An Ugly Runner: Redefining Beauty

            I am an ugly runner. I trudge over the pavement. I do not float. I sweat, a LOT! When my body temperature rises, so too does the color of my skin. It progresses from tan, to pink, to a horrible blotchy red rash. On any given run, I am fighting shin splints, back pain, or neck and shoulder tension. My breathing becomes so marked that I sound like I am hyperventilating. Snot runs freely from my nose or from my nose into my throat giving my marked breathing a sickening rattle. I cough. I spit. I gag. I am uncomfortably aware of my wiggly parts. I am the antithesis of a pretty runner.

About six years ago, while running in front of Loyola College (now Loyola University) on Charles Street in Baltimore, Maryland, I lifted my head to determine my progress as I climbed what seemed like a never ending hill, only to see a very tall, very thin girl running toward me. With a high blonde ponytail that swung like a perfectly timed pendulum, and a light bouncing step, she trotted by me with ease. Her porcelain skin and unwrinkled matching Nike outfit were noticeably free of perspiration. As I trudged along in my bargain running clothes with sweat dripping steadily from my hair and forehead into my eyes, it took a considerable amount of will power NOT to stick out my foot and watch Little Miss Perfect face plant on the cement; tearing holes in her completely dry and unwrinkled outfit, while simultaneously scraping the skin off of her porcelain complexion and skewing her perfectly proportioned features.

Over the years, I have often been reminded of this run; while negotiating raised sidewalks, pot holes, and traffic in the Baltimore neighborhood of Roland Park as elite athletes with long smooth strides glided gazelle like by me; or while sweating buckets during humid summer days at the beach as college girls trotted by in sports bras, the only apparent bounce occurring in their perky little breasts. However, I was reminded of this moment most recently while running the Stone House Museum Half Marathon on September 11.

I began training eight weeks before the race, two weeks less than I had trained for last year’s Kingdom Challenge. The two-week loss in training, however, did not worry me since I had been running consistently throughout the summer. Two weeks into training my attitude changed as the height of the summer’s heat and humidity kicked into full gear. Every run felt like a struggle. The majority of runs were far slower than I had anticipated. My training regimen was inconsistent, due partially to an utter lack of motivation born from frustration with my training performance. Though the last eight weeks had been ugly, leaving me feeling physically, mentally, and emotionally unprepared, I forced myself to reassess my goals and slipped into bed the night before the race with only the hope of finishing, regardless of my time.

I woke up on September 11 to plentiful sunshine and frost; perfect weather for running. Even more perfect for running through the picturesque Vermont hills. I was less picturesque. Crawling out of bed at six in the morning rarely agrees me. Crawling out of bed to run in a race I am less than enthused about proves an even more frightful sight.

Standing on the starting line waiting for direction from the race coordinator, I began a conversation with a girl in her twenties who was excited to be running her first half marathon. She was what most twenty year olds are…perky, pretty, and peppy. Too peppy, I thought as I stood freezing my ass off while listening to her speak with enthusiasm about the next 13.1 miles.

In an instant, the race began and off she flew, her ponytail bouncing in perfect rhythm to her spring-like easy gait. If I had been next to her tripping her would have been my first thought. However, as I fought to keep her within my sight, I could only imagine her twisting her ankle as she stepped into one of the many potholes scattered across the dirt roads, or slipping on the loose gravel, scraping her ass and smearing dirt down her perfectly pert buttocks. At mile ten, when my energy was waning and my back seizing, she kicked into high gear and I lost sight of her. Forced to focus on finishing the race without the burning flames of envy beneath my bottom, I turned up my iPod, bent my back in an attempt to stretch it, and looked uphill at the last three grueling miles.

As I ran the last few yards to the finish line, I saw the peppy twenty year-old, standing on the sidelines cheering in a relaxed manner as if she had just returned from a day at the spa. Had I not glanced down at my clock and been astonished by my time (I shaved ten minutes off my last half marathon and was the third woman to finish overall) or failed to look into the beaming face of my daughter, my envy would most likely have turned to a deep burning hatred of all perky twenty year-olds. However, my accomplishment combined with the pride my daughter felt for her own accomplishment (she ran the shorter 5k occurring simultaneously as the half marathon) turned this beast into a beauty.

At that moment, I learned that no matter how ugly of a runner I may be, no matter how graceful and easy others may appear, my achievements and the achievements of my daughter are the essence of beauty; that though I looked hideous while running it, and even more frightful after running it, I had not only set a goal for my race, but had far surpassed even my own expectations. I had overcome my mental, emotional, and physical roadblocks. I had crossed the finish to look into the beautiful blue eyes of my daughter who, when asked about her own race exclaimed, “I won!”

Rain, Rain, GO AWAY!

          It is raining, again; reminding me that the warm, dry days of summer, in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, have once again, been unjustly evicted from the vicinity, by the cold, dampness of autumn. Days spent at the park, watching Lu, and her friends run wild with glee and excitement, while I enjoy the sun and adult conversation, will now become fewer, limited to those days without wind and rain. Bike rides, nature walks, and time spent digging in the garden will shorten like the days. Days will transform from unplanned and spontaneous time outside, to planned and creative time spent indoors, especially during those below freezing winter days, when fresh air freezes fingers, noses, and toes. I will feel the damp, the wet, and the cold creep below my skin until it crawls, forcing me to either venture out and find beauty in the glistening pavement, or find solitude in some sheltered location other than home.

            I find it difficult to believe that the wetness of autumn and winter never used to bother me. In fact, I used to look forward to those days when I could curl up on the couch with a pot of tea positioned next to me and an engaging novel clutched in my hand. During my four Oregon winters and eleven Baltimore ones, I made many trips to Starbucks. Memories of sipping a grande soy chai, or mocha, and nibbling on a pumpkin scone, both alone and with friends, fill my heart and warm my belly. I spent hours walking through Barnes and Noble, browsing the shelves for the next novel I would devour, the smell of freshly printed ink and bleached pages hovering heavily in the air, richly intoxicating. I would cradle one book after another in my hands, turn each cover from front to back, feel the resistance of the pages as I pulled open the book’s freshly bound spine, and listen for the crackle. The rain and the cold justified my lack of productivity. Fall and winter were times of rest, self-care, and rejuvenation.

            However, today, the autumn rain and winter cold remind me that I live in a house too small to accommodate the boundless energy of my highly inquisitive three year old. Autumn and winter no longer allow me the time to recharge, and rejuvenate, but rather tax my already exhausted system, as Lu and I bounce from one craft to the next, from one activity to another. I pray for the rain to stop and for the sun to appear. When the weather fails to cooperate, I pray for my child to nap. I lay next her, feeling her perpetual squiggling slow, and then stop. I listen for her breathing calm and watch her eyes drift shut and her face take on the peaceful visage of sleep. Creeping downstairs, I glance at a sink full of dirty dishes. I have hours to clean them, I do not have hours to sit, enjoy the quiet, and remember those days when autumn rain brought comfort and peace. I sit and enjoy.

My Soap Box on the State of Education

             Jody, like many men I know, is an intolerable channel surfer. The minute a show or movie transitions to a commercial his finger is clicking away on the remote control in search of another commercial free program. This drives me insane! So much so that we very rarely end up watching TV together for very long because his endless channel surfing more often than not results in missed scenes and half watched programs. When I begin a show or movie, I like to watch it continuously to the end, catching every tear, every smile, every laugh, every karate chop, and every bomb explosion. I utilize commercial breaks to grab myself a drink, a snack, or take a much-needed potty break. Most nights you will find me either nagging Jody to cease his endless channel surfing or, more likely, upstairs watching one of the programs he his downstairs flipping back and forth between. Therefore, imagine my surprise when last week, I found our roles reversed.

To say that education, and education in this country in particular, is an important issue to me is an extreme understatement. I chose teaching as a career, not only because I am passionate about learning, but also because I am passionate about the effects an enlightened education can have on individuals and the difference those individuals can make in society and in the world. Having attended both a Jesuit high school and college, I fully subscribe to the Jesuit philosophy that education should not only encompass the mind, but also the body and the spirit! That to study is to pledge a life dedicated to serving others. Therefore, I should have been thrilled when Jody came to rest on a program regarding the state of education in this country. However, I was soon begging him to change the channel before my blood boiled over, spilling from my body.

The program was, in reality, an interview. A Doctor of Education who specialized in the history of education, taught at a prestigious school, and who had over the years, been highly involved in the politics of education was interviewing a reporter who had just released a book outlining the problems with education in America. (I remember neither the man’s name nor the book, for good reason). I sat listening with interest, hoping that someone had finally published a book worth reading. I soon discovered that not only had this man NOT published a book worth reading, but that both this man and his book were only maintaining the political status quo and needed some serious educating of their own.

This man, like a large portion of the American population, believes that our educational systems are failing because teachers are not doing their jobs. He came to this conclusion by observing the actions of teachers in two New York City schools, one a charter school and one a regular public institution, though I must add that he never cited more than one teacher observation in the public school. According to this author, the teacher he observed in the public school was a lazy good-for-nothing, who did little more than sit at his desk, yell questions at his students, and wait for their response, whereas the teachers in the charter school were dynamic and interactive. This author argued that, as a result of these teaching styles, the children in the charter thrived and the children at the public did not, thus the stupidity of American children.

The argument that a teacher’s worth is based on the success of his/her students (which is measured through fact-based tests) is ridiculous and, frankly, a load of shit! The belief that a student’s success is not only the teacher’s responsibility, but also the school’s responsibility is the true reason our children are not achieving. The problem with today’s education is not the schools but the parents! Our society has allowed parents far too much freedom to shirk their responsibilities and place blame on teachers when their children are not achieving the unrealistic goals they have set for their children. Not only has education ceased to become the responsibility of the child and family, but disciplining, socializing, and even providing healthy meal options have ceased to be the parents’ responsibilities. Parents have rescinded their rights to the schools but have no issue criticizing and suing when those individuals involved do not act as the parents see fit. Teacher’s have their hands tied. That is not to say there are not horrible teachers currently standing in front of classrooms. However, every profession has worthless employees. Apparently, teaching is supposed to be exempt from the issues of humanity though.

During my years of teaching, I had several contentious parent meetings. I can say that the parents most irritated and angry with me, due to their child(ren)’s lack of achievement were those parents who did the least at home both in regards to their child(ren)’s schooling and disciplining, but resented my handling of their children. I very often wanted to ask these parents what they did for a living, and how they would react to me walking into their office telling them how to do their job. Until both children and parents are held accountable for their actions and educations, our country will continue to fall behind other industrialized nations. Until our country can break from the belief that all children are superstars and geniuses, destined to be professional athletes and CEO’s, every pursuit will end in disaster.

Watching this author interviewed on my television, I wanted to challenge him to stand in front of a classroom for a year; a classroom with forty two students, at least ten percent of whom have learning or behavioral issues, on top of the other children dealing with broken homes, poverty, and abuse; and then inform him that his worth as a teacher would be dependant upon his students test scores, and then savor the satisfaction of watching his face register horror and disbelief.

Sittin’ in The Red Zone of Heaven

            Throughout my elementary school career, no three words frightened me more than THE RED ZONE. The Red Zone was, in reality, several red zones, or painted red boxes, scattered around the edges of Sunset Elementary School’s paved section of schoolyard and reserved for those children who chose to disobey, act out, or disregard teacher instructions. Each day at recess, those children naughty enough to earn a trip to The Red Zone would sit inside those red boxes, isolated from their friends and denied the fun and freedom of outdoor play. Trips to The Red Zone while a temporary physical punishment were also accompanied by a dreaded mark on one’s permanent record.

            Earning a trip to The Red Zone was my worst nightmare; a nightmare I consciously avoided throughout my elementary school career. Never comfortable with unkind words or looks from the teachers I so admired, I strove throughout elementary school to listen, follow directions, and complete both class work and home work with care. I never dreaded a parent teacher conference or report card, but rather looked forward to the positive comments I was sure to receive; comments that my parent’s would hear and take pride in. The Red Zone, though a looming threat in my own mind, was never once threatened. Therefore, imagine my surprise, no my horror, when, in my last year at Sunset Elementary School, my worst nightmare came true with a trip to The Red Zone, and that highly dreaded mark on my permanent record.

           

            As a student eager to please, and used to being loved by my teachers, having a teacher that was indifferent to my charms was foreign and baffling. However, in the fifth grade my teacher, Mrs. F, was not only indifferent to my eagerness, but also unimpressed by my abilities. She was not, however, indifferent to Kay’s abilities. In fact, all Kay had to do was smile, and toss her blonde, ribboned curls and Mrs. F not only sung praises, but also practically broke into opera over the wonders of Kay. No matter how hard I worked, how well I behaved, Mrs. F’s loyalty to Kay could not be broken; everyone else was mediocre at best. Therefore, it should not have come as a surprise when one day after returning from a three-day absence without my homework completed (because I was deathly ill) that Mrs. F sentenced me to The Red Zone.  For me, a girl who had really only heard hushed whisperings of The Red Zone, a trip to The Red Zone, and for something as minor as not completing my homework due to illness, was not just surprising, but shocking.

            When Mrs. F asked me for the eagle drawing that was due that day, and I responded by telling her that I had yet to complete it due to my sickness, I expected her to obligingly allow me two or three more days to work on it. Instead, she stared at me crossly, told me I had been aware it was due for over a week, turned to her desk, pulled out the red slip indicating a sentence to The Red Zone and in the sickeningly perfect handwriting of an elementary school teacher began inscribing my name across the top. Each dainty swoop and swirl of the pen brought with it the unbearable screeching that accompanies nails being painfully scraped down a chalkboard. Stunned, I turned, walked zombie like back to my desk, and stared with unseeing eyes at Mrs. F as she began the next lesson. It was not until the recess bell rang and she forcefully thrust the slip indicating my internment into my hands that the reality of the situation hit me. Tears burned hot and fast down my face. Snot ran flood like down my throat and out of my nose. Gasping for air, unable to stop the torrential downpour, I lumbered my way out of the classroom and onto the schoolyard, The Red Zone looming before me. Next to me, my best friend, Laura, walked, arm around my shoulders consoling me, talking to me, trying her best to calm me by lessoning the torture, easing the pain.

            Time is deceptive. Memories tricky. As vivid as my memory of being sentenced to The Red Zone is, my memory of sitting in The Red Zone is short-lived and somewhat foggy. During the fifteen to twenty minutes I sat in that square, two things ring true; Laura acting as the perfect friend by giving up her entire recess to sit next me, just outside of that red square, and console me as I sobbed the entire time; and the sounds of laughter, jump ropes, and screams that daily accompany children at play.

            With Laura’s help, I managed to stop crying and finish my day in relative calm. Though I do believe the flood gates once again opened when that afternoon, upon being asked how my day was by my mother, I was forced to relive the nightmare that was my sentencing to The Red Zone. I was not only ashamed, but also feared my parent’s disapproval, their disappointment in the child that had never been in trouble. However, never normal, my parents reacted with laughter. The emotional trauma I had suffered was to them amusing; so amusing and poignant that my trip to The Red Zone inspired my father to write a country western song. The laughter and hilarity it brought my family dried up my tears and helped me to see the hilarity of the situation. However, Mrs. F’s lack of sympathy for my emotional state, as well as her never-ending loyalty to Kay (the name she chose for the daughter she had soon after my exit from the fifth grade), forever earned her my disdain.

A brief exert from Rodger Coupe’s Song “Sitting in The Red Zone of Heaven”

I’m sittin’ in The Red Zone of Heaven

Repenting for the sins of my life.

My Inner Geek: Back to School Excitement

I noticed this morning, while painfully struggling through a 10-mile run, that though warm and muggy, summer is beginning to wane; shadows are lengthening, clouds are becoming more prevalent, sunset creeps in a bit sooner with each passing evening and nights will soon require sweatshirts and long pants for warmth. The novelty of family time is beginning to wear on my patience as I yearn for the school year to begin, for Jody to return to work and Lu to start another year of pre-school. I am beginning to yearn for routine and the comfort and sanity that a predictable schedule delivers, while simultaneously mourning the end of summer warmth, spontaneity, fresh air and fun. And while all these thoughts swirl haphazardly in my head, I remember the anxiety and excitement that I felt, first as a student and then as a teacher, as the end of summer quickly approached.

Every year I was in school, since about the third grade through becoming a teacher, the end of summer brought with it a nightmarish, anxiety-inducing dream. One in which, I was standing outside my school (this varied depending upon where I was attending or teaching) holding my school schedule. Printed clearly on my schedule was the time school started, and my classroom or first period class. I was, as always, at school 15-20 minutes early, in order to allow myself the necessary time to find my classroom, and settle in to my desk. However, in my dream, I find myself wandering lost among the halls, unable to find my classroom. With each building I enter, each numbered door I pass, I feel my heartbeat elevating until, it is not only racing, but I am racing up and down hallways on the verge of tears. In some scenarios, I end up finally finding my classroom, only to walk into class late, producing embarrassment and mascara smearing tears. In other scenarios, I end up entering the wrong classroom, producing more embarrassment, tears, and extra anxiety. Each time I experienced this dream I woke up sweaty, teary, and extremely nervous about the coming school year. So much so that I often went to school days ahead of time, to find my classes, physically map out my schedule, and prepare myself for that first day.

Ridiculous! Yes, I know! However, school was and remains today one of my greatest joys and accomplishments. Jody likes to joke that if I could find a way to make money being a student, I would. I would most definitely be a perpetual student could I afford to do so. My feelings toward school are no different today than they were at thirteen, sixteen, or twenty-one. I bask in being a student, and was thrilled each year when the “Welcome Back” letter that so many students dread and abhor, cheerfully popped up in my mailbox.

Returning to school meant back to school shopping, not only for new trendy outfits, but also for school supplies. Choosing binders, dividers, pocket folders, and pencils made my heart super happy! Assembling and organizing my school supplies was akin to reading an incredibly engaging book! I became thoroughly immersed! It meant finding out and/or buying the books that I would be reading throughout the year, freshly cracking the spines of new books or inhaling the comforting musk of used books. Back to school meant seeing and interacting with friends regularly, as opposed to sporadically throughout the summer, due to conflicting family vacations, and camp schedules. It meant late night football games, acting in or attending school plays. Back to school meant new love interests and new friendships. It meant dances and dressing up. Back to school even meant the anticipation of vacations. It meant school spirit in the form of spirit days, homecoming, and rallies. It meant loving teachers, and hating teachers. Going back to school meant intellectual discussions, eye opening information, and life changing experiences. Returning to school was returning to life.

Each year I spent the day before the first day of school carefully choosing and laying out the next day’s outfit, checking and double checking my school supplies for any missing items, packing my backpack, packing my lunch, triple checking my schedule and situating all necessary items by the front door to ensure I did not forget anything important. After fretting, organizing, and arranging, I would then spend the rest of the day stifling my anxious excitement with phone calls to friends or the television. In the evening, I would lay in my bed lazily dreaming of the year to come, the future fun, and the dreams to capture. In the morning, I would wake, the geek in me fluttering with anticipation and excitement as I walked out the door and back to school.

            I must admit that because I am no longer teaching or in school, I find myself living vicariously though Lu. When she began school last year, I found myself fretting and fluttering as if it were my first day back. To date, Lu loves school, and seems to get as excited and anxious as I did throughout my life. I hope that of all my traits she has inherited a bit of geek. It will make her next 20 or so back to schools a lot less painful. However, if she is like her father when it comes to school…

My Sixteen-Year-Old Self: A Reflection and Contest Entry - Part 1

Thanks to the Diet Coke drinking habits of my husband, and Coke’s rewards program, I receive several magazine subscriptions free. One of the magazines I receive and read regularly is Martha Stewart’s Whole Living Publication. Each month the magazine asks its readers to submit answers to a question about health, life, and relationships. If your answer proves creative or endearing enough, it is published in the next month’s issue and you, the writer, win a variety of products. Each month, I take note of the winning answers, and contemplate how I would answer the next month’s question. However, I have never taken the initiative to enter an answer. Whether due to my lack of interest in the question, my lack of time, or the other more pressing issues topping my “to do” list, I do not know. This month, however, I had fifteen minutes and a passion for the question. Therefore, I decided to take the initiative and send Whole Living an email to their question, “If you could go back and tell your 16 year old self one thing, what would you tell her?” The following is that email:

I grew up in, what used to be, a small California town. As with most small towns, running to the store or enjoying a sundae at the local ice cream parlor was a social event, since we would inevitably run into one, if not two or three, people we knew. Misbehaving was out of the question, since getting caught was unavoidable. Though some people would find this sense of community stifling, I loved it. I continually felt loved and protected. Today many of my friends still live within a 30-mile radius of my hometown. I, however, have lived in four different states, in four different regions of the United States. It often pains me to watch my best friends raising their children together, having girl's weekends together, and continuing to bask in the joys of a small tight-knit community. I often have to remind the sixteen year old inside me, that the places I have lived, the experiences I have had, and the people I have befriended, though not what I had dreamed, have shaped me, my life, and my outlook, in a positive way, as opposed to a negative way. That though I do not have the life I once dreamed of, I have something more real and dynamic.

Running – Fitness, Confidence, and Serenity…NOW!

Fitness

My career as a semi-serious runner began shortly after moving to Baltimore and at the beginning of my third year of college. Always physically active (I played basketball throughout junior high, danced throughout high school, and during the first two years of college ice skated four to five times a week), I found myself three thousand miles away from home, at a new school and in a new town lacking the resources I had previously depended upon for physical exercise. Forming a relationship with Jody, an avid runner, was, therefore, propitious timing.

            When I first met Jody, and for months after meeting him, I was unaware that he was a runner, and an avid one at that. I knew that he swam in high school and college and that he coached two swim teams, a club team and his school’s team. I knew that he played tennis growing up. That he played golf and worked at a golf course one summer. I even knew that, as children, he, his brother, and their friends liked to play Evil Knievil by jumping bikes over each other while lying in the dirt. However, I did not know he ran. That is until I inquired as to his whereabouts after an almost two-week absence from work. He answered, “Ireland with my dad.” “Touring?” I asked. “Yes” he very nonchalantly answered, “but mainly went to run the Dublin Marathon.” I must admit that at that time I had no idea that a marathon entailed running 26.2 miles. My knowledge of marathon distance was limited to “many miles”, especially to run. I believe my jaw was slightly ajar in “ah” at the time. However, I must have appeared the gawking idiot as I pried further, only to find out that Dublin was not his first marathon. In fact, it was his third or fourth in addition to several triathlons.

As our relationship progressed from friendship to formal dating, Jody and I often talked about running and its physical benefits, but more importantly, we discussed the emotional and mental health benefits that he derived from hitting the pavement 5-6 times a week. It was these discussions, my increased lack of physical activity, and my desire to find a sport that did not require gyms, dance studios, or ice rinks that drove me to lace up my running shoes, which I had only ever run in once or twice, and to venture out for my first very painful, pathetically short run.

Confidence

            Not only were my lungs on fire, but I was developing a sharp cramp in my rib cage and I was only a quarter of a mile into what I hoped would be a two mile run. By a half a mile the cramp had worsened, my breathing had quickened, and my legs were beginning to feel gelatinous. However, I pushed on, hoping that I could get into a reasonable pace, take a deep breath, and, if necessary, complete the two miles I had hoped to accomplish without stopping to walk, even if it meant running at a snail’s pace. At three quarters of a mile, I stopped. The cramp had become so severe I could barely stand up straight. My legs were giving out on me and I was gasping for air. I was mad. Make that livid! My body was not doing what I wanted it to do and the confidence I felt ten steps into my run was now ground into the pavement by my sparkling new running shoes. I walked the three quarters of a mile back to my parent’s house feeling hopelessly defeated and questioning whether I would ever do this again.

My therapist once told me that anger is, in reality, a positive emotion. Unfortunately, individual’s negative actions because of anger have made it a taboo emotion. However, anger is a driving force, one that, when used positively can help achieve great things. Thank God, it is not in my nature to surrender gracefully. Otherwise, that first run would have been my last, depriving me of a life long sport, confidence booster, and coping mechanism.

The blind rage I felt at the end of that first run motivated me to venture out again, completing a mile; then again, increasing my runs by another half a mile, until I was running three miles regularly and working my way up to four miles, three to four times a week. During many of these runs, I felt like stopping, throwing my hands up in the air and saying, “Fuck it!” However, the thought of failing fueled my anger, forcing me to ignore the physical pain, silence the negative voices in my head, and focus on the finish.

Soon I was training for my first five-kilometer run, a small fundraiser that began and ended at Jody’s place of employment. Most novice runners would simply strive to finish the race, and if I were not such a perfectionist, I would have been smart to do so. However, being the perfectionist I am, I set two goals for myself. First, I vowed not to stop and walk and any point during the race. Second, I strove to complete the race in thirty minutes or less, a not unreasonable time considering the ten-minute mile average I had been maintaining.

The moment I committed to the race, my nerves were highjacked. The thought of stopping at any point during the race produced tears of frustration. The thought of finishing with more than thirty minutes on the clock made me want to scream. In order to calm my nerves and release some tension, I decided to run the course the race would take three or four times before race day.

Standing on the starting line early that misty Saturday morning, I thought I might vomit. My nerves were wound so tightly they would have twanged if plucked. When the gun went off signaling the start of the race, I stood stunned for a moment before I remembered that I must put one foot in front of the other. Heart pounding in my chest, I took off, remembering that three quarters of the race was a steady uphill climb, and pacing myself was the key to achieving both my goals. I plugged along steadily, watching a handful of individuals sprint by me, stop and walk, then sprint by me again a half a mile later. I trudged on trying to ignore the uphill climb by staring at my feet and the pavement in front of me. While reciting, “I think I can, I think I can” repetitively, I looked up briefly only to realize I had reached the summit. My heart leapt with joy. All I had to conquer was a downhill mile. I crossed the finish line in just over 29 minutes, having run the entire race.  

Driving home that morning, I felt accomplished and confident. I had not only set a goal and achieved it, but also overcome my own doubt and nerves. I had pushed myself both physically and mentally, running a distance that six months before would have been unthinkable. I had competed against myself, and I had won.

Serenity NOW!

            Most of my friends, and a few brave souls that have dared to ask, know that my daughter, Lucy, came into being through In Vitro Fertilization. Less well known is the severe post-partum depression I suffered approximately 5 months after her birth. Having a baby is a life altering experience. An experience that though joyful, is also physically, and emotionally, taxing. The coping mechanisms I had previously used in order to deal with stress, such as a couple of hours alone or the ability to have a good soul cleansing cry, ceased to be options with an infant whose every need I was responsible for meeting. Through intensive therapy, an hour every day when at my worst, I not only got to the heart of my anxiety and depression, but also worked on formulating a list of coping mechanisms that had worked in the past and could be fit into my daily routine with Lu. Conversation after conversation, list after list resulted in one reliable answer: exercise.

            When Lu was small, running was not the best option. We lived in Baltimore city. Pushing a running stroller in the street was unsafe. Pushing the running stroller over the pitted and pitched sidewalks was not only difficult but I feared would give Lu whiplash. Therefore, I turned to walking. The worse I felt, the more I walked. Most days I walked no less than 4 or 5 miles. My schedule soon revolved around my morning walks to Starbucks and when Lu was nine or ten months old, the playground. From 9am until noon, I walked. On the rare occasions Jody was not working, I snuck in a run. That walking, and those periodic runs, not only helped me lose what was left of my pregnancy weight, but also saved my sanity.

            In 2009, Jody and I moved to Vermont to create a better life for ourselves and for Lu. For the first time in the twelve years we had known each other, Jody would only be working one job. Shortly after our move, we began working on a schedule that allowed both of us the opportunity to exercise by alternating days or meeting up at the gym after Jody had had the opportunity to work out. I once again began running three to four times a week and lifting two or three times a week.

            In August of last year, I registered for a half marathon. I trained for ten weeks battling sickness and the inclement weather that a Vermont fall can produce. However, I also treasured those healthy days when my long runs consisted of brilliantly crisp, indescribably beautiful fall days through the Vermont countryside.

The day of the marathon brought with it freezing temperatures and snow. The route, described as moderately hilly by the coordinators, included a thousand foot climb. Despite these factors, I crossed the finish line a mere four minutes shy of my two-hour goal and surprisingly at peace with my “failure”.

            Motherhood, and life, remains as challenging as it did three years ago. The challenges just change with each passing day. The crushing depression I suffered from three years ago, periodically tries to rear its ugly head. However, it is on those bad days that I now lace up my running shoes, plug into my iPod, and bask in the knowledge that the next thirty minutes to an hour will bring me solitude, clarity, and an increasing sense of serenity.