I need to worry about my freaking socks.

And I thought about the couch-to-5K plans and how on one hand the shredhead route seemed really easy to follow but the reader-recommended one was better suited for endurance and I wondered if I knew enough about stretching to avoid injuries the first day out and what if I didn't do the right stretches or stretch long enough and OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. My running career was over before it began.

I felt a lot like that college-aged kid in Jerry Maguire who shrugs his shoulders (after back stabbing Tom Cruise by going with another agent, the bastard) and says, "I just wanna play football."

Half the time I wait for the ideal moment to begin something new, and the moment never comes. As much as I love organization and structure, sometimes you just have to do.

So I turned on my Shred DVD and did stretches from the first two levels. I butt kicked and touched my toes. Then I grabbed my cell phone--my two-years-old, ancient cell phone with no picture-taking capabilities but was perfect for keeping track of the time--and walked out the door.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the sun was already out. I took my time walking on the path through my subdivision that leads into the trail. At 5:43 p.m., I was off.

I...was...running! My six-month-old, newly crawling son could have outpaced me there and back, but still. I ran for five minutes straight just like I originally planned, and it felt wonderful, so quiet, no music, no conversation, just me and my thoughts and concentrating on getting to 5:48 p.m. And when I got there, I turned around and walked home, which was more than sufficient for a cool down. By then, the drizzle was a welcome relief.

And that was it. I had completed my first run, without so much as even one sore muscle the following day.

I know there are better ways to go about this. I know I might change my mind about how to achieve this goal. But right now, I'm running, and that's good enough for me.

Run, Frema, run!

So! Last week, I signed up for a 5K run as part of a local athletic challenge involving 100 central Indiana businesses. Yes, you read that right. Me, the girl who often gets winded just from climbing up a flight of stairs, the lazy-ass who hasn't run regularly since high school (thank you, varsity soccer) and who has never labeled herself a runner of any kind AND who can't even follow through with a commitment to exercise for twenty minutes a day, has committed to flailing around Forrest Gump style on a 3.2-mile course this September. In front of her coworkers, no less!

I'm nothing if not ambitious. And stupid.

First, some backstory. One thing I've learned in this half-hearted quest to become a healthier me is that I get bored with exercise pretty quickly. For instance, take the Shred. I heart the Shred. I love that as of 5:45 this morning I can say I've lost ten pounds since the end of May. I see the difference in the fit of my pants and the shape of my face. You don't have to convince me that smart eating habits and regular workouts do a body good. I'm living proof, even if on an extremely small scale.

But when times get tough, all this knowing is not enough to inspire the actual doing. So instead of continuing to try and push a square peg into a round hole, I'm simply going to admit that I'm just not into the Shred right now and pursue something that will rejuvenate my interest in fitness again. Which right now is taking the form of a 5K.

Part of me wonders if I'm an idiot to even attempt this. Aside from my above-mentioned stint with varsity sports, my only other experience with running took place about six years ago while I was living and working in Rensselaer and a coworker and I got together on a semi-regular basis to jog through town. On colder days, we ran the track inside Saint Joe's field house. It didn't last long, and I never once progressed beyond the constant huffing and puffing that plagues those at the beginner's level. I never kept track of my speed. Hell, I didn't even LIKE it half the time. But I did enjoy how good it felt to move my body, and I've always admired those actively engaged in the sport--how focused they are on their goals, how dedicated they must be to follow such rigourous training schedules, how effing COOL they look wearing their branded shorts and headbands.

A leaner, stronger body would be nice, too. Running it is.

One thing I've got going for me that I didn't with the Shred is the benefit of a living, breathing partner in crime right in my very own home. Luke used to run in college, and while we can't go out together because of the kids (also, he and his six-foot-four-inch frame would totally leave me in the dust, speed-wise), we've already mapped out a rough, every-other-day schedule to follow, with him starting today and me beginning tomorrow. As Parents draws to a close and we completely revamp our budget to accommodate the loss of income, we can't afford a gym membership or a treadmill, so we'll use the walking trail that curves behind our subdivision. Also a no-go is the purchase of any fancy running gear or clothing, and at first I was fretting over this, because how can I be a successful runner if I don't have a wrist watch to clock my distance or shorts that won't bunch around my thighs or cute little tee-shirts with Nike logos embroidered on them or blah de blah blah blah. Finally Luke was like, "BREAIN. It's called RUNNING. All you have to do is run." Thank you, husband of mine/perspective. At least I have new sneakers, a comfy pair of running shoes I bought last month just before getting the Parents axe.

Like the shredheads before me, I'll attempt to follow the six-week couch-to-5K program outlined here, only it'll be more like seven weeks because even though my first race is slated for Saturday, September 26, I don't want to wait any longer to get started. Luke has one of those Everything Running books I can flip through to figure out what the hell I'm doing, and I'll have the added wisdom from the shredhead archives, too.

Though I haven't even started yet, I already know this endeavor will prove to be a good thing. Not only am I pumped about exercise in a way I haven't been since June, I'm also psyched to do this with Luke. For the last couple of months, we've been allowing the logistics of our everyday lives to get in the way of spending any meaningful time together, and I love that we can use this as a way to stay connected and also get back in touch with our pre-baby counterparts, too. Not that complaining about the size of my ass while watching The Soup in pajama pants and eating sorbet straight from the carton isn't romantic in its own right. (Nothing but love for you, Joel McHale.)

Wish me (us) luck. Or, if you're one of those seasoned runner types, a few tips to stay on track and injury-free.