Darkest before the dawn.

The goal was to be done before 8:00. The plan was to take the kids to a water park for a couple of hours as a part of a church activity, and afterward, the husband was off to work for the afternoon and evening. That left just the early morning to get the training run in, and with the Kansas heat, it was the ideal time to do it anyway.

On paper, that was the plan. And it seemed like a good plan.

Then 4:45 a.m. rolled around, and my alarm went off.

It seemed like less of an awesome plan.

It also seemed like less of an awesome plan as I filled my hydration belt with water and Hammer Gel, and thought about running 18 miles.

Eighteen miles.

The furthest I’d ever run before was 16 miles just a couple weeks prior, and that seemed like it was about enough to kill me. The husband mapped out a route with considerably fewer hills, though, so I should be okay. I’d since purchased my pepper spray, so the sense of security was more abundant (better believe I’ll be purchasing one of these when they come out). 

I fiddled around a bit. Took my time getting dressed. Pumped a little bit longer than usual to make sure the seven month old had enough to eat during my time outside. The anxiety stirred my inside with fear of being unable to finish something I started. 

5:07. Ugh. Couldn’t put it off any longer.

I discovered something interesting about starting my run that early. There is a space of time that is running bliss—the sun has just come up, or is starting to, and there is a soft light that fills the world. The air still has a bit of a chill in it, enough to cancel out some of the awfulness of Midwestern humidity, and there is a prideful glee in being out, running, while the rest of the world remains sane and sleeps during those early hours. It is a beautiful time, a peaceful time.

The space of time just before that, though, which happened to be the first forty minutes of my run, is about as anxiety-producing as it comes.

The chosen route had me running out on some rural roads for 4.5 miles, and then crossing a major highway to more rural roads (yay, Kansas!). This was meant to avoid traffic and have some nice scenery, as well as avoid having to deal with crosswalks and stop lights. The unfortunate side effect of all of this was that apparently Kansas does not believe in street lights over rural roads, and I spent the first forty minutes running in pitch darkness. The occasional car was an immense relief, as the brief time spent with headlights nearly blinding my view also allowed me to see where the devil I was going. 

The cool morning air and the temporary serenity that comes with running while the world sleeps allowed me to become complacent. I plugged along on the left hand side of the road, thinking about how far I’d come as a runner—a story I’ll write another day. My thoughts circled about moments of laughter, accomplishment, and moments of disappointment and self loathing. The dark world around me seemed to disappear as I reminisced about where I had been, when something suddenly caught my eye. 

What the…

It appeared to be the size of a large cat, rustling in the grass just a few feet from where I stood. My cat ran away a few weeks ago, and since then I have become accustomed to looking at every moving furry thing first to determine if it is my transient feline companion. In the blackness, it was hard to see, and instead of going to instinct where I would avoid any furry creature, I fell into the programmed curiosity of hoping to find Chuck.

As soon as I was about two feet from the creature, it moved in a very distinct way, revealing exactly what it was. With its hindquarters toward me, in a very slow, calculating move, it raised its tail.

In the darkness of northeastern rural Kansas, in the very early hours of the morning, there was a sudden cry into the nothingness:

“WHAT THE DEVIL?! AUGH! SKUNK! FRAKKIN’ A! I’M RUNNING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD!”

Hammer gel is reduced in necessity on that kind of adrenaline kick. Now, to arrange that setup come my marathon this October—that would be ideal. While less than pleasant for my mental state and most likely my blood pressure, it did not seem to have a detrimental effect on my ability to complete the eighteen miles.

Average pace: 9:08

Though if I put the Garmin information into my computer (I’m terrible about doing that), I imagine my pace at about a mile and a half in suddenly spiked to a much, much faster pace. 

Frakkin’ nature.

The one where she shaves her head.

The first time I saw Napoleon Dynamite, the experience was much like what I have heard of others’. With each passing minute, there is a sense of, “….what.” With each subsequent viewing (my boyfriend at the time was a bit obsessed), the jokes grew on me. But there was one scene in particular that I never stopped thinking was just weird.

Something about this scene just made me uncomfortable. What the…. Why? Why would someone do that? I just don’t understand. 

Fast forward a few years. Because our world is crazy, this made the news:

There was an outrage! An uproar! How could this teeny bopping princess pull a Pedro and shave her head?

I’ll admit it. I bought into every ounce of it. Since I was studying social work at the time, we had many water cooler discussions about her various possible diagnoses, which is the pseudo educational way of partaking of all the Hollywood gossip. 

So the shaving of the head had been labeled as both weird and as a symptom of a mental illness.

Fast forward again to just the other day. I had gone running, and the heat zapped me. I was sick of the sweat, the humidity, and the general ickiness associated with running in the awful, awful Midwestern heat.

Perhaps it was dehydration. Perhaps it was fatigue. Perhaps it was a mild heat stroke. Regardless, the following occurred over text message:

Me: Can I cut my hair?

Husband: (Radio silence)

Me: (Interprets radio silence as permission)

Husband: (Too late) Want me to cut it when I get home?

My husband has cut my hair several times throughout our marriage—one of the perks of having a shorter hair cut and a husband who learned to cut his own hair on his mission for our church, who is also very metrosexual and thus FABULOUS with hair. Many times he has cut my hair, and his head has inflated six sizes because I will get questions of, “WHERE did you get your hair cut? It looks so good!” Darn him and his freakish abundance of talents.

The husband returned home to find me with clippers in hand and a lot of hair on the floor. He managed to stop me before I got to the top, so there is some resemblance of style and intention in my new do.

So, Britney, about all those DSM codes I was arbitrarily throwing your direction: I apologize. You’re in Louisiana. It’s frakkin hot there. Perhaps I’m just as crazy—but I totally get it. Props to you for keeping the long locks as long as you did.

I’m not saying it’s for everyone. But since going running with the shorn look, I must say…

I’d totally go Pedro on myself again.

EDIT: Picture for added effect. This is what happens when you take clippers with a guard to your head after a very, very hot day. Pardon the face I'm making-- it seems it's more difficult than I thought trying to photograph yourself in the mirror.

 

A Letter of Gratitude

Dear Mr. Salesman,

I don’t remember your name, and honestly, I wouldn’t recognize you if you stood right in front of me. 

Chances are that you wouldn’t recognize me either. We spent but an hour together—an hour that I had for my lunch break just over three years ago. Odds are also pretty good that neither of us had any idea of what that hour would evolve into… at least I didn’t. I wonder if maybe you had some idea.

With my old running shoes in hand, I felt like pretty hot stuff. I was running up to three miles at a time, and my shoes were completely trashed. In hindsight, I realize you were very kind not to have laughed at me… I might have laughed at me. In my hand were shoes purchased at a department store picked solely for their color scheme rather than for how they fit. The sole of one of them had a large crack in it, which I took as a sign that I was a serious runner. Now I know that it simply appeared I had no clue how often a “runner” needs to replace her shoes. 

Regardless of my apparently cluelessness, you spent the entire hour completely focused on my needs and hopes for my shoes. Plenty of other customers filtered into the store, but your attention remained undivided. Shoe after shoe after shoe went on my feet, while my indecisiveness rang loudly through my desire to find a shoe that was both comfortable AND pretty (a very important combination). Different sizes, different brands, different widths—an entire array of choices checked off until we fell upon the perfect shoe. In my short little jaunt around the store, I felt minutes shed from my pace. THIS was the perfect shoe.

As we ended our time together, I left with your words echoing in my ear. “You’ll want to break those in first—don’t go on any 20 mile runs in them over the next couple of days.” I laughed heartily at the thought of doing a 20 mile run ever, but the feeling stuck with me. In spite of my apparent inexperience, you treated me like I was a genuine runner. You acted like I had every reason to be in that store. It would have been understandably easy to go through the motions as quickly as possible to get me into some shoes and out the door so you could tend to a real athlete. But instead, your demeanor seemed as if I was the only reason you had to be at work that day.

Since that day, I’ve run in many 5ks, a 12k, and a couple of half marathons. I’ve done a couple triathlons, and run countless miles training for the next race—currently, a full marathon. In that time, I have also gotten my Master’s degree and had two children. In looking back at this section of my life, I think about all the hard things I’ve done, and when my hardest times have been. The hardest experiences when I felt I genuinely could not cope, could not take another single bad thing happening, were when I was unable to run because of the point of my pregnancy I was in. 

So you could have acted like I had no business being in that store. You could have scoffed or pulled a face when I pulled out my old pair of running shoes. When you treated me like a runner, though, instead of someone that simply runs, you did more than give me a good fit for a pair of running shoes. You helped give me the strength do endure the hard stuff that was preparing to come my way.

So thank you, Mr. Salesman. I honestly don’t think I’d be here if it weren’t for you.

Sincerely,

A Mommy Running

N-E S

Hello. I am a mom, and I cannot give myself credit.

My long run last week was a 14 miler. I got up early, got it done, and then spent some time with the friends who had accompanied me on the run. We returned home, and the husband prepared for work, and both kids went down for a nap. I laid next to them, and the next thing I knew, the 2 year old was awaking, and I felt I was dragging myself out of a deep sleep to wake up with him (well, because I was dragging myself out a deep sleep—but you know what I mean). 

I felt like a bum. How could I be so tired? I chalked it up to only getting five hours of sleep the night before, and the six month old waking often to nurse. Not once did it cross my mind that perhaps I was tired because I had run 14 miles. 

Ridiculous, eh? But with having run 16 miles the week before, 14 didn’t seem like a big deal. So what? I’ve done longer. It seems that I chronically suffer from Never-Enough Syndrome. If I can do it, then it isn’t impressive. 

Yikes.

After my two year old was born, I thought, I’ll do a half marathon! After having been on bed rest for a month, and never having run longer than six miles, a half marathon was a big deal. The idea of running a full marathon crossed my mind, but it was one of those “Someday…” thoughts. No way was it possible for me to do it now. Then the second child was born, and I ran another half marathon. Still, I did not consider myself a legitimate runner. Legitimate runners do full marathons.

Then I met a friend of mine who convinced me to train for a full marathon with her. 

I approached the decision with a lot of anxiety and apprehension. What if I can’t? Only real runners do full marathons. 

And now that I’m training and doing well with the training, my thoughts have transitioned to, “Well, real runners do ultras.”

It seems my tendency is to raise the bar until it’s just out of reach, and then when I’m about to scale it, up it goes again. I AM DOING THIS TO MYSELF. As a therapist, I can see how incredibly unhealthy this is.

In my experience with other women, though, it seems that we are constantly suffering from some degree of Never-Enough Syndrome. We can be amazing cooks, but we have dishes all over our kitchen—and that gets our focus. Or perhaps our kids get all of our attention all day long, but we fixate instead on the laundry basket full of unfolded laundry when we assess our accomplishments for the day. So much of our energy goes into scrutinizing what we aren’t doing well enough in that we fail to celebrate the victories in our every day. We spend so much time looking at our weaknesses in comparison to others’ strengths and using so much energy to beat ourselves up—what if we used that same energy and instead turned it outward, and openly admired the other person’s strengths? What a great thing we could do for our fellow women!

So my goals for this week are two things: 1) Don’t die on the 18 mile run I have in my training schedule, and 2) Whenever I start to beat myself up about one thing or another, seek a fellow XX and tell her why she’s genuinely inspiring, and STOP N-E S in its tracks.

I’m thinking the first goal might be easier.

Challenged.

You know those mornings when you wake up and the last thing you want to do is run? Everything hurts. You’re feeling lethargic. The list of things you need to get done instead of running seems endless, and the justifications are flying through your head. You are both trying to convince yourself to go running while simultaneously trying to talk yourself out of it. 

Then, a miracle happens. You step out the door, and with each step, you feel rejuvenated. You are energized, free, feeling fantastic, and so glad you decided to go running. Usually those turn into the best runs, where the stiffness and sleepiness shed their way into a faster pace, an easier stride, and great sense of accomplishment once the run is over.

This was not one of those runs.

Sure, it started out the same. I was not wanting to walk out the door, much less run. Training plan said 3-5 miles, so I settled for four. The Type A personality inside of me was screaming to do the five, but my body and my heart said no. I was running with the husband and the kids, and the stiffness in my hips screamed to turn around and just veg with the AC. 

At 0.34 miles in, the husband said, “I think this will turn into a 3 mile run.”

My response? “I’m okay with it turning into a 0.34 mile run.” 

The combination of lack of sleep (a teething 6 month old and a 2 year old with night terrors), Kansas heat, and still trying to figure out my nutrition to accommodate nursing while training for a marathon had left me feeling a bit ragged. 

The thought ran through my head of simply going home. Taking a few days off. Sleeping in instead of doing a 12-14 mile run on Saturday (tiny humans allowing). But doing so would contradict who I am—a runner. Sure, it is important to take breaks, to take rest days, but it is also important to keep going when the temper tantrum inside of me says to stop moving. 

Such a skill has been refined in every aspect of my life.

What if that were an option? What if we could just stop being who we are for a while? Sometimes, my marriage is hard. There are days where I look at my children and ponder who I can ship them off to for a little while so I can just get some sleep. And at times, I want to tell the people I serve with at church to talk to the proverbial hand. But in those moments, I don’t stop being a wife, a mother, or a Young Women’s leader. I can’t. They are all integral facets of who I have become. 

And on the other side of that very rough, multifaceted rock, is “Runner.”

So sometimes it’s hot, and my hips hurt, and I’m tired, and my pace blows.

But I keep moving. Because it’s who I am.

Woeful Wednesday.

It had started as a prompting. After previously discussing our plans for the long run, I quickly shot down my husband’s suggestion that I run around the lake alone while he waited until the kids woke up. All of my intentions of purchasing pepper spray were put aside for the sake of the other daily things that got in the way, and I was uncomfortable running around the lake in the early hours of the morning by myself. Instead, the plan was to wait until the kids woke up, and I would run in the heat of the day. It seemed like a better alternative than having something happen.

The husband knew my anxiety. The years of working on the receiving end of a rape crisis line had taken its toll on my paranoia, and having children only increased the nerves dramatically. So he kept quiet when he was preparing the kids and had the prompting to bring his knife. His assumption was that it was for our protection, and he didn’t want to frighten me. 

At about 7:45 a.m., I took off, alone, while the husband set up his bike with the kids in the bike trailer to ride counter to the path I was taking around the lake. Every time we would intercept, he would give me water. The plan was a good one, and meant I wouldn’t have to wear a hydration belt (pushing the stroller has spoiled me—I’m used to not having to wear anything around my waist anymore). 

I was about a mile and a half into my run, still warming up, but feeling good. I was careful not to push too hard and burn out quickly, but I was feeling anxious about the temperature increasing. I was running alongside the road just outside of the park, one of two parts where traffic was something to be more mindful of. My eyes traveled across the scenic surroundings until they stopped on an opossum in the middle of the road.

Sad, I thought. At one point in my life, I would have expended more energy mourning the loss of the furry creature. Having been raised as the daughter of a veterinarian, anything with fur merited a great deal of caring. Since working at a couple domestic violence shelters and as a therapist hearing about countless stories of abuse and other awful things, it takes a bit more than roadkill to cause me to feel invested. So any thought used on the opossum was meant to be a flighty one, and then I would continue on with my run, probably with this song in my head:

But before I could hum a few bars, I heard it. The tiniest little gasping sound you could imagine.

My eyes darted back to the dead opossum, and just a foot behind it was a tiny, pink baby opossum.

Suck.

I stopped in my tracks. The baby was barely holding up its weight, its eyes still tightly shut, and seemed far too young to understand that it was in any kind of danger. The debate started: Take the baby to the side of the road? Wait for the husband to come by with the trailer and the phone? Try to run and meet my husband further into the loop, and tell him about the opossum? Or just keep running and write off this experience as natural selection at its finest?

This debate lasted long enough for my legs to feel they were losing all the benefits of the warm-up. Finally I decided to try to catch my husband and tell him about the baby to see if there was anything he could do. As I started running, though, I saw several cars headed in the direction of where the baby lay. A tenth of a mile up the road, I saw the blue plastic wrap encasing a newspaper, and I rushed forward to retrieve it. I took the plastic wrap and left the paper, and used it to carry the baby to the shoulder of the road. 

Brilliant, I thought. The blue plastic will make it easy for my husband to find it. 

I ran ahead, my pace quickening drastically from the warm-up. I was eager to get to my husband, thinking the baby had a ticking clock that was quickly running out. When I caught up to him, he thought I was looking strong, and told me to keep going. He yelled when I stopped and flagged him down.

“No! Keep going!”

“No, no! I need to talk to you!”

I told him about the baby. He made a face, and said, “I’m not touching it. Those things are riddled with disease.” When he saw the sorrow in my eyes, though, he said, “I’ll look at it. But it’s probably not going to make it. When they’re that young, they can’t.” 

I continued running, allowing myself to feel both realistic and hopeful. We had done enough research in rescuing baby animals to know that when their eyes are still closed, they cannot survive without the mother—bottle feeding isn’t even an option. I pondered about the blessing it was that there was only one baby, which was odd to me. Aren’t there always a gaggle of them in all the pictures?

I continued running, humming the song stuck in my head, and came across my husband at about 4 miles in. I was grateful and feeling parched, and assumed his stopping was to give me the water bottle. Instead, he told me about the prompting he’d had about the knife before coming out that morning.

“I thought it was because we’d need protection. I didn’t think it was for the mercy killing of six baby opossums.”

My heart dropped. Six?! He then went on to explain that he saw the baby, and knew it wouldn’t survive. He had a similar debate in his head about what to do, but his options were to kill it himself, or let it die of starvation or be eaten by another animal. He knew the quickest way with the least amount of suffering was to do it himself. It was hard enough, but after the one I had found, he heard five more wiggling in the mother’s pouch, trying to nurse. 

I hugged him. He’d had to do this once before when he’d found a dead mouse and its litter of baby mice, some still in their sacks. I know it affects him deeply, and he feels silly talking about it because of the negative reactions he’s gotten before—about not being “tough” or “man enough” to just do it and not care.

I continued with my run, and thought about the events that had just taken place. If I had gone running earlier, I may have been done before the opossum was hit. If I’d found someone to run with me in Lawrence, I wouldn’t have come out to Olathe to do my run around that lake. If my husband hadn’t followed the prompting to take his knife, he may have decided there was nothing he could do and not investigated further.

We are tools in the Lord’s hands if we allow ourselves to be. I am grateful running gives me those opportunities, even if it’s difficult. 

And today, I’m buying some frakkin’ pepper spray.