Five Things You Should Probably Not Say to an Injured Runner (or any athlete for that matter)

Let's just say I've experienced my fair share of running injuries.  I've racked up as many injuries as I have race medals:  fractures, bursitis, plantar fasciitis, Morton's neuroma, IT-band syndrome, sprained ankle....and am currently awaiting the results of a recent MRI on my foot, an injury I actually incurred while playing hopscotch with my children.  Clearly, I was born to run!  I reckon I've received just about every reaction imaginable whenever I share that the reason I'm sidelined or in a boot yet again is from participating in the sport I love.  The responses run the gamut from empathy to incredulity, but there are a few that raise the ire of any lover of sport, so here is a list of five things you should refrain from saying to an injured runner, all of which have been said to me, at least once.

1.  Let me get this straight.  You're upset because you can't run 5, 10, 13.1, 26.2 miles......

Why, yes, I'm a little miffed that I just finished a twenty mile run two days ago for a marathon that I now can't complete because I have a broken ankle.  (That actually happened a few years ago.)  Just a smidgen to the right of disappointed and one notch away from bring on the ice cream, no, not the pint, the gallon, so I can smother my woes with caramel sauce and whipped cream.  You've read the bumper stickers; we runners run to eat, right?  Oh, wait, no, I can't run.  Just kidding.  Hold the ice cream.  I'll just have the caramel.

I apparently have the sort of demeanor where people feel comfortable saying anything to me, (i.e. a lady at a store once remarked to the clerk that I apparently don't care about my appearance because I had failed to wear makeup or my ex-pedicurist, who said my daughter was beautiful, so she must take after her father).  A couple of years ago, my ex-orthopedist actually laughed at me when I began crying once he shared the news that after four months of intense training, I would not be able to run a marathon because I had fractured my ankle.  He LAUGHED at me.  Yes, I take my running seriously. It takes six months to train for a race and about two to lose aerobic capacity.  This also makes it really frustrating because an athlete can go from the being in the best shape of her life to out of shape in a matter of weeks, which is how long recovery takes.  Wouldn't you be upset if you spent four months striving for a goal that someone ripped away just as it was days within reach?


2.  Running injury.  That's such a first-world problem, isn't it?   (Usually followed by awkward, annoying chuckle)

Nothing gets my Lululemon dog walking pants in a wad faster than this groundbreaking revelation.  Yes, I realize in the grand scheme of things that my inability to train for a few months doesn't amount to much, and chances are I've probably already been reciting this truth to myself multiple times in an effort to keep things in perspective.  In fact,  I toss this phrase around all the time when referring to my own inconveniences, but early on in my injury when I'm still reeling or late into my injury when I haven't had the stress-relieving benefits of exercise probably isn't the most apropos time to point this out to me.  Otherwise, I might have to restrain myself from taking my Prada purse and bopping you over the head.  Just kidding, I don't have a Prada purse; mine came from the Naturalizer outlet off the clearance rack. Runners know our injuries are first-world problems.  We also know that we are very blessed to be able to participate in running at all.  There are many individuals who aren't even able to walk.  Runners understand this and are beyond grateful for our abilities.  This realization, though, doesn't make injury any less annoying, painful, or disappointing.  In fact, many of us train specifically to benefit causes that we passionately support like building wells in developing nations or to raise money for cancer research.

3.  Running, huh?  If I'm ever running you better join in cause something's chasing me.

Yes, probably a mob of angry runners on crutches....  This statement is my favorite.  Ha!  IT. NEVER. GETS. OLD.  As a matter of fact, I heard it today from my MRI technician.  Ahhh, good times.....


4.  If you'd been sitting on the couch eating ice cream, this would have never happened.

Speechlessness usually follows this statement, then a stunned, "Ya serious?"  Yes, my commitment to exercise sometimes brings injury but so does sitting on the couch eating ice cream.  That practice can injure the heart, colon, brain, even.  As a matter of fact, this is a serious problem in America.  Maybe not the sitting on the couch eating ice cream, specifically.  (I like ice cream, all right....but I'm Paleo, so maybe, I miss it a little.)  Obesity and inactivity are serious dilemmas.  Perhaps distance running is a little extreme but so is inactivity, so what causes me to cringe about this non sequitir is that it's a dangerous one.  I might get injured so I'm going to sit on the couch and do nothing isn't really an option for me.  I prefer to accept the risks that living life to what I believe is its fullest might sometimes bring.

5.  Hey, now you have an excuse not to exercise.  

Yup, I was looking for a reason not to exercise, so I decided to break a foot, twist an ankle, injure a knee.  If someone is injured training for a triathlon then perhaps she isn't really looking for an excuse to avoid exercise.  Exercise makes me happy.  It releases endorphins, relieves stress, burns calories, makes my body more adept at controlling insulin, protects against heart disease, cancer, and Alzheimer's, improves mood, has been shown to alleviate depression as effectively as antidepressants, prevents memory and muscle loss as I age.

Ok, so I've been harsh, but for those of us who really love to run, bike, swim, step, dance, Cross Fit, weight lift, walk, Yoga, fill in the blank, not being able to participate in our sport can be down right depressing.  See how snarky I've become, and I've only been sidelined for a week.  If you aren't sure what to say, here's what every injured athlete would love to hear:

Bless your heart.  You know, I may not get your commitment to this particular sport, but I realize this must be quite a disappointment for you.  I'm sorry you're injured.  Would you like to go get a (Paleo-approved coconut milk) ice cream covered in (75% cacao) chocolate? My treat.

I'll eat to that!  And, maybe, when I've healed, we could even go for a nice, easy jog.

Sporting Motives

The thump of basketballs hitting the old hardwood floor resonates off the brick walls of the gym.  I enter timidly, overwhelmed by the din of excited voices shouting over the dribbling balls and the occasional squeak of a shoe.  Because I am tall for my age, I have decided that I should go out for basketball.  Because I am clumsy, I become well-acquainted with the wall underneath the goal, where each time I go for a layup, I inevitably trip, fly through the air, and slam into the bricks.  At the end of the week of practice, the coach walks up to me and simply says, "Arthur, I didn't order you a pair of shoes."  Perhaps, one needs more than height to successfully play basketball.  You know, things like skill.  I nod as a sign of my understanding that I would receive no playing time that year, rub my bruised knees, then hobble away in pursuit of my next athletic disaster.

To say I lack athletic prowess is an understatement.  Allow me to offer evidence in defense of my hypothesis.  In P.E., where we geeky, athletic misfits would go to endure our daily hour of humiliation, our coach insisted that we learn to play volleyball.  I'm tall.  Volleyball players are tall.  What was there to lose?  Not once in my fifty bazillion attempts did I ever actually serve the ball over the net.  In class, every time the line would rotate, and we inched closer to my turn to serve, I'd break out into a sweat, the kind where even if I'd wanted to grasp the ball in my hand, it would have slipped out of my dripping wet palms onto the floor.  I was such an appalling volleyball player that one girl, we'll call her Nancy Blue, would shout taunts at me, "You're terrible.  Why can't you just serve the ball?" or my favorite, "Let's just go ahead and give the other team a point."  Once, she had me so flustered that I served the ball directly into the coach's nose.

What Nancy didn't know is that when I went home in the afternoons, I took an old basketball and bounced it against the brick exterior of my house, spending hours attempting volleyball drills in an effort to improve.  I jumped and set the ball until my calves ached and my fingertips throbbed.  I'd rather have walked barefoot over shards of glass than play volleyball or dodge ball (don't even get me started on the disaster that was dodge ball) in P.E., but my disdain for those sports didn't prevent me from working overtime to improve.  In fact, it wasn't that I hated the sports, I actually enjoyed participating.  I despised the taunts when I failed to perform them perfectly.  I simply wanted an opportunity to enjoy the game for the sake of enjoying the game.  I had a high aptitude as a student; learning for me was natural and effortless, yet I didn't stand over students who didn't master materially as quickly as I and jeer them.  That would have been cruel, but it seemed to be accepted as part of the game in sporting endeavors.  Though it lacked a name then, I think we now call that charming practice "trash talking."

Next stop on the athletic train wreck was gymnastics.  Because I'm tall, I should attempt gymnastics. Oh, wait, that doesn't fit.  Well, it didn't stop this gal from ten years of gymnastics lessons.  Seriously, on day one, someone should have pulled my mom aside and asked, "Do you realize her legs are longer than the next tallest student?  You've watched the Olympics, right?  Most gymnasts are really tiny, nothing like your daughter."  But no, they happily robbed my mom blind for the next ten years, while I attempted to learn just enough gymnastics to make cheerleader.  I barely noticed how ridiculously awkward my clumsy frame must have appeared next to all of the sleek, peppy tumblers who surrounded me.  I had my eyes on one prize and that was accomplishing a back handspring for tryouts, a goal I failed to accomplish, though somehow, I did make cheerleader.  Perhaps, it was because I forced my mom to record me doing my jumps over and over, so I could review them on video, critiquing my form and searching for ways to improve.  I would practice my arm movements by standing against a wall, so my arms wouldn't overextend, keeping my cheers sharp.

Most people would have given up, not just on sports but on physical fitness in general, but I think, as most of my posts attest, I'm not your average bear.  I'm a slightly imbalanced, hopelessly optimistic bear who apparently doesn't like to consider its limitations.  Some might even go so far as to call that bear delusional, but I like to say it's determined and unrelenting.  I learned, though, at an early age, and mostly through school P.E., which is supposed to be about teaching habits of lifelong fitness, that if you aren't skilled in athletic endeavors that you don't even deserve a seat at the table, or on the bench in my case.  I was learning to associate physical fitness with torture, humiliation, and a showcase for my lack of finesse.

We live in a competitive, dog-eat-dog society, where, as Ricky Bobby so aptly summed it up, "if you ain't first, you're last." I live in the heart of the SEC, where athletic excellence is king, no matter the cost.  Stories abound of parents pushing their children to burnout, spending thousands of dollars on private coaching, so their child can be the best.  Athletes are heralded as superstars and heroes.  Only the best will do, but what about the rest of us.  While it's fun to watch athletes who are really great at sports compete, is there a place in the world of sports and fitness for us mere mortals who also enjoy competing?  According to the CDC, 80 percent of Americans don't get the recommended 2.5 hours a week of moderate aerobic activity, in a country where 65 percent of us are overweight.  While exercise is only 20% of the equation in the battle of the bulge, exercise provides a whole host of health benefits beyond simply weight control.  Could it be that after experiences like mine, many of us are too browbeaten to endure what we think will be a repeat of fifth grade physical education?

Fortunately for me, I have a mom who values fitness and who valued her children's interests and worked with us until we found the right athletic fit.  My mornings of getting up at 6 am before school to workout with my mom paid off when, on the day of the President's Physical Fitness test, I found I was a decent runner,  actually finishing the mile run with the fastest time for the girls.  What? What?  I was good at something that didn't involve a book.  After that, I was hooked and despite not having a track or cross-country team, I discovered 5Ks, half-marathons, and eventually, marathon.

Now, that I have children who are old enough to compete in sports, I worry about what sort of athletic experiences they will encounter and what my role will be in encouraging them toward a lifestyle of fitness.  Will they learn that the goal is to be the best and to win at all costs, or will they discover the value and joy inherent in maintaining a life of physical activity?  I see shades of mine and my husband's super-competitive drive in my six-year-old son at his soccer games, and I often find us encouraging his aggressiveness.  My son plays to win, asking repeatedly, "What's the score?"  My daughter, who also loves soccer, plays for a much different reason.  She enjoys the drills, the practices, but more than anything, she loves the relationships she develops with the other girls on the team and the simple joy of the sport.  She isn't the best player on the team, and she may never be;  I find myself wanting to encourage her to be more competitive to play with more fire like her brother.  But why?  Will it really matter if she's never Mia Hamm?  Who cares if she just plays for the love of the game, as long as she's trying her best?

It's such a fine line to walk as a parent.  Don't misunderstand.  I'm not an "everybody wins, everyone gets a trophy" kind of girl.  Not everyone gets a trophy in the real world and winning and losing are part of living in the 21st century.  I love sports and healthy competition; I'm just not gifted to play them competitively.  Sports have value for our kids, too.  According to livestrong.com, kids who participate in athletics perform better in school, are less likely to abuse drugs, have good relationships with peers, and better overall health.  Yet, when the focus shifts from the benefits of teamwork, physical fitness, and fun to simply winning and being the best, I wonder if that isn't where we lose folks on the path to lifelong fitness habits.

I've learned a lot from my ups and downs with fitness, and these are the lessons I desire to pass on to my little ones.  So guys, as you enter into the exciting world of sports, here's what I hope you'll remember:

Mommy's first marathon

1.  Anyone can become an athlete.  Even clumsy bookworms like your mom.  As I discovered in my fitness quest, it's really about discovering what activity you enjoy, something you look forward to doing, rather than dread.  Just because you aren't an all-star baseball player, doesn't mean you're a sporting failure.  Who knows?  You might be a champion swimmer.  It takes time and
 in my case, tons of trial and error, but don't be discouraged; there's an activity out there for you.

2.  Fitness must be a lifelong endeavor, not simply something in which we participate in high school or college.  Most of us will never play at the collegiate or pro level.  While playing on a team in high school is a great way to learn about teamwork, fitness, and competition, most participants will not earn a scholarship or achieve great success beyond high school, which is why it's important to find an aspect of the sport or  activity that you love and can continue to participate in beyond your school years.

3.  Simply because you might not play at the collegiate or pro-level, doesn't mean you should give up your sport once you become an adult.  There are hundreds of recreational, club, and intramural opportunities to continue participating in the sport you love.

4. You're never too old to try something new.  Your father didn't discover his aptitude for biking and running until he was in his thirties, and he even competed in the world duathlon championship.  He's a competitive Power Man participant.  Your mom ran her first half-marathon in her late twenties.  I plan to complete my first triathlon this summer after my 40th birthday!  The sky's the limit, little ones.

5.  Athletics teach you that you're capable of so much more than you imagined.  For your mom, participating in sports has taught me never to give up and that anything worth achieving in life requires hard work, lots of prayer, and a positive attitude.  I've always been a bit of the underdog in my athletic ventures, but I've discovered that I like having the opportunity to surprise, not just the naysayers but myself, as well.  Few things will bring you greater satisfaction than crossing the finish line of a 26.2 mile run, knowing that you didn't quit when training got tough, that you set a goal and followed through, that despite wanting to give up a hundred times, God gave you the encouragement and stamina to see it through.  These lessons translate to life, too, little ones.  What we learn on the field, in the gym, and on the trail teach us how capable we are.  That with God's help and guidance, we can conquer obstacles that seem insurmountable.  If your mom had given up after those basketball drills or the one year she didn't make cheerleader, tossed her sneakers into the closet and settled for a sedentary life, she would have never discovered just how fun and vital an aspect fitness is to a truly fulfilling life.

6.  Competition isn't about being the best; it's about being your best.  Don't compete with others.  Compete with yourself.  Even the bible warns us of the danger of worrying about everyone else's race.  Focus on your unique races, my loves, and challenge yourselves to be the best you can be.  We work at everything as if working for the Lord, but that doesn't mean we have to be the fastest or the most skilled.  There will always be someone faster, taller, better.  We simply need to focus on being our best.

7.  Some athletes make great heroes; many don't.  My heroes are the breast cancer survivor who finishes her first 10K, the seventy-year-old who has run a marathon in every state, the disabled young man who climbs Mt. Everest, the girl who was told she may never walk again who crosses the finish line of a half-marathon, the young woman who stops in the middle of a track competition to help an injured competitor across the finish line, the overweight young man who has the courage to sign up for his first 5K.  Those are my heroes, and I hope they will be yours, too.

So, you see guys, fitness is about more than making the team, winning the game, or getting a scholarship.  It's about having the courage to play, setting and accomplishing goals, not giving up or settling for less than your best, oh, and having fun. So, if you find, like mom, that maybe basketball, cheerleading, gymnastics, dodge ball, softball, and volleyball aren't for you.  Don't give up.  There's a thousand more activities just waiting to be tried, and along the way, you'll also discover just how wonderfully made you truly are.

New Workout

The Mercedes Marathon is next week, and I can't run. I had wanted to run the half with my sister, who is running her first half, but my IT band has said, "NO!" I was okay with it until I started hearing people talking about 10 and 11 milers and training runs, and I'll admit, I turned a little green with envy. I know, how could someone be envious of someone else running 10 miles, but as a runner, there's something about training and knowing the reward is crossing the finish line of a marathon. I thought after taking off a year from running, I'd be able to train with no problems, but it seems right now, four miles is the magic number then my IT band begins to shout, "STOP."

So, to ease my non-training blues, I decided to try a new class at the gym: Boot camp. That's right, boot camp. Scary name and yes, scary class. I haven't felt as awkward as I did in this class, since sixth grade, when I had Annie Orphan curls, braces, my limbs were long and gangly, and I was actually wondering why I couldn't get a date to my first dance. Then when a poor guy agreed to attend the band dance with me, I rewarded him by wearing a white sweater with sparkly silver threads, on which my mom decided to sew a sequin saxophone, because, hey, I played the alto saxophone in band. I completed the ensemble with a silver skirt and white and silver granny boots. I don't recall a second date. Anyway, haven't felt that awkward again until I walked into boot camp.

The first thing I see is a very fit instructor with a whistle, who appears to have actually conducted boot camp out in the real world, shouting commands. "Grab your weights, do 1 lap of walking lunges, then 1 lap on the track. We'll do four repeats." I hope by repeats he doesn't mean repeating the entire process four times. He did. I return from my last lap winded with my legs already shaking. A glance at the clock revealed we were only ten minutes into the class. "Yipee!"

I can't really remember what happened after that. I'm pretty sure there were tortuous sit-ups, not regular crunches, but some sort of angling and pulling your knees to the side while lifting your torso off the ground. And there were push-ups, yes, lots of push-ups. I stumble up from my last push-up to hear, "Now we're going to do burpies." "Did he say hurt-mes because that's exactly what he should have said." From burpies we move on to squat jumping jacks right into triceps dips with leg lifts. Repeat three times. And now I actually see him demonstrate the following for our next move. He squats low and proceeds to do bicep curls from the squatting position. We follow and don't stand until we've done three sets from the squat. At least we weren't "supposed" to stand. By now my body is screaming and there are still 15 minutes left in class. I'm quickly learning lifting your son out of the crib does not count as an upper body workout.

I finally finish my first boot camp experience and am walking out the door, when the instructor runs up and hands me a t-shirt. You get the prize for working out the hardest today. (Apparently, prizes are common in boot camp class, or else I can't imagine many people would attend.) What?! There's a prize! Is the prize for working out the hardest or because the instructor felt sorry for me because he thought I was going to pass out? I'm not sure; all I know is I survived, and if I can walk by next Friday, I'll try again.

A Little Encouragement

I love being a mom for millions upon millions of reasons. One of the many joys of parenthood are the sweet little voices of my children as they encourage and affirm. Like when A sees her daddy running and excitedly cheers, "Go, daddy," then turns to me and proudly says, "My daddy runs fast." Today she encouraged her mommy, who does not run fast.

The Hill looms before me like Everest. I have no idea how long this hill really is; I just know when you stand at the bottom with a desire to run and a double jogger filled with two children and books, it is quite intimidating. "I can run this," I tell myself. I haven't run a hill since having C, so this is my first time in over a year and a half to run up anything steeper than a speedbump or maybe the curb to TCBY. I begin to push and slowly trudge up the bottom quarter of the hill. Maybe I can't run this, yet. My legs are already aching from an attempt to do Tae Bo a few days earlier.

"All right, Pumpkin. Mommy's going to need your help getting up this hill." A understands Mommy needs encouragement and does not intend for her to get out and help push the stroller. "You can do it, Mommy," she says. I begin to run again all the way to the half-way point. I stop and look up. The hill is steep and I can feel my heart beginning to pound. "Keep running, Mommy. You can do it," my daughter cheers from the stroller. "You're right, sweetheart. Mommy can do this."

I take a deep breath and with determination try my best to sprint the last half. I can only imagine what I must look like. I can't seem to get my heels down and am running mostly on my tip-toes. A car passes by slowly and the driver rolls down the window and shouts what I think is, "What a feat!" That's what I hear at least. Of course, he could have been shouting, "Pick up your feet." But I am encouraged nonetheless. I finally crest the hill and hear A shout, "You did it, Mom." We both say, "Yea," then I add a, "thank you, God and thank you, A for encouraging mommy." We run back down to the bottom of the hill; C sleeping soundly through our entire run. I look back up and realize that the hill probably isn't more than a quarter of a mile but for A and me, today, we conquered Everest.

Obstacle Course

Once you've run a marathon, it's hard to stop. (Running marathons in general, not that specific marathon.) Something about the thrill of training and pushing your body to its limits drives you to keep striving to complete more races, faster. After a 1 1/2 year training hiatus, I have decided to run a half-marathon in December in honor of C 's birthday and a half in February in honor of A 's birthday. Two halves make a whole, right? I realize this endeavor, though, will be met with challenges not faced in my last training regiment; challenges like training with two children and a double jogger.

Challenge # 1 Getting to the track
"All right, Pumpkin, let's go." I coax A out the door, while holding C on one arm and my purse on the other. I have just finished loading books, snacks, a sippy cup, my water bottle, and sunscreen into the car.

"It's too sunny."

"Then get your sunglasses." I walk out the door to put C into his car seat. A comes out onto the porch. "Come on, sweetie, let's go."

"It's too shiny," she musters in her most pitiful voice.

"How about you close your eyes, and I'll carry you to the car? That way you won't see the sun so much."

"Okay." I start the car and back out the driveway. One mile later, we arrive at the track. "No, don't turn off Veggie Tales." I refrain from rolling my eyes and whining myself and wait patiently for "Message from the Lord" to end. I unload the stroller then load it down with at least five books, snacks, my cell phone, Walkman, sippy cup, water bottle, and a toy for C . Then I buckle A and C into the stroller.

And....we're off......and make it at least three feet when I hear, "I want my snack." I hand A her snack and start to jog.....and make it three more feet when I hear, "I want my juice." I try to hand A her juice while running without falling and decide to play it safe. I stop the stroller, hand her the cup, wait for her to drink, put it back in the stroller and start my run. By the time we get to the half-mile marker, C is snoozing and A has settled into a book. I just hope reaching into the storage section of the stroller 50 times for books, water, and snacks counts as ab work.

Challenge # 2 Connor's nap
When I resumed running after giving birth to my sweet boy, he didn't immediately settle into a stroller nap. No, I was usually the woman sloooowwly pushing the double jogger with the howling baby. Once I made it to the half-mile marker, if C were still awake, I'd take him out of the stroller, place him in the front carrier until he fell asleep, then I'd ease him back into the stroller and finish my run, A waiting sweetly and patiently the entire time.

Now naps are routine, but there are no guarantees. Take, for instance, two days ago, when running down the trail, my little ones and I were greeted by the clink-clink-clink of a jackhammer. Of course, a jackhammer. Why wouldn't there be a man with a jackhammer in the middle of the Greenway? C , jolted awake, began to whine. Big sister, though, came to the rescue with entertainment (silly faces), and he was occupied until we got back to the car.

Challenge #3 Rainy Days and Detours
When it rains, the trail floods. When the flood recedes, there is mud, lots of mud. After a particularly rainy stretch, I give it a few days then decide to attempt running the trail, hoping to find ways to avoid the really muddy areas. We park in a new spot, which A noticies immediately, and enter the trail from a drier area. I jog down onto the path, where I am greeted by a woman walking. "The trail is under water up there." "Really?!" I exclaim, surprised. That particular area never floods. "Yes, but you can go see for yourself if you want to," is her curt reply. "Thanks," I respond. It's not that I didn't believe her. My "really" was more an interjection of surprise. We turn around and run through the parking lot of an office complex, which happens to be next to a fire station.

Now, we detour by the fire station whether it's muddy or not. Even when I try to keep on the trail, I am usually halted by a voice shouting, "Fire truck, mommy." What can you do? I just count it as extra training.

Challenge # 4 Heat
Really, what else can you say but, it's hot in August in the south. Real hot when your running. Fortunately, not so much when your lounging comfortably in the shade of the stroller.

Benefits
The benefits of hauling twenty pounds of books, snacks, sippy cups, and water bottles to the trail and hoping that my two sweethearts will sit or sleep patiently certainly outweigh the burdens of the challenges, though. While taking detours, I've shared with my daughter the amazement of seeing a flock of geese waddle around before taking off in beautiful flight. Her face shining with excitement as she exclaims, "Goose, mommy, lots of goose." We've seen the brook babble quietly on water stops. A , C , and I have watched firefighters wash the fire truck and new puppies test the limits of their leashes. While running, I've leaned over the stroller and read to A her favorite books, albeit a little winded. Me, not the books. I've overheard A and giggling as A 's silly antics entertain her brother, so her mommy can finish a 45 minute run. And, I continue to be amazed by how what I so often perceive as inconvenient stops are really opportunities for God to reveal small jewels of wonder.

And through this all, I am hopefully teaching my children small lessons about setting goals and accomplishing them and am teaching them a lot about discipline, faith, and perseverance. And they, too, are teaching mom; teaching me about patience and finding joy in the "little" things.

Humble Pie

Sweat drips off my ponytail and slides down my back, where it hits the waistband of my shorts and is absorbed. It's barely nine o'clock, and the heat index has already soared to 100 degrees. I run, trudge, really down the greenway searching eagerly for the mile marker. C is sleeping and A reads. Finally, I see it, just past the bridge. Four miles! I have run four miles!

While it might seem a small accomplishment to someone who just 1 1/2 years ago ran an entire marathon, it is my first four miler since having C . And, I did it despite the heat. I step across the line painted onto the trail and raise my hands, "Praise God." Then begins my little celebration. I dance a few steps, while thinking, "I am Mommy; hear me roar!!! I did it; I did it; I'm awesome." I'm so excited that I even call my husband from the trail. "I ran four miles today," I exclaim breathless from my celebratory dance. "That's awesome," he responds, knowing how much that little accomplishment means to me.

Then I see something up ahead that catches my eye. A woman running with a double jogger similar to mine. She is pushing two children about A 's age, maybe a bit older. AND she has a dog. She is running with two children AND A DOG. I just ran with two children. My golden retriever is home lying under the table on the patio wondering if she could actually dig under the patio for cooler ground. I lower my head and nod sheepishly as she passes, hoping that if she saw the celebration dance that perhaps she thought I had just run 50 miles, not that it really matters what she thinks. "We're not there, yet," I say as she passes, and honestly unless Dell starts running herself probably won't be for a long time. She smiles....Ms. Superfit....and I realize that whenever you pray for a more humble attitude, God answers, sometimes right in the middle of you puffing up your chest and shaking your tailfeathers. And while I believe God celebrates my accomplishment with me, I think there are times I need to be reminded that my ability and accomplishment come from His grace alone:)

Colossians 3:12
So, as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.

Things You Don't Want to Hear While Running

Running. My favorite hobby. Really, it is. I love the feel of the pavement under my feet, the labored breathing, the rush of endorphins after a long run that make you feel like anything is possible. The reality is lately running has become more of a chore than a joy. With the rainy, rainy, rainy weather (did I mention the rain?), working around nap schedules, and just trying to get motivated through a haze of sleep deprivation, running has become something else to check off the list of daily duties. But I'm ready to move beyond that. After stepping on the scale, I am reenergized with a new level of motivation....a high level of motivation. So today, I loaded up the stroller and my two angels and hit the trail, where I discovered that there are several things you'd rather not hear while running, especially when you are trying to find running encouragement, not running discouragement!

1. There is a snake up ahead.
Determined and as I mentioned earlier, motivated, I reach the start of the trail with happy children. I notice an older lady sitting on a park bench, dabbing sweat onto a towel. She makes eye contact, nods, and says, "There's a snake up there. I tried to scare it away, but I don't know." "Okay, thanks." I slowly proceed while thinking, "A snake. A snake?! Is it coming back? How big was the snake? Where was the snake EXACTLY?" I decide to go ahead and run since there are lots of other people, who warned, continue to run and will hear me scream and come to my rescue. My eyes frantically comb the sides of the trail most of the entire run until I hear one disgruntled stroller passenger begin to express his frustration and grow distracted. Fortunately, no snake ever appears.

2. Run, mommy.
"Run, mommy." I hear A call as I trudge along. "I am running, sweetheart. Been running for several minutes."
"Then run faster!" she calls. I'm running as fast as I can behind a double jogger holding over 50 lbs. of children, two pounds of snacks, and ten pounds of books. If I were running any faster, passersby would be phoning the paramedics. I shrug and keep my "blistering" pace up for at least two miles, when I hear it. Faint at first, but growing stronger.

3. WAAAAA!
C begins to cry. Loudly. I made it to the two mile marker running, unfortunately, it is two miles back to the car. C 's discontent is now leading to A 's. Soon both children are whining, crying, and yelling. So, I unstrap C from the stroller and into the front carrier and walk, quickly, stopping every few minutes to tell A to sit back before she falls out and to pick flowers to add to her stroller floral collection and to gently bounce C in an attempt to calm him down. Forty-five minutes later we arrive back at the car. Yea! Four miles- ninety minutes. Must be a new record for my running speed.

Despite the challenges, though, I did it. One more workout. Another challenge. I thank God for giving me the ability to run, the opportunity to run, and tell myself something I do need to hear. "Good effort." I look at my children, who are now content, and smile, hoping they are learning a little something about perseverance from their mommy and her effort to continue a hobby she enjoys so much.

Mercury Rising

I was sitting at the computer when I heard a hissing sound and loud pop outside on the porch. When I went outside to inspect the cause of the noise, I noticed broken glass from the thermometer. Apparently, the mercury had risen so high, so fast, that the thermometer just exploded.

Okay, I just completely made all that up; I don't even own a thermometer, but as hot as it has been the past few days, that could certainly happen. The termperature has climbed to the century mark and walking outside is truly like walking into a humid oven. Why your oven would be humid, I don't know, but if it could, it would feel like my front yard. I say all that to say that my running during pregnancy dream has become just that, a dream, nightmare really.

When I found out I was expecting, I experienced a sense of excitment. This time I had no broken ankle, no out-of-shape lungs. I was in the best shape of my life and ready to run during all nine months. I just forgot to factor in the extreme heat and humidity of southern summers. They're hard enough to bear when you aren't carrying around another person, while pushing in a stroller a thirty-pound toddler. I know, I know, women run during pregnancy all the time, but do they live in the south? No, I'm convinced these women, I only read about but never actually see, live in Minnesota or Seattle.

Truth is, I could run, but I just don't feel that it is safe for the baby. Maybe I'm being overly cautious, but when God places the care of a developing fetus into your hands, that is no small task. So, I've resigned myself to long walks, spin, pre-natal Yogalates......and lots of naps. Honestly, I'm rather enjoying the break from training and (get ready to laugh here) racing. I've forgotten how comfortable and enjoyable a stroll can be. It's nice to not feel the overly-driven, super-competitve urge to push myself. While I think stretching what I once thought were my limits is good for me, it probably isn't the best idea during pregnancy or heat waves. And I find that I'm now having dreams of my post-pregnancy comeback half-marathon and quite content waiting until after the baby is born to reach that goal.

On the Run, Okay Jog

I am not Paula Radcliffe.

Many of you are probably saying, "duh?!", while others are asking, "Who?" Ms. Radcliffe is the British marathon extraordinaire, who managed to run 7 to 8 minute miles while 7 months pregnant. I like to refer to her as superwoman! I planned to run throughout my second pregnancy, but when I concocted this brilliant plan, I was not yet pregnant. As with all great ideas, I'm sure it sounded brilliant at the time. After burning up the track today with 12 minute miles, a heart rate of 155, and incredible nasuea, it doesn't sound like as much fun anymore.

Seriously, I do plan to try and continue running with this pregnancy. I like a challenge, and since my doctor has given his okay, and I know it is safe, I think it will be fun to push my changing body, ever sluggish as it may be. But, it is so much harder now that I am expecting. My heart is racing before I even begin, and I feel like I am literally trudging my growing body through sludge with every step. Add to that the stroller, and I really just feel like whining. "It's toooo haaarrd!!!" Since we're trying to break our sweet girl's habit of whining, I try to keep my own to a minimum, but the frustration of having to back off so much to keep my heart rate in the safe range and the added difficulty of just being pregnant is bringing out the whiner in me.

What is wrong with me? I see pregnant women running all the time with a spring in their steps and a smile on their faces. I almost passed out when upon finishing a 10-K with a decent time, a woman at least six months along finished not too far behind me. And I wasn't expecting at the time! I've read stories written by women who raved about their ability to run right up until delivery with no trouble. Are they serious? Was their run really a fast walk with a bit of a kick? Who knows?

I think I've just decided that attempting to work out during pregnancy, much less run, is of great benefit to the baby and me regardless of the intensity. I pledge during this pregnancy not to be so hard on myself, to quit comparing my current fitness level to my pre-pregnancy fitness level, to stop comparing my pregnant running self to the expectant sprinting of professional atheletes, and to just enjoy the fact that pregnancy allows me to take it a little easier. Before I know it, A and her new brother or sister will be begging for mom to make the stroller go faster, and I'll be back to my sprinting shape in no time.

Iron Man

1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike ride, 13.1 mile run. I stare at the numbers in awe, mouth gaping. A runner only, and having completed one 26.2 mile race myself, I still look on at the athletes surrounding my daughter and me and feel incredibly intimidated. I couldn't imagine running 1.1 miles after spinning for 60 minutes, much less biking 56 miles and then running a HALF MARATHON! In a few short hours, my husband would be testing the limits of his physical endurance by pushing his body 70.3 miles along with 1,300 other incredible athletes.

It is an incredibly warm day, and after three hours riding in a car, A and I, who have both apparently had a run-in with melted chocolate, decide to walk around the expo instead of waiting in line with T. A is running and screaming, shouting no to anyone who stops to comment on her cuteness. I'm beginning to think with A 's antics plus the fact that we have chocolate all over the back of our shorts and A's shirt, that keeping us from embarrassing T, might actually be a more difficult feat than the half-Iron. So, I take A to the lobby to wait for her daddy. The sweltering weather does not look like a good indication for the next day's race.

A and I sleep through the early morning wake-up call and miss seeing T off for the big day. Fortunately, his dad accompanies him to the start of the swim. T's mom, A, and I hurriedly get ready, though, and wait for the phone call to let us know that T is out of the water and on his bike. The heat and humidity are already high at 7 a.m., but the clouds block the sweltering rays of the sun. I say a small prayer and hope that T can get through the run before the sun breaks through the overcast sky. Papa calls to let us know that T is finished with the swim and should be passing us shortly on the bike. I breathe a huge sigh of relief (sharks, hundreds of people swimming in the rough surf at once), and A, Gigi, and I run outside to cheer for T. He zooms by on his bike looking strong and content.

Just a few hours later, we are able to watch him pass back by on the bike, and we rush toward the transition to see him start the run. By now, the sun is breaking through the clouds. The temperature is easily 85 degrees. My husband smiles and waves, as he passes, though, so I push the worries to the back of my mind, for now. After a 1 hr. 30 min. finish in the Mercedes, I plan on trying to make it back to the transition in about 1 hr. and 45 min. The time passes quickly, at least for A and mom. I coat us in sunscreen, and T 's parents, A , and I head back out to the finish line to watch for T . We have a lime green sign with sentiments of our support ready to wave when he passes by.

The heat is oppressive and the worry begins to creep back into my mind. The first aid golf cart has made several trips to the course, and it has been more than two hours since T started the run. We each take turns leaving our shady spot to go watch for him. Finally, I see his bright yellow shirt. "Here he comes!" I scream to the others, and we all crowd the street waiting to watch him cross the finish line. As I see him, I am suddenly overcome with emotion and pride and begin to cry. I squeeze A 's hand, lean over, and whisper, "That's your daddy little girl. That's your daddy."

T looks exhausted, and I know it has been tougher than any of us could have imagined. I am so overcome with pride knowing what he has just accomplished that I just embrace him. He's done it, a half-Ironman, and he finished in the top 1/3 of the competitors. After a shower and lunch, he tells us about how tough the bike ride was with the wind and how miserable the run was with the sun and heat, but I know he, too, is proud of his accomplishment. Just a few hours removed from that race, though, he is already talking about what he could do differently next time and starting to plan for a full-Iron. Like a true athlete! I just smile and think of how I can support him even more this time. I just ask that he waits until after our new little one arrives, so we'll have an even bigger cheering section.

Perfect Timing

Seventeen years ago, on a football field, while taking the President's Physical Fitness Test, I ran the fastest mile in my high school for a female. 7 minutes and 15 seconds. 7 minutes and 15 seconds. Forgive me, I just needed to hear it again because I'm pretty sure I haven't run a mile that fast since. At that moment, I decided running was my sport. For one, I could actually do it and do it pretty well. While I didn't have the confidence to pursue running as anything more than a hobby, a means of keeping in shape, I do remember the little milestones accrued as I became more proficient at my sport of choice. The first time I ran six miles without stopping. The first time I ran ten miles. My first 5-K. I also remember when, over ten years ago, in college, I decided that I was going to run a marathon.......one day.

A couple of weeks ago, I sat in my Monday morning bible study watching Beth Moore speak on a large projection screen. My women's group is studying her Psalms of Ascent series, and in this particular lesson, she kept driving home the point, "Ours is a God of timing, girls. Ours is a God of timing." As I prepared for the marathon and even after, I couldn't stop thinking about that phrase, a God of timing. Through my marathon journey, I had discovered just how loudly this rings true.

While I'd wanted to run a marathon for 15 years, it wasn't until about 6 years ago that I moved to a city that hosts a marathon, actually bought a book on training and well, began training. That same year, I came down with pneumonia. Downtrodden, but not defeated, I trained again the next year only to meet the same fate. The following year I broke my ankle while running, of course, and was unable to run for three months. Faced with one training obstacle after another, I am sure there were times I lifted my hands to God and asked, "why?" or maybe, "why not?" It seemed to me that God was against me reaching my goal....or was he?

My father-in-law parked his motor home downtown for the race this year. My husband and I avoided yucky, gross port-a-potties the moments before the race thanks to the sparkling clean bathroom on the coach. While waiting for her aunt to finish a five-hour run, my three-year-old niece had a place to go to the bathroom several hundred times. My husband and I had a clean, warm place to shower immediately after the race, which made hanging out with friends and family downtown much more comfortable. A was able to play safely and eat lunch without my mother-in-law having to drive her home and back. This wouldn't have been possible two, three, four years ago because my in-laws didn't own the coach.

My husband, his best friend, and my sweet baby girl (sitting in her stroller) ran mile 25 of the race with me. Had I not broken my leg, I probably wouldn't have been able to conceive because of all the training, and A would not have been there to share in my joy. My husband's best friend, Brent, who had just completed his own first marathon, would not have understood just how important it was for me to have that support at that exact moment in the race. His own experience enriched mine. And most importantly, I don't think four, five, or six years ago, I would have been in a place in my own life where I could have run with grace and faith. My own relationship with Christ needed to be at this place for me to truly lean on my faith to get me through the marathon and for this accomplishment to truly glorify God.

As I look at how perfectly all of this fell into place, I understand now exactly what Beth means when she says, "Ours is a God of timing." Girls, (and boys) indeed he is. And I've learned through this experience that he isn't a God of my timing, or your timing, he is the God of His timing and fortunately for me in my folly, that is true. He is the God of perfect timing and I praise Him for it! Now instead of asking why, I think I'm learning to say, "whenever you're ready, Lord, just make me ready."

Mile Markers

I stand there looking at the old gym floor, searching for a slat wide enough to slip through and just disappear. All I see is dust. "Lisa." That leaves just the two of us. Me and Ellie It is fifth period P.E. and the cruel ritual of choosing teams is in progress. The day's "chooser" stands there, hands on her hips, sizing us up. She cocks her head to take a better look at Tracy: slow, short, round, still wheezing from the mere exertion of walking up the gym stairs. Then there's me: tall, clumsy, zero self-confidence. I refuse to look "chooser" in the eye and give her the satisfaction of knowing that I do care if she picks me last. "Ellie." The familiar lump, the frantic blinking to stop the stinging. I don't even bother raising my head and slump over to my place on the bench. I quietly wipe my eyes while the other girls take their places for kickball.

Fast forward twenty-two years. A much different girl kisses her husband good luck and walks confidently, but nervously to the line of athletes getting ready to run. That's right, I said athletes! No one is there to tell you where to line-up or whether or not you even can. This athlete can finally choose any place in line she wants because she's earned it, but I make my way to the middle of the pack and find the 4:30 pacer. Yet to take one step of my 26.2 mile journey, 4 hours and thirty minutes is still my goal for the day. (I smile now as I write that.)

Still tall, still clumsy, somewhere along the way, I found my passion for running, and today I would find out if I really did love running or if I had also lost my mind, somewhere along that way. Almost four thousand runners undulate like a wave of anxiety, warming up cold legs, tying shoe laces over and over, bending and twisting into stretches. I just stand there, taking it all in.

"Runners, get ready." Ten years of dreaming about this moment, four years of overcoming training obstacles just to get to the start line, and in seconds, I am running by Boutwell Auditorium, weaving through slower runners, trying to find my stride. About five miles into the race, I finally find a comfortable pace and settle into the race. Ah, a beautiful sunny day, perfect temperature, and "WHAT!! You mean I have to run UP the hill." Sure I'd trained for hills, but nothing really prepares you for a mile climb up hill, especially just six miles into the race. I dig in and start the climb and find myself actually passing the 4:30 pacer. I'd regret that in about thirty minutes! I get to the top and find it wasn't all that bad. Unfortunately, that was just the first of many climbs. For those of you who've never visited our fair city, it is hilly!

My legs feel really strong for the first half of the race. I even make it to the half/full split feeling spry. For some reason, though, when I get to mile 13, it hits me, hard, I mean SMACK, I am only half-way through this race. Half-way. I have to run 13 MORE miles. Panic sets in, and I know I've hit the wall. Not literally, for those who know just how clumsy I am, I've hit the proverbial marathon wall, and I've hit it early. Suddenly, fifth-grade me is back, and she is talking a good game of self-doubt. My eyes start to sting, my legs feel shaky, I'm suddenly overcome with that cold, clammy feeling you get right before you vomit, and I realize that I'm not going to make it. Do they give medals for the half-marathon if you just make it to that point in the full, or do I need to actually cross the half-marathon finish line? Seriously, I reach in my pocket for my phone, ready to call my husband, who is celebrating a blistering 1:30 in the half, when I see them.

"Run, Girl! You can do it!" Our neighbors are standing on the corner with a sign and shaking a cow bell cheering. I take in a deep breath and try to stifle the flow of tears. Waving, I express gratitude and manage to run by them. "Okay," I think to myself. "If I don't finish, I'll disappoint them and they came all the way out here for me." I also picture telling my daughter, "mommy couldn't do it." How could I tell A and T I didn't make it? Everyone I loved was waiting for me to cross that finish line, so I did the only thing I could do. I prayed, "Dear God, give me all the strength my legs need to finish and let me feel the arms of Jesus holding me up." Then I just ran one foot in front of the other until I got to mile 18 and decided to walk one foot in front of the other.

The plan of course, is to run the entire marathon, but when your legs adamantly fail to cooperate, there's not much else you can do. Plus, I had begun to notice that all of us middle-packer-non-elite types were walking at least a little. I manage to find a nice little walk/hobble/jog, walk/hobble/jog rhythm. Finally, mile 20, glorious mile 20 and in just over 3 hours. At this point, I know I can crawl six miles and still beat the 6 hour cut-off. At mile 22, my wonderful husband and his best friend, meet me with Powerade, some candy, and a morale boost.

Just as I begin to feel human again, the evil, evil marathon planners apparently had decided to pull Heartbreak Hill from Boston and drop it smack dab in the middle of Mile 23. I kid you not. I am forced to lean forward and hike, just to keep from rolling back down the hill. Cresting that hill, finally, I see it, downtown with its beautiful buildings and believe it or not, I begin to weep. (It is really hard to run while crying, but I managed to do it a lot that day.) By now, my legs are shooting intense cramps with every step and I can no longer feel my toes, but I do manage to jog down the steep hills without collapsing or blowing out a knee.

At mile 25, I am getting ready to just walk and not keep trying for under five hours, when my knight in shining armor appears once again with his best friend in tow, and T , Brent, and I run the last mile of the Mercedes together. (If only he'd actually had a horse.) Crossing the finish line, I grab my medal, hobble over to T , embrace him and weep, my exhausted body, wracking with sobs. I did it! 26.2 miles. All I can really say is, Praise God!

It sounds so trite, but it is so true. The marathon really is a wonderful metaphor for life. Sometimes it's a breeze and you know exactly where you're going, and other days you are literally willing one foot in front of the other, leaning on the grace and mercy of God and the wonderful people he's willing to put in your path. Am I a different person for running? Is my life suddenly changed? No. I'm the same, but I know now that I can. That no matter what the obstacle, with God, I can.

I'm most excited that running this marathon gives me the opportunity to look A in the eye and say with confidence, "Sweetheart, anything you want to achieve, anything, with God's help, you can! Mommy did it, and so can you." I also know that I'll never be that self-doubting fifth grader again. My tears now are those of joy for accomplishment not tears of dejection for a lack of natural athletic talent. I think always being picked last lit a fire of desire somewhere deep inside to achieve. Then it was probably a desire to come back to school and say, "na-na-na-boo-boo." But the more mature me, is happy that those moments drove me to try harder and work longer and dig deep to find that latent determination and with God's grace, see it to fruition.

I finished the marathon in 4:56 and for once in my athletic career, I wasn't last. I think my days of being last are long past. Now I just need to find a flat course and get that time down to 4:30....and could I do the half in under two hours? I wonder how old I'll have to be before I can actually place in my age group...

Uneasy Feeling

Somebody quickly contact the zoo because their entire butterfly exhibit has escaped and taken up residency in my stomach. I kid you not! The somerasaults my stomach are turning rival any gymnastics meet, and my nerves have apparently rendered my writing helplessly cheesy.

The marathon is four days away, four! Count em: one, two, three, four. All those numbers fit on one hand. That is how close it is now. Eighteen long, grueling weeks of training, and it all comes to fruition in FOUR days. I sound a little like Grover in The Monster at the End of this Book, and frankly, I feel just as frantic. Don't turn the page!!! (Those of you who are parents of toddlers and those closet Sesame Street fans might know the book.) I can't think of a time I've been more anxious, and maybe it is because after four attempts, this could really be it. Or maybe I'm overwhelmed with anxiety because after four attempts, I'm realizing that anything could happen in four days: the flu, a cold, a broken ankle. I'm still not ready to trust that I could really do it this time and that if I somehow don't line up with all those other crazed, manic runners, I'll simply be devastated.

How cooky have I become in my quest for 26.2. I'm taking Zicam like its candy, and yesterday, I sat on the table at my orthopedic doctor's office and at my own request watched him fill two needles the length of my hand with cortisone and then almost cried out in agony when he then jabbed them into my knee joint to assure that my IT band will not cause me trouble on race day. My dear, it has reached obssession. Calm down my pounding heart; I feel like Poe, except my heart beats, race day, race day, race day. My tell-tale heart is telling on my own lack of faith.

This morning, at five a.m. when I simply couldn't think of race day any longer and began obsessing over whether or not my two year old's coat was at home or abandoned in the library, I just threw up my hands, (figuratively, of course; in my frenzy, I did have the wherewithal not to knock out my sleeping husband) and just said, "God, I'm giving it to you; I'm giving it to you." And today, I've really been trying. I'm not washing my hands non-stop to get rid of cold germs. I've only had two Zicam. And, I'm feeling calmer, more centered. I think I'll be there on race day, not because of anything I've done, but because it's God's will. And if for some reason, it isn't, and I break my ankle before the big day (there are only four, so the chances are slimming), it won't be that bad. Last time I broke my ankle, I got a beautiful little girl, and she is much more of an accomplishment than 26.2 will ever be. Hopefully, the next time I post, it will be with a finisher's medal around my neck!! Keep me in your prayers.

Eleven Lessons I've Learned from Marathon Training

You know you've been training for a long time when a ten-mile run feels short and easy. I wonder how long I'd have to train for a twenty-mile run to feel short? In two very short weeks, almost two years after giving birth to my sweet girl, I will, hopefully, line up at the start of the Mercedes Marathon and take on 26.2 miles. In the past 18 weeks, my training has taught me quite a bit about running and just pushing your body to what you once thought were its limits. As my mind wandered during a 10-miler today, I came up with the following lessons:

In no particular order:

1. Running ten miles with a wrinkle in your sock hurts!

2. Runners can be very gross people. I kid you not, I have watched a runner pass me then spit out a loogie (sp?) that rivaled the size of a jelly-fish. I have also had a runner pass me, wave courteously, then press one nostril, while ejecting snot from the other. Just thinking about these makes me green.

3. At the first sign of injury, back off! Perhaps three unsuccessful attempts at running a marathon have made me a bit wiser. Before I gained my wisdom, I would think backing off, slowing down, resting, what-have-you would mean losing valuable training time, so I trained through the pain. Instead, resting means that you heal and still get to run. By training through injury, I worsened the injury and did not get to run.

4. Runners on the trail run or walk three to four abreast and refuse to give way to runners going either direction. This does not bode well for clumsy, injury-prone runners, like myself, who risk spraining an ankle by jumping off of the sidewalk to run in the mud. A little politeness goes a long way.

5. Despite what my gym teacher or high school basketball coach say, I AM AN ATHLETE!

6. You can train in a 23-degree windchill and survive. Along those same lines, don't overdress. Save the ski suit for the slopes.

7. You don't need an Ipod. I've trained for four marathons with my trusty Sony walkman from 1998. Granted, I haven't run one yet; it's not the radio's fault. Good thing I love sports-talk radio. And when the batteries die in the middle of a run, it can be fun to get lost in your thoughts
or daydream for the first time since Geometry class.

8. A twenty-mile training run does not make you famous or a superhero. My nearly two-year-old could care less that mom was so sore she could barely lift her toes or brush her hair; A wanted to play chase, snuggle bunny, and read, while bouncing in my lap. It doesn't take long to get over yourself.

9. Running is 25% physical and 75% mental!

10. The support of family and friends is critical to the training process. I could not have trained without my husband. He cheered me and took care of A during 3+ hour runs.

11. Perhaps most importantly, I've come to understand that God loves me and that means He cares about the small things that are important to me, including running. As my previous blog mentioned, I've been struggling with IT band trouble, yet, somehow at mile 17 of a 20 miler, I realized that I had not had any knee pain, not even an ache. Before I began my run, I prayed that God would put his healing hands on my knees and get me through the run, and He did. I don't think this life-long desire to run a marathon is just a haphazard whim. I believe I long to run it for a reason that is greater than proving to myself that I can, so I also pray that God will be glorified in the training process, as well as on race day. If anything, this training process has required me to lean on my faith, and on February 10th, I believe I'll be proof that with Christ ALL things are possible, even 26.2!

Ouch! That Hurts

Today I was at mile 10 of an 18 mile training run when I stopped running and starting sobbing. Allow me to tell you from first-hand experience, this activity tends to garner stares from concerned passers-by, yet none concerned enough to stop.

I'll back up. I am training for a marathon, just five short weeks away. No big deal. It is hard to have a conversation without finding that the person with whom your speaking is running or knows someone who is running. But for me this is the fourth try to run a full marathon, a dream since my teenage years! Count 'em: four. My first attempt ended in a bout with pneumonia two weeks prior to the marathon. Needless to say, I did not lace up the sneakers for that marathon. Year two: Welcome back, pneumonia. It came a little earlier this time, so I did manage the half-marathon. The third time would surely be the charm, not so. A stress fracture turned into a break turned into three months of no running, which turned into a pregnancy with nine months of no running.

What are you doing during training you might be wondering? The first two years, I did not heed the warning to rest post-long run and not get around germy crowds. When you teach school, germy crowds are hard to avoid. The third year, I ignored the nagging pain in my ankle until it began to sear.

This time, though, attempt number four, I am older, wiser, and well, wiser. I started increasing my mileage weeks before my training program began, I cross-trained twice a week, I rested at least once a week, and I listened to my body this time. If I hurt, I took an extra day of rest. No sniffles, no aches, nothing, until the 16-mile training run on Christmas eve. This is when the trouble began.

I noticed a slight pain in my knee at the end of the run, so I took a few days off. When I resumed running, no more pain. Then on Saturday, I decided it would be okay to go ahead and attempt my 18-miler. Mile ten is when the pain became unbearable, so I did what any good runner would do, I called my husband to see what he would do. Secretly, I was hoping he would say, keep going and see what happens. He didn't. Instead, he and A picked me up at mile 12 and drove me, freezing, crying, and aching back to my car.

And here I sit, trying to figure out what to do next, while trying to maintain my optimism and sense of humor. Clearly, anyone who has attempted four separate tries at a marathon, including all those months of grueling training, has a sense-of-humor, but I'll be honest, it's waning. I think my strategy is to see what my orthopedic doctor has to say. The last time I visited my orthopedist, he laughed when I cried at the diagnosis that I would not be running 26.2 miles. Clearly, he had never trained for and not run three marathons. If anything, I'm tenacious. I now have a new doctor who I hope will be more sensitive. Until the appointment, I guess I'll just have to wait and see....