Interruption.

This won't be my usual type of post.

I know, I know. You were so looking forward to another blog post about NOT running on a running blog. Sadly, that will have to wait until next week (by the by, as of tomorrow, it will have been four weeks since my last run... which was seven miles on a treadmill. Does that even seem fair?).

In the meantime, I have something to share.

Years ago, freshly married, I took a job at an eating disorder clinic. This was a dream come true for me-- this was the population I wanted to serve. I could identify with so much of their hurts, their expectations for themselves, and I wanted to be a beacon of hope of what life could be in the absence of the perils of Ed. Starting out, it consisted of a lot of training, and on my very first clinical day (actually working with the patients), we went to a ropes course on family day. There weren't enough staff for me to shadow and still have someone with every group of girls, so I was sent off on my own with a group of gals where I had to fake having any kind of authority whatsoever.

There are many things I fear in life: Failure. Disappointing others. ET.

Heights.

Being at a ropes course was not really my cup of tea.

The obstacle we were given was to climb up a ridiculously high tree to a platform, and then leap from the platform to grab a metal hoop that was dangling from said ridiculously high tree. I thought about the last time I was convinced to go on a ferris wheel, and cried as I rocked myself on the floor of the basket until the ride was over. Climbing this ridiculous tree was certainly not covered in the job description.

I surveyed the ladies. We had someone who used to be an acrobat, and she looked totally at ease, in her element. The other gals were varying shades of excitement and anticipation. Then the youngest, a quiet girl of sixteen, looked as white as a ghost. She stared up at the ring, her jaw set, and her hands were at her side, her thumbs picking the cuticles of her other fingers.

"You gonna do it, Katie B?"

I looked at the sixteen year old. In that moment, not focusing on that stupid tree was what I needed to not piddle all over myself for what was to come.

I looked back at the patients. "I'll do it if [sixteen-year-old] does it."

She didn't even look at me. "Oh, I'm going to do it."

Each girl climbed up the tree. Each one, when asked what they were jumping for, said, "Recovery."

I climbed up that stupid tree, my feet, hands, and knees shaking violently with each movement. When the gals yelled up, "What are you jumping for?"

I yelled back, my eyes squeezed shut, "I'm jumping for you!"

I didn't reach for the ring. I just jumped from the platform, grateful for the experience to be over. The girls saw my fear, saw what I did, and instantly we had rapport. I was forever grateful for that sixteen year old girl's bravery.

A couple months would pass, and I'd be at a meal with that sixteen year old. It was her last day, and I could tell she was riddled with anxiety. My heart ached for her, and I so badly wanted to wrap her up in a cocoon of safety, comfort, and self love to help her combat her disorder outside the warm walls of the treatment center.

Another couple months would pass, and then I got a message in my work email.

That sixteen year old, who had inspired me so, had taken her life.

It was apparent how young and undeveloped I was in my professional career, because the boundaries weren't there. I hadn't put up the walls or learned how to distance myself in such a way that I did not fall absolutely in love with each patient I was able to serve. The loss of this bright light, this person who influenced me so, took a significant piece of me that day.

And so, on this running blog, I ask you today to donate to another running friend of mine's Suicide Walk page. She has her own story, and I know that so many people do have their own story of how suicide has affected their mortal tale.

So head over there. A couple dollars would be awesome. This is one of those tragedies where you spend forever after asking yourself what you could have done differently. This walk, this fundraiser, is an opportunity to do something now. Do something for what could come-- and what can hopefully be prevented.

Do something for that piece that has been taken.

Thank you.

You inspire me.

Being on the bike, I crave running. Climbing a hill, I imagine what it would be like to just be me, my glutes, quads, hamstrings, and my awesome neon shoes on that pavement, conquering something that looked so daunting in the distance. I see people out, knowing it took them just throwing on their running clothes and heading out the door to enjoy their workout, and I long to be in their moment. That sense of feeling like you did something hard, you did something good, and it was all for you. No matter what happens the rest of the day, you got your run in. So it's okay.

So when I was doing my long ride, finishing up after a couple chilly hours in the early morning, and I came up to a gal out running, I was humbled. I was speechless. I was inspired. On the trail, in the early hours of a Saturday, this woman was out doing something hard. Doing something good. Doing something for her.

But she was a reminder that it isn't just for her.

This gal did not look like the typical runner. She had a cotton t-shirt on, but underneath, you wouldn't have found chiseled abs and taut, tan flesh. She wasn't wearing a super trendy running skirt, and her running shoes weren't outfitted with the latest technology the running industry has to offer. She was simply a gal out running. And every second of it looked painful, uncomfortable, and knowing what she was feeling, no one would have blamed her for a second for stopping to walk.

But she didn't.

Research has shown that women often do not engage in exercise because they fear what other people will think of them because they do not look like the typical athlete.

I do not consider myself to be a typical athlete (mostly, I'm a mom who runs), but I do know that exercise makes you feel good. It helps you love you, appreciate you, and gives your body the endorphins and fitness necessary to be healthy and happy. So to deny yourself of that goodness out of fear of what others think is a sad commentary on what our society has determined is important.

So I don't look like the typical athlete. I have muscle definition in my arms, slamming legs, and a beautiful collarbone. My stomach looks like someone knocked over the mixing bowl of pancake batter. But I was running enough to be that obnoxious person that would push the pace and still be conversational, so I feel like I can speak for the part of the population you may fear is judging you:

You are amazing. My heart is so full when I see you, because I know what you're doing is so difficult. Running, or any exercise, is awful at first. It is for all of us. The body fights against what is uncomfortable. It's convinced you're dying, and your brain can be your worst enemy, telling you to stop and give up. But your heart keeps you going. Your heart gets that foot to move in front of the other, because you aren't running just for you, are you? You're running for your children. You're running so you will have the energy to play and keep up with them, and be involved with them so they know how important they are to you. You're running for your siblings, so they won't have to watch one of their best friends go through complications related to chronic disease. You're running for your spouse, so you will have the strength to help them through the hard stuff you'll encounter together, and so you can process the suck when you're strengthening your relationship.

You're running for you. You're running to give you the goodness that fitness has to offer, because your heart recognizes that you are worth it. The people you love are worth it. Everything important in your life is worth getting through that awful feeling that your body tells you to give up on when you start running.

And to be witness to that, to be a part of that moment, is truly humbling.

Thank you. Thank you for recognizing you, and your world, are worth it.

Poor, poor, neglected blog.

Good grief. It's amazing what not running can do to your motivation to write a running blog. That isn't to say I have been doing nothing. I've been getting jiggy with it with this guy:

(image) 

Holy. Moly. Now, I haven't been doing this as regularly as I would like (my goal lately has been to bike every other day, and do strength training every other day). I checked this sucker out from the library, because that's what you do when you're a Stay At Home Mom and your husband's income consists mostly of warm fuzzies at the local domestic violence shelter.

I shy away from DVD workouts, mostly because my experience has been they don't do a whole lot for people who are already athletic. They are FANTASTIC for you if you aren't an exercise fiend/addict, but it's hard to go from running 35+ miles a week to swaying side to side and clapping, and still feel like you're getting anything out of it. (Okay, the swaying side to side thing may be a slight exaggeration-- but I've done my fair share of workout videos in the past that consisted of doing that at least once).

So I'm familiar with Biggest Loser. I like Bob. He's kind of a goober, and as a former thespian, I like goobers. So I popped the sucker in.

I almost cried, it hurt so good.

And while it hurt my abs like whoa, it was my BACK that was all sorts of lactic acid-filled the next day. Which is fantastic to me-- I have a tendency to focus to much on the front of my core (my problem area) and that results in a muscle imbalance, and then I have awful posture. I was so impressed with the different moves he uses, and I never felt bored. I wanted to throw things at the screen once or twice, but never out of boredom. And Bob in all his goober gloriousness gives me a nice face to look at without making it awkward. You know what I'm saying.

So as someone that works out perhaps a little too strictly, it was really nice to find a workout dvd that really made me feel it. So there you go. A workout DVD reviewed that I got from the library. So it was free-- but I have to return it in three weeks. That is, unless the toddler hides it, then I'll have to purchase it. But after doing it a few times-- I don't think that would be so bad.

"Mommy Running?" NOPE. Sigh.

Still not running. Still injured.

I don't really want to talk about it.

(Insert some ridiculous picture of a cat with some grammatically incorrect caption about being grumpy)

Instead, I will post something to display my recent bout of awesomeness.



In the two and a half weeks I've been out of the running game, I've been nursing my wounds by developing an addiction to claiming QOMs, or Queen of the Mountains. These are titles given to a woman who is able to complete a segment (or an interval determined by other Strava users) faster than any other woman who has completed that segment.

These running legs are good for making a strong climber.

My husband, who would rather be on his bike than doing anything else, is so tickled that I've started riding again. I accused him of praying for my injury just so I would get back into cycling. When he denied any delight in my inability to run, I said, "Good. So you won't be bothered when I stop riding my bike when I'm all healed," he threatened to create a training plan for me to ensure I'd over train and re-injure myself. It sounds a lot more malicious when you didn't see the tears well up in his eyes out of pure joy that I was riding a bike with him. Silly man-boy.

So hopefully I can be out, tearing up the roads with my feet on the pavement soon. Until then, though, I'll enjoy the crowns I'm collecting-- that is, until someone who actually rides competitively starts uploading her stuff to Strava.

Proud Mommy Moment

True story:

The toddler grabbed my Oakleys, and after putting them on, he said, "Going running, Mommy. See you later."

Totally counteracts the incident at the Nature Center when the large macaw squawked loudly, and the toddler walked away, shaking his head, saying, "Frickin' A, bird."

Right?

A Dose Of Reality

After writing my last post, I continued reading Train Like A Mother, which is a fantastic read. It was going through various training plans, which I grumpily skipped through, knowing full well that I wouldn't be participating in any of them any time soon. Then came the section about injury-- and suddenly the text had my full attention. I wanted it so desperately to tell me some magic formula to calculate exactly when I would be able to start running again, but instead, it told me what I already knew-- rest, ice, and just wait it out.

Ugh.

It also said something I hadn't really considered. Training and racing through an injury could result in months of recovery, rather than a couple weeks, after a big race. As frustrating as sitting and waiting is, attempting to race with my injury could sideline me long term.

Frustrated but resigned, I told the husband my decision: I'm going to wait to do my first marathon.

My husband then responded with something I hadn't thought of, but definitely confirmed my decision.

You could do the race, but you'd be doing it knowing that you weren't able to train fully for it. Then you'd always be wondering "what if?", and you could never be satisfied with the time in which you finished. 

I got so many supportive comments from people I didn't even know read my blog, telling me to do the race, and just race to finish. I'll be so proud of myself for completing the race, and will be filled with so many good feelings. Ideally, this would be the case. Unfortunately, I hold myself to a (sometimes impossibly) high standard, and I know that completing a marathon would not be enough. I could run a marathon (well, once the injury heals), just like I was in good enough shape where I would have been comfortable if someone said, "Hey, we signed you up for a half Ironman next weekend... you down?". But just finishing something isn't enough for me. I need to know that I left my heart and soul on the pavement of that race. And being sidelined during peak training prior to a marathon does not allow me to do that.

So now I'm attempting something that I read from Train Like A Mother... pilates. It's odd going from feeling exhausted and sweaty from a workout to feeling like I burned a grand total of four calories in the hour (I'm going to find a different DVD, methinks)... but I know it's for the greater good.

It's for the greater good. Right?

Hopefully this mentality will stop me from cursing people I see out running lately. Apparently if I'm injured, my knee jerk reaction is EVERYONE ELSE SHOULD BE INJURED, CONFLABIT!

I'm working on it. I think I'm nicer when I'm running.

Undecided.

As I write, the front door is open, and a sweet, fall breeze is blowing into my home. The weather is cooling, the leaves are beginning to fall, and the scent of my favorite season is whispering its arrival. While the presence of Halloween decor on the store shelves and the anticipation of pumpkin patch visits usually sends me into a flutter of excitement, I suddenly feel like it is a cruel, miniature bully on the playground, throwing sand in my face and telling me I can't have a turn at four square.

Last week I did something I haven't done in a long, long time-- I logged zero running miles. The resting was meant to encourage my IT band to heal, but as I sit, I still feel the twinges of pain and the buildup of serotonin blockers as a result of my antidepressant being removed from my life. Fitness was not completely removed-- I still logged 80 miles on the bike, and was able to claim a couple Queen of the Mountains on Strava. But even with the exercise component still a part of my life, the absence of running felt like part of me was missing.

I thought about a survey I read in one of my running books. They asked how running made the person feel. "Running makes me feel _____." I thought about the opposite: "NOT running makes me feel _____."

Like a fraud.

This seems a bit like a hyperbole gone horribly awry. What's the big deal, really? I'm still exercising. I'm still maintaining my health. And once my IT band is healed, I can head out to the road and run my little heart out (only smarter this time to avoid injury).

But here's the thing. Today, September 10th, is the last day to register for the Kansas City Marathon before there's a fee increase. And we aren't in a position where we can afford for me to race at the increased price, but we also aren't in a place to register for a race that I won't end up being able to do.

So I'm stuck. I've got until midnight tonight to decide if I believe my IT band will heal enough in time for me to get enough training in to accomplish my goal of a sub 4 hour marathon. Add to that a week of not running and feeling really down on myself, I feel like I'm being absorbed into a giant vacuum of gloom and doom.

I wish it were just a marathon. It's just another race, and I can always sign up to do a different one later. But here's the thing-- Not to get all personal on the blogosphere, but I've been going through a (lot) bit in the past year-- a lot of personal stuff that I won't spew out into the internet world of pseudo-anonymity-- that I felt like was going to be the end of me. Super dramatic, right? But emotionally, I was in that place. And the thought of doing the marathon-- the Kansas City Marathon, where my long distance running really started a few years ago when I did my first half-- was my trophy. My reward, my reminder, that I can do hard things. That I can make it through the suck. That not only can I finish a marathon, survive a marathon, but I can thrive and do it in a time I can be really proud of.

Instead, I'm wondering if I'll even be able to run at all while the leaves are changing, while the air is cooling, and it's turning into those days where you can run at any time without fear of dying of heat stroke. Those perfect weeks in Kansas when you forget how twisted Mother Nature's sense of humor is.

So do I register? Do I have faith that I can heal, and I'll still be able to make a time that seems worth the race fee? Or do I suck up my pride, let it go, and spend a little while rocking myself in the fetal position while consuming copious amounts of chocolate?

I promise I'll be bouncier when I can run again. That should be incentive enough for anyone reading this to send happy healing vibes in the direction of my IT band.

The one where my cute husband runs a trail race.

We used to live in Utah. One of my biggest regrets is that we did not fully take advantage of what was offered there. Sure, we camped and hiked and all that jazz. But trail running? Real, nitty gritty mountain biking? Didn't happen.

Upon our return to Kansas, we both got more serious about our activity level. We got more competitive. We trained harder. We wanted to be examples to our children of how fitness can be fun and rewarding. Recently, we were awarded a sponsorship from our local running store, and the husband took advantage of the sponsorship to purchase some trail shoes.

He was so excited.

I love the idea of trail running, but with how many runs I do with the kids, and the lack of trail near our house (unlike Utah, where we would walk out our front door and get to a trail head up a mountain literally two blocks away-- oh, how I miss it!), I've opted to refrain and stick to paved stuff. So after going on a couple trail runs, he eagerly signed up for a trail race.

I brought the kids, and we excitedly showed Daddy off at the start. The race was eight miles, and we were told that we could catch them at one of the loops if we headed down a road near the start and parked our bums by the lake. Turns out, my husband is a bit too fast, and my pace is a bit too slow when I have a toddler walking with me, so we JUST missed him. Instead, we played by the lake, and the toddler climbed and the infant put inappropriate things in his mouth.

After what we thought was an hour, we headed up to the start. We were told the finish was the same place at the start, and when we arrived, there was no one there! Just porta-potties. Hmm... so a gal walked out of the John, and said she was going to head down the road and see if the finish was there. As we walked, up ahead was the husband, tired and sweaty. We missed his finish! We were and adorable, but slightly inadequate cheering squad. Ah, well. The husband made top ten (top nine if you take out the dog-- As the husband said, "It was a sled dog! That isn't even fair!"), and was going on about how much he loved trail running.



That afternoon, though, I got a text message.

"My clothes are full of ticks."

Hoo, boy. The past few days, the husband has been nursing lots of itchy bites from seed ticks. Who knew Benadryl would be part of a recovery regime from a race?

Sidelined.

Friday rolled around, and it was time to make arrangements for the long run. I knew I needed to get in 20 miles, and having taken a couple of rest days, I hoped my IT band would tolerate it. The husband had signed up for a trail race he had to be at by 8:00, so I knew the 20 miles had to start at 5.

I contacted my running friends. 5 a.m. was too early for their schedule, so I knew I'd go it alone.

This wasn't a big deal. I ran my 18 mile long run by myself, and had a beautiful loop to do it around. However, I've become more anxious about running alone in the dark, so I decided to do the first part of my run on the treadmill, and then finish outside when there was daylight.

Saturday morning, the alarm went off. I got dressed, grabbed my water bottles and my ipod, and headed out to the treadmill in my garage. I set up a fan for the illusion that I was actually moving rather than running in place, and started my run. I went through one podcast, and it was about all I could do to keep going. It was torturous-- after having spent years running on a treadmill or elliptical as I was in the throes of an eating disorder, I thought this wouldn't be a big deal. But I found myself instead glaring at the time ticking by, thinking, "Surely the sun has come up by now." I'd hop off, run to the garage door and peer out, only to be heartbroken by the pitch blackness that could have screamed "It's midnight!"

This happened several times between mile 5 and mile 7. After mile 7, though, I hopped off to check for daylight again, and found that I could barely walk.

My IT band was angry. Very angry.

In tears, I went inside and woke my sleeping husband. This was very selfish of me, because I know how nervous he gets before a race, and waking him up made it certain he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. I was a wreck, though.

I'm not going to be able to train. I'm not going to be able to get my goal time-- I don't know if I can even race! I wanted to do this for me, to prove to myself that I can do hard things, I can get through the crappy stuff. And here I am, sidelined, and it's totally out of my control. I'm so disappointed.

I cried into my husband's chest. The patient, sleep deprived husband of mine hugged me and said, "It's not out of your control. You're overdoing it. This is your body's way of saying you need to take a break. Spend some time training on the bike, and give your IT band some time to heal. Give yourself some time to heal."

So the past couple of days, I've been on the bike. I'll keep you posted as to whether it actually does me any good.