Mother Running Rampant

Yesterday, I went to Henry’s class as a “mystery reader.” His teacher had me hide in the hallway and when I walked in, all the kids yelled, “Henry’s mom!” I only have one kid, and his attitude toward me is speeding towards an adolescent “Meh,” so hearing 15 other kids seem excited to see me sent a little surge through my maternal instincts. Eleanor said she liked my skirt, so of course, she was my instant favorite.

I told all the kids that I like to run a lot and brought a few medals from Boston and Disney. Unlike my own kid, they seemed interested. Then I showed them The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes, an an unlikely 1939 feminist endorsement of mother-runners by way of a rabbit with 21 babies. I asked for special permission to read it because it centers on Easter.  Since it’s a nut-free book and wasn’t printed in a facility that also processes tree nuts, I was allowed to bring it into school.

The kids were actually riveted by this gentle book, which I think stands starkly against the loud children’s fare that I often suffer through–Walter the Farting Dog and other icktastic junk like that.  Even though Henry often resents what we call “the running thing,” he seemed happy I was there to read the bunny story and see the book he’s been writing about Captain Weed Killer and Dr. Dandylion [sic]. There’s no running in that one, for what it’s worth.

Henry’s willingness to tolerate his mom talking to the class about running is progress. At his last dentist appointment, I got into a chat about marathoning with his hygienist and he nearly spit fluoride across the room when he fumed, “No more running talk, Mom!” So the Bunny book is major progress.

“The running thing” is getting more acceptable around here, which I attribute to Henry’s cognitive behavioral therapy: running timed laps around the outside of the house and racing me up and down the hall. That’s the behavioral part. The cognitive part is that I let him talk smack to me when we race. His favorite line is, “I thought you were a coach.” Nice.

Last week, Henry came home with a brochure about the school science fair. His first idea was trying to find lights that are cold in the house. I think he just wanted to open the freezer so he could check on the ice cream selection.

We gave the project some more thought.

I suggested something with running. It was a risky move, but I felt we’d made enough progress in our CBT that he might be ready for it.

“What if we see who can run farther: kids or adults?” he asked.

I said we might have a sampling problem with that project and he probably wouldn’t like the results. That would have led to a major backslide in our progress with the running thing, so I suggested we study the difference in speeds running uphill and down. It was an elegant project, in my opinion.

Being that first graders aren’t all that into empirical elegance, my mom upped the silly factor by suggesting Henry also study the difference in speeds running forward and backward. That he loved, especially when I said he might need a helmet. We would have him run the driveway up and down, forward and backward, partnering up with his pal Justin to increase the sample size and robustness of his research. Being a stats zealot, it was all I could do not to break out a spreadsheet.

On research day, Henry went to Justin’s birthday party of bouncy inflatable craziness, which I thought was a great way to keep consistent conditions for my–er, I mean, his–study. Both subjects were equally fueled by pizza and cupcakes and equally tuckered by pre-research energy use (i.e., bouncing and wackiness).

After the party, Justin came over with his mom to conduct the study. The boys ran up and down the 158-foot, 20-degree incline of my driveway. We timed their trials as they discovered running as fast you can up a hill is tiring.

Those 2 minutes pretty much consumed their enthusiasm for what was to be a 3-hour report process.

We bribed them with popcorn, marshmallows, and fruit (because we’re good moms) to participate in making a bar graph. They wanted to go shoot arrows in the backyard, which sounded like a lot more fun than making a tri-fold poster of the results, but we needed to maintain the illusion that this was their project by keeping them in the house.

The report writing went something like this:

“Henry and Justin, we need to make a materials list. What did you use?”

“Farting.”

“Henry and Justin, what was the procedure of your project?”

“Pooping.”

“Henry and Justin, what was your hypothesis?”

“Running downhill forward would be fastest.”

“Why?”

“I have a butt.”

It was a long 3 hours. But we made it. They finished their poster without too much trauma, and no one glued any graph paper to a cat, so I call it a success. It reminded me that I’m very happy I don’t have 21 children and will only be involved in one science project each year.

I can’t say Henry is all that keen on hill repeats at this point, but he might have found his calling with backwards running. Next year, he wants to invent something instead of doing an experiment. I suspect it might have something to do with butts and nothing to do with running.

And for those who are interested, my–er, I mean, his–research results indicated that running downhill forward is fastest.

It’s 65 degrees in northern Massachusetts today and Daylight Savings starts this weekend. If you’re grouchy under those circumstances, something is seriously wrong. Today is also International Women’s Day, a day I used to celebrate like a major birthday when I was a card-carrying women’s studies major. I might not be going to a feminist potluck in my dorm tonight, but the day still means something to me. It’s quite possible it means more to me, actually, now that I’m not stamping my identity with a membership in the Anais Nin fan club and other labels that focused me more on appearing to be something rather than really living it.

Maybe that’s just the trajectory of human development, though. If women’s issues were more of a bumper sticker to me in college and are more real and lived now, that could just be adolescence versus adulthood. Running followed a similar path for me. For a while, I marked my identity in running with t-shirts, a tattoo, or other labels that put me in the club. Now, being an advocate for women’s running and sharing its power as a life changer takes a very different quality for me.

Now, I feel it much deeper to the core, and I don’t need the labels as much as my actual running and coaching others to experience the empowerment for themselves. Labels and label makers aren’t for me. I still love my tattoo, but the ink runs deeper. That’s where I see the potential in this sport for women. Running isn’t Zumba, which looks like a hella fun, but I’m sure it gives way to the next fitness craze pretty easily for a lot of women.

Running gets to your core and rocks your world simultaneously from the inside out and the outside in, to the extent that you neither can nor should move on. Calling it therapy doesn’t do it justice. It’s so much better. I don’t know about you, but when I feel the burn on my umpteenth interval at mile whathaveyou, I’m thinking less about bumper stickers and more about shredding my muscles to make me stronger.

Over the past 8 weeks, Jack and I talked a lot about what’s next for me. We realized I need running, but I also need a new direction, new challenges. He has me looking at cross-country racing and biathlon as the weather gets warmer, things that will push me hard and keep me close to the sport that anchors my life. I love the idea of running cross country.

In my research for the book I’m writing, I came across a study of the effects of athletics on pregnancy that referred to mothers’ high-volume sport as “chronic maternal exercise” (Wolfe, Brenner, & Mottola, 1994). The authors weren’t using it pejoratively and it wasn’t a diagnosis, but they weren’t exactly celebrating International Women’s Day, either. It was a matter-of-fact label, an operational definition. I think it was one of the best turns of phrase I’ve read in ages. As much as I resist labeling what running means to me–whether with a bumper sticker or medical jargon–I could happily ink those three words on my forehead, or maybe my Achilles.

Chronic maternal exercise can be salvation from just about every I-Can’t-Believe-I-Drive-A-Minivan moment. I don’t have a minivan, but I still have those moments. The same article put the phenomenon a little more academically:

Forcing a trained animal to stop exercise at conception may place undue stress on the maternal system.

That pretty much sums it up, I’d say. Happy International Women’s Day. Go kick some ass.

I drowned Wayne Newton. Danke shoen, but no danke, stupid iPod. In case you forgot or you’re one of my newer readers (very nice to meet you and your googling habits), I inadvertently named my Nano after Wayne Newton. Yesterday, Wayne flatlined. That’s two iPods in 5 months–not a great record. It was a very good run, however, so I actually think it was worth it.

After last weekend’s half-marathon debacle, I was more than ready to run a hard effort this weekend. Saturday morning, it was misty, brittle, and the ground was slushed over from the first real snow of 2012. I lollygagged around the house with the little duffer, playing Qwirkle and watching Bruce and Jimmy Fallon duet “Sexy and I Know It.” At about the time Henry asked me what “sexy” means, I thought I might head out the door to run 8 miles. See? I’m not a depraved mother; I didn’t want to confuse my first grader by defining “sexy” with “a flannel work shirt, jeans, nice delts, and the ability to fix shit in my house.” (The last time Henry asked about a Bruce song, he wanted to know what “I’m going down” means and I had say Mr. Springsteen was putting laundry in the dryer in his basement.)

I avoided sexy talk and went for a run.

Because of the moisture in the air, I didn’t bring my Garmin and ran for effort, the feel of hitting an ideal turnover and rhythm. I had Wayne in my pocket, safe from the mist. I was striding out and rocking out. It felt sooooo delicious. I looked like a soggy mess, but I was working that MILF effect hard, baby. Man, I was sexy and I knew it, even though no one else would have thought so. As passing drivers swerved around my nasty wasty self, I fartleked like a bad ass mother. Oh, the delusions of a runner’s high.

I like running in wet weather, as long as it isn’t a Nor’easter; I’ve tackled a couple marathons in that kind of thing, and it hasn’t gone well. Anyway, I cruised along in my nice little flow state, and as I hit the turnaround at 4 miles, the rain picked up. I was in a groove with Beyonce (…all the single ladies (all the single ladies), put your hands up (hands up)…), improvising my Fosse number on Cold Spring Rd. so I didn’t much notice the rain.

Until I noticed I couldn’t feel my thighs.

The mist that turned to light rain turned to a 35-degree downpour. I felt hard core, but also kinda numb. Freezing rain does help one hit the negative split, particularly when Bruce is singing “Darlington County.” Me and Wayne, we had $200 and were gonna rock all night (Sha la la la la la la la la) (it’s a very good song). However, it wasn’t long before I was so cold and drenched (with three miles to go), I decided it would be completely reasonable to reward the run with Stub Hub floor tickets at any price to see the E Street Band at the Garden on March 26.

And they say running is inexpensive.

When I made it home, I was soaked to the bone but feeling like a rock star. Wayne Newton blaring, I walked in the house, pulled out the ear buds, and heard my seven year old singing “Highway to Hell.” I could relate. Have you ever noticed the second-to-last line to that song? Inhale.

“I’m goin’ down, all the way down…”

Fortunately, he was hooked on an endless loop of the titular refrain and didn’t ask why there are so many songs about doing laundry.

I got warm and dry, but sadly Wayne did not. Go ahead, you can shed a little tear. Poor Wayne Newton drowned on my counter as I switched over to an E Street playlist on Pandora to get Henry off the ACDC.

And now I’m podless again. But I had a great run and I have tickets to see “the heart-stoppin’, pants-droppin’, earth-shockin’, hard-rockin’, booty-shakin’, earth-quakin’, love-makin’, Viagra-takin’, history-makin’, legendary E Street Band.” Life is good.

Oh, dear.

I think this was something like my 12th half-marathon, but I really don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. I’d rather do this:

That's me under there.

One key point before I explain:

1. I had a great weekend.

I love the Cape. I love oysters and cranberries and the smell of the ocean. I am not so much keen on a 25 mph headwind caressing my face with razor blades and forcing me to jog in place like those running nightmares we all have.

Also, I’m an idiot. This race report is brought to you by the weather and my silly, soggy brain.

Friday, it poured in the Merrimack Valley of Northern-Western-Eastern Massachusetts. I had to coach on the track, and I am an intrepid, hard-nosed coach lady, so I met Samantha for her workout with my rain coat and mittens. It was about 35 degrees, so while she ran 800s, I thought it would be clever and fitnessy to stay warm with some lunges and squats. For an hour. She ran, I lunged.

As you might have read, I’ve been sick, insomniac, and running unfettered (i.e., no Garmin) over the past month or so, and when I woke up Saturday morning, I thought, “Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh no.” My quads hurt like I’d run a marathon the day before. My hour of squats had sure toned up my thighs right nice, and I had the telltale soreness to prove it. Those little tears in your muscles that make you stronger? The ones that get you excited about the crisp burn of the exertion that caused them? They felt like an x-acto knife running the front length of my thighs. My butt didn’t feel so good, either.

Ordinarily, this would be a cue for a recovery day, the needed rest to let your legs strengthen from their work. Instead, I packed for a race weekend, then went for a short, slow 4 miles to loosen up my legs and “work the junk out,” as coaches like to put it. It didn’t help. The junk was worked in pretty far. This was not auspicious for a Sunday half-marathon. If you’ve had delayed onset muscle soreness, you know the second day is worse.

I headed to the Cape, got my number and my orange and scratchy nonwicking race shirt. Then I did a bit of work and went for dinner and a leeetle beeeet of wine. Because the wine would loosen up my legs and work the junk out.

Saturday night, I had a dream that I was so late for the race that I missed it, but my dream self didn’t care. I obviously woke up super motivated. I stared at the ceiling, completely still, felt the searing soreness in my quads, and thought, “Oh, crap.”

After my bagel and freakout over walking stiff legged like a running dilettante, I descended the hotel stairs sideways because it hurt too much to walk normally. I was going to run a half-marathon sore from doing squats and felt like a complete dumbass.

That said, I was happy to hustle to the car because it was so damn cold and windy outside. From those 100 meters, I knew my legs could actually bend. Phew.

When I got to the race, the corral at the Start was so tightly packed that I was hot and couldn’t get a satellite. Because of my legs, I contemplated damaging my B-tag and running without my Garmin so I wouldn’t get a time. I totally should have done that. It turned out to be the worst race I’ve had since… uh, since Disney, seven weeks ago. Not a very strong point I’m making, but that race sucked super bad. Damn, I really need to turn this funk around.

Let’s not belabor the miles. It was crappy and depressing. And windy. I stopped watching my pace early on, feeling my quads strain on each step as I was passed by one slower person after another. You know the people I mean. I mean the people who pass you, and you think, “What the hell? I am so much faster/stronger/smarter/thinner/younger/cooler/etc than that person who is dusting me at this very moment.” It’s a bizarre feeling of confident self-loathing, and I know I’m not the only one who’s had it. It stings particularly bad when someone you actually know and know to be reliably slower passes you. It’s probably the only time when I feel like tripping someone I know to be a very nice person.

Another part of my brain was thinking, “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.” Running downhill was especially bad, like going down the stairs, except you can’t run sideways. I welcomed each and every incline. “Uphill? Yes, please!”

The wind really was heinous, but mostly it was about my quads. (And maybe the insomnia, the two weeks of post-nasal drip, and the 7-week holiday from training. And okay, fine, maybe the leeeetle beeeet of wine.)

The people passing me got older and older. At one point, a guy my grandfather’s age left me in the dust, and my grandfather died 16 years ago. That wasn’t a very good sign. At mile 8, I started the “Only 5 more miles to go” game. This whole run was totally stupid.

But I did get to hear “My Humps” and “Dirty Pitcha” on the shuffle. That was a perk.

More miles, then I finished. Blah blah blah. Nobody wants to read about feeling pissed, stupid, and slow. I crossed the line and noticed my time was the slowest I’ve run a half-marathon in 5 years, my second slowest time ever, 13 minutes slower than the half-marathon I ran in November. This is annoying to write about and no doubt read, so we’ll just leave the race there. I got water and was quiet for a long time. I didn’t even want a donut. I wanted vodka and oysters in a shot glass with Bloody Mary mix.

We can say I sandbagged with my dumb hour of squats, but really the soreness points to being unfit and untrained, and you can’t use the rationale “I’m not fit” to excuse a crap performance. “I didn’t run fast because I’m not fit” doesn’t amount to very savvy sandbagging. It’s like that annoying kid in class who tries to explain away a failed test by saying he didn’t study. I would have totally raced so much faster if I was in shape. Duh.

If nothing else (and really there is nothing else), I found some drive this weekend. I hate running so far off my game, and I want to get back on the track. I feel soft. I don’t know what I’ll race this Spring, but my performance needs to change tack. I had a great weekend on the Cape despite the race (see above re. wine and oysters in a shot glass), and if I know anything about sport, it’s that success comes from resilience and efficacy, not brooding and whining.

And also, don’t do an hour of squats two days before an endurance event. It shreds your legs and your brain. Instead: Strong legs, strong mind, strong race. Moving on.

I’ve been sick for two weeks. Bah. It started in my nose, then it moved to my head, and now it’s in my lungs. Just when I think I’m getting better, the phlegm moves somewhere else. I have stealth mucus, but I definitely expectorated my wit this morning. I really am a hot mess of unsexy.

As you’d expect, my running has been patchy for a couple weeks. Despite how I feel, I finally got to the point of exasperated determination, if there is such a thing. You can only let your body win for so long and then you must grind it to a pulp. I said “Screw it. I’m going to kick my own ass” and ran 13 miles. My legs were all like, “We hate you, we love you, we hate you, we love you” for the latter 6 miles of that one. To which I responded like Jane Fonda in a shiny leotard and leg warmers, “Mind over matter, ladies. Now jazz hands!”

Jack was not pleased and quoted the Eagles, who I hate, to punish me.

I have the Hyannis half-marathon next weekend, and I really don’t want to be on antibiotics so I’m going to pretend like this will go away tomorrow. Me plus a z-pac does not make for good runnin’. It makes for a good nothin’. I’m going with a friend who was going to pace me for a 1:36, but now that my odds of a PR are enveloped in mucus, he said he’s going to run faster instead. Not. Cute. Stinker. So he’ll handily leave me in the dust regardless of how I feel, and I’m just aiming to  finish before he eats all the donuts. A girl must have her pride.

So, if I have pneumonia, I don’t want to know about it. And don’t tell me I could just go run 13.1 and finish at a Dunkin’ Donuts. It’s not the same and you know it.

As long as I don’t feel like garbage, I’m excited for the run. You can lose your running zeal and become a sloth (Hi, I’m Kristina), but there’s nothing like two weeks of sick to motivate you to hit the road. There’s an issue of power about it. Call me crazy, but I like having a say in my own misery. If I don’t run, I want it to be because I’m a lazy bum, not because I’m sick or injured. And if I’m going to feel feverish and ragged, it better be because I just did 10x 1,000 meters at 5k pace.

Besides, I really like Hyannis. I’ve run it 2 or 3 times and had a DNS 2 or 3 times because I’ve been sick or injured. This year, I want my horribly  colored non-wicking shirt, thank you. Not to mention, it’s a nice little party where you freeze your tail off with all your closest friends, and if you’re lucky, your finisher’s medal says you ran a “Narathon.” Can’t beat that.

My favorite medal of all time.

Pass the decongestant, I’m going to the Cape. I don’t even care if I’m guilty of Sudafed doping. Cuff me. It’s not like I’m bringing a pacer.

Don’t let my foul-mouthed race persona fool you, I am all about the love. Not so much stuffed bears and mylar hearts, but flowers, wine, and oysters will definitely set off some opiate fireworks in my brain. But this Valentine’s Day, my dear friend Meaghan and I said “No, thanks, fellas!” to our long queue of suitors because we wanted to spend the evening chaperoning our first graders on a date. That’s right, we are so selfless. No doubt, there were broken hearts in the broad sexy chests of countless men in the greater Boston area (inside 495, thankyouverymuch), but we love those kids so much that we sacrificed romance, flowers, and wine to be good moms.

Yep.

Growl.

The date began with hoola hoops, of course. Meaghan and her daughter Caitlyn showed up at our door in their fancy clothes with a hoop. “She made me dress up,” said Meaghan. Being the mother of a son who doesn’t care what I wear and thinks clothes in general are a huge nuisance, I was in jeans and he was dressed in schmutz from his last snack. Meaghan and I took one look at each other’s outfits and realized how this whole thing was gonna look. “Henry and Caitlyn have two mommies.” And I was the butch one. Neither of us had a problem with it. I wanted to be the pretty one, but it wasn’t to be. I’m secure.

I went to find my pearls and a little bit of a heel.

We hoola hooped it up in the living room, then hopped in the car for the restaurant. Things were going well. A safe and respectable degree of first grade romance was in the air. And then I ruined it. On the way in, I accidentally said something that embarrassed Henry, and he, um, hissed at me. This is his new thing. It’s hissing but with visible teeth. Imagine a feral cat doing Ujjayi breath in yoga. That’s what happens when Henry gets mad. It’s totally hysterical, so of course, Caitlyn  laughed her head off. That made Henry laugh, but he was still angry with me. Uh oh. He’s only seven and I’m already destroying his love life.

On with the date.

We had a 5:30 reservation, but the host told us they were running late. I shepherded the kids over to a fireplace while Meaghan manned it up and told them it would be in their best interest to not have our two kids loose in the bar. The place was packed, and servers were rushing around, clearly not feelin’ the love. I went to the bar to start the drinking.

Have you ever ordered 2 cosmos and 2 Shirley Temples and been carded?

I gave the bartender a look that said, “You think the circles under my eyes come from studying for AP Chem?”

It looked like this:

Rather than pick a fight with the woman holding the vodka, I gave her my ID. She asked who the other cosmo was for. I pointed at Meaghan: “See that woman in her 30s who’d also rather be on a date with a hot guy but is instead pulling two kids off your fireplace? It’s for her.”

She let me take the drinks.

We eventually set up camp at the coffee table in front of the fire when the other couples on legitimate dates moved to avoid immolation at the hands of our children. We would eat right there. There was a spilled drink (thankfully not mine). There was a pouty first grader using his words:  ”I’m not having a good time tonight” (regretfully, that was mine). There was a sad and sweet  first grader using her words: “Henry doesn’t want to be here.” And there were probably some words that seemed to come from my own mother even as they fell out of my mouth: “Henry, straighten up.”

Meaghan and I kept drinking. We were both thinking the same thing: “This is why people don’t do this.”

It was carrot and macaroni mayhem, plus crayons. There was a surly boy, and there were some tears, and yet the chaos of it all was totally fun and the kids were having a blast. One of those mysteries of the universe, I guess. Our server came back to ask if we’d like dessert, and Meaghan said “To go” before the woman finished her sentence.

We did that thing where you walk behind your kid with both hands on their shoulders so we could get them out of the restaurant without injuring anyone. This is when they decided to try kissing. Can you imagine going on a date with a guy who told you he wasn’t having a good night and then you make out afterwards? Such is first-grade romance. Meaghan and I played interference, but kids are tricky. I don’t know how many stolen kisses there were. I’m trying not to think about it.

The love fest was disrupted when we got to the car and Henry accidentally pinched his date’s finger in the door handle. I’m really going to have to do a better job with schooling him on chivalry. Tears and guilt filled the car, not unlike some of my own dates, now that I think about it.

“Let’s go back to the house and play and eat chocolate!”

That helped a little. We made it back to the house for sugar-fueled hoola and a puppet show, also like the conclusion of some  dates I’ve had. The kids hugged and said their goodbyes as it was 8:00 and tomorrow was a school day. Everyone survived. And when they left, Meaghan and I gave each other a look that said,

“Next year… Men.”

Henry and Caitlyn on a date in September.