Just One Marathon

What My Mother Taught Me About Running

“Feet on ground. Heart in hands."-- Jann Arden

When the song "Good Mother" popped up on my iPod, somewhere around kilometre 12 of my 23K run this morning, it got me thinking about my own mother. Though she is not a runner herself, she has taught me a lot about running. For example:

Small steps: My Mom often tells me she named me for Saint Theresa of Lisieux because she is the saint of “the little way”. I have been known to complain to my Mom that it’s not a very inspiring reason to pick your daughter’s name. But I get what she’s saying. For most of us, it’s the cumulative small acts – the daily kindnesses, tiny sacrifices and quiet acceptance – that make us good people. And … I hope this isn’t too shallow … the running life is all about the little decisions you make, too. Forcing yourself out the door when you’d really rather stay inside. Ignoring small aches and pains. Pushing yourself to go just a little faster or a little further. Still, it does make me wonder what kind of runner I’d be if she named me “Flo Jo” …

Keep your eyes on the horizon: My Mom is a life-long, dedicated birder. After years spent on walks with her, I’m attuned to flashes of colour in the forest, interesting bird calls and distinctive flight patterns. Though I’m nowhere near as skilled as she is at identifying birds, I love being outdoors. And seeing a heron fishing by the river, a hawk making precise circles in the sky or a swallow swooping gracefully across down an embankment can give me an enormous lift on even the worst run. I just have to be careful that I don’t lose my footing.

Be grateful. I’ve mentioned this before, but each time I stand at the start line of a race, I am overwhelmed by an enormous sense of thankfulness. For my health. For my family and friends who support me. For my awesome speed (remember, this is the beginning of the race). That comes from my down-to-earth Mom, who often reminds me (especially when I’m tempted to complain about my little problems) that I am a very fortunate person.

My Mom lives in Toronto and I’m missing her today – but I’m not complaining, honest Mom! Happy Mother’s Day to my Mom and all the other great Moms out there, teaching their sons and daughters important lessons about life through their own small, caring acts.

Be Careful What You Wish For

When I first had kids, I thought my primary job would be to guide and shape my children’s character so that I could send them out into the world as happy, productive and caring individuals.

Hah.

Both my boys were born determined to shape their own characters, regardless of any ideas their father and I had. And you know what? They are both doing a good job becoming excellent human beings. Obviously, as a parent, I need to step in from time to time to make sure everyone’s doing their work, staying safe and being nice to one another. But for the most part, they seem to have the most success when I get out of the way and just let them be themselves.

My 16-year old son, Will, is a case in point. Wildly creative and completely immune to any efforts to organize his life or even clean his bedroom, I like to joke that Will was put on this earth to test and disprove all my parenting theories.

I hope that doesn’t sound like I don’t enjoy his company. In fact, Will is fun to be around. He’s charming, funny and full of 16-year-old opinions, which make for great conversations. We enjoyed many of those conversations when we trained together for the Ottawa Race Weekend last spring. We did most of our long runs together. It was precious quality time for a busy working mom and a teenager starting to spend more time out of the house.

Will wasn’t too enthusiastic about running the half. While he’s an incredibly active person, athletics don’t interest him in the least. I got him to run the half by making two promises: I’d make muffuletta sandwiches to eat for dinner after the race, and I’d never make him run another race again.

He did an awesome job – never missed a training run and completed the event with ease. I think he even impressed himself. And the muffuletta? Delicious – I don’t mind saying.

Since Will’s an artist (he attends an arts high school in the visual arts program), I often ask him to draw pictures. Birthday cards. Pictures to post on my bulletin board at work. Posters. He usually complies good-naturedly, but resists any attempt on my part to dictate the subject matter of those pictures. He favours pictures of zombies, pop culture icons like Rick Astley and Jesus Quintana from The Big Lebowski. I’m always saying stuff like, “Grandma likes birds … why don’t you draw her a card with a chickadee?”

This week, he was noodling around on the computer, doing “10-second portraits” of his friends. They were awful and wonderful at the same time. Quickly scrawled, rudimentary and child-like, but with great energy and humour. (Hey, I’m his mom, not an art critic.) He was telling me about the pictures and his friends’ positive reactions to them and then made an offer he’s never made before: “I can draw you.”

 “But they’re not nice pictures,” he said. “They’re quick – not really that good.”

Of course, I didn’t hear any of those warnings. I thought, “My son is going to draw my portrait! Using a cool new medium! His picture will probably reflect his appreciation of the love, wisdom and guidance I’ve given him over the years!” “

“You know, you don’t have to draw me with my glasses,” I told him as I followed his instructions to turn my head to the side for the less-than-30-seconds it took him to complete the drawing. “Nope, I need the glasses,” he told me. I turned back to the computer to see his drawing of me:

 
Yup, that’s me. As seen by my 16-year old son. Would you want this woman as your mother? I wouldn't. She looks mean. “Can’t you at least draw me smiling?” I asked. He rolled his eyes and looked pained – an artist misunderstood by the ignorant masses.

I got my revenge, though. Guess who’s signed up for this year’s half marathon? And you can bet he’ll be making his own damned sandwich.

A Tale of Two Runs

It was the best of runs, it was the worst of runs. It was an autumn of running goals achieved, it was an autumn of running goals ignored. It was a season of speed, it was a … oh, you get the picture.

 

I have gotten a ton of stuff done in the last eight weeks, but unfortunately very little of it has been running-related. And the results showed in two 5K events I ran throughout the fall.

 

First of all, the distractions. I finally, finally (finally) finished my most recent university course on managing change. Finally. And I don’t mind telling you, I did myself proud. Only had to hand in my final assignment once, and then rocked the exam and ended up with an A. So that’s done. Just three more courses to go in the certificate program I’m completing, but I’m not thinking about that for the next couple of weeks.

 

Secondly, we renovated our kitchen. What an emotional rollercoaster that was. It all went pretty smoothly, but I doubted myself at every step of the way. The cupboards were delivered and I decided I hated them and they were all wrong. Then I decided they were just fine and I loved them. Then I went through the same process with the counter, sink, backsplash and just about everything else. It was, to use a term coined by a friend, a full-blown bourgeoisie crisis. Yay for patient contractors. But it’s over now and we have a very nice kitchen and our only remaining problem is how to pay for it. Here are a few pictures of the renovation process:

 

 

    
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thirdly, the big hockey monster emerged from its summer hibernation and is now on the rampage, eating up our free time. This year, I’m the manager for my son’s hockey team, so I’m actually busier than he is, although he’s much faster on skates.

 

And, oh yeah, I did a little running. Very little, actually. Up until mid-September, I was training to run a half-marathon on the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend and had actually gotten my miles up to within spitting distance of the half. Then I came to my senses. My entire family (parents, sisters, spouses, niece, nephew) visited from Toronto on Thanksgiving weekend, and running a half mary on the same day as The Big Dinner would have been a little too much like running a full marathon. Or two. So I ran the 5K that morning and had a wonderful, relaxing run. Not too fast, but still managed to bring it home in under 30 minutes, which is pretty good for me.

 

Earlier in the fall, I ran another 5K during Ottawa’s Army Run weekend. Because I was actually running regularly back then, I was faster and completed that run in under 27 minutes. Not a PR, but close. I sprinted the last couple of hundred metres to get under 27 minutes and actually thought I might vomit after I crossed the finish line. I had to give myself a pretty stern talking-to about how pathetic it would look to vomit after a 5K race. In my book, you need to run at least 40K to earn the right to puke your guts out.

 

The Runner I Married, on the other hand, smoked in both those 5K races. At the Army Run, he ran a speedy 22:40 race, despite being hampered by the huge crowd of racers, and traumatized by cannon blast that started the race. At Fall Colours, he was even faster – ran the race in just over 21 minutes and came in second in his category. My hero.

 

My 15-year old son also ran the Army Run. We had a little bet going about who would finish first. I won’t say who won because apparently, gloating about besting your children in a foot race makes you a “bad mother”. However, he was only seconds behind me. Also, he is completely in my good books for getting up early (for a teenager) on Thanksgiving to walk the 5K with my Dad and actually enjoying himself while doing it. Here’s the evidence that he is a great kid and that my Dad is kicks butt as a walker:

 

Race times:

 

Army Run

Reluctant Runner: 26:58

The Runner I Married (TRIM): 22:40

The Truculent Teen: 27:40

 

Fall Colours

Reluctant Runner: 28:56

TRIM: 21:20

Truculent Teen and His Speedwalking Grandfather: 43:00

 

It's nice to be back blogging! I'm recommitting to writing and running over the next couple of months.

How To Get What You Want: Lessons From An 11-Year Old

Let’s say you want a cat.

 

Your parents are opposed to the idea. They argue that you already have a dog – a great dog. A cat would only add an unnecessary complication to your family’s already busy household. Plus, your Dad is, to put it mildly, not a cat person. He barely tolerated your last cat, which only lived under the same roof with him because he came as a package deal with your Mom. Knowing all that, how would you proceed? Here are a few lessons from someone who knows a thing or two about getting what he wants: my 11 (soon to be 12) year old son.

 

Lesson 1: Start Early. If your birthday is in April, start before Christmas.

 

Lesson 2: Be Persistent. Don’t be discouraged when your parents sit you down to earnestly explain that, for a variety of good reasons, getting a cat is just not a good idea right now. Nod your head, say, “I know, I know,” look a bit sad, then resume your campaign the next day.

 

Lesson 3: Repeat Your Message. Mention the cat at least once a day, more if possible. Work the idea into most conversations, regardless of whether or not they concern cats. For example, if the weather is fine, comment that, “It would be even better if we had a CAT.”

 

Lesson 4: Make Bold Promises. Vow that you and you alone will be responsible for changing the cat litter. Without being reminded. Don’t laugh even once when making this promise.

 

Lesson 5: Show Commitment. Don’t be swayed when your parents try to bribe and distract you with the offer of a new Nintendo DSi for your birthday.

 

Lesson 6: Be Charming. If you sense your parents starting to weaken and saying that they might consider getting a cat, be charmingly, giddily happy. When you fall in love with a kitten instead of the older, more sedate cat your parents were hoping they would adopt, give them your most heart-rending, pleading, big-eyed stare and whisper, “But he's my favourite cat.”

 

Follow all these steps, and you might end up as happy as this boy:

This post was reviewed and approved by Jamie, who would also like to post this picture of Chester, the cat:

Here's Wishing You...

In a few hours, my family will be getting together with our good friends for a standing New Year’s Eve date. Every year, we take turns hosting dinner, talking, watching movies, drinking wine and usually participating in some goofy New Year’s-themed activity thought up by yours truly (this year, it’s a current events quiz).

 

Because we’ve been friends for so long, these dinners have evolved over time based on what’s happening in our lives. When our children were babies and toddlers, we had kid-friendly evenings that ended early. As the boys got older (they are now 14 and 11, the same age as my own boys), we’ve stayed up a little later and hosted sleepovers for each other's kids so that at least one couple could wake up at their leisure on New Year’s Day. This year, our friend’s dad is very sick and he will actually be leaving the dinner party early to stay over at his parents. Another stage of our lives and one I hope we can support him through.

 

It’s been a tough year, health-wise, for many of our friends and family. With that in mind, I wish you all peace and healing in the coming year.

Pit Bull, No Lipstick

Ah, the glamorous life of an ambassador: elegant parties, foreign dignitaries in tuxedoes, secret agents trying to infiltrate the palace. Who wouldn’t be intrigued?

That’s why, when the manager of my son’s hockey team asked me to be “Tournament Ambassador” for the Peewee C House League Hockey Tournament, I immediately said yes. My only question: where is the embassy and when do I move in?

 

Imagine my consternation when I found out that there would be no VIPs to escort around town in big black limousines, no ceremonial presentations, no cocktail receptions. Instead, my job is to fill over 140 volunteer hours during two days in January and to be on site from 7 a.m. on Saturday until 8:30 p.m. on Sunday to make sure everyone shows up.

 

I was just learning to accept that the title of “ambassador” comes with a slightly different job description in a suburban Ottawa hockey arena when I discovered another distressing fact: the hockey tournament falls on the same weekend as the Hypothermic Half Marathon. So, instead of taking one of 400 coveted spots at the start line of the race on January 25^th, I’ll probably be hawking 50/50 draw tickets at a cold ice rink.

 

I haven’t given up yet, though. One lesson I’ve learned about balancing work, family and life demands: there is usually a way to work it all in, if you’re creative. So fire up the cloning machine, boys, I’m going in.

Newsflash: I Am Not Cool

If I ever thought I was cool, having two adolescent boys has cured me of that illusion. I mean, they love me, I know that. But thinking your mom is cool? That’s just gross.

 

To be helpful, they like to point out little ways in which I fall short of the cool standard. The other day, for example, when I was trying to Relate To The Young People Using Their Hip Street Lingo, my 11-year-old son asked me in a polite, quiet and slightly pained voice, “Mom, can you please stop calling us “dude”?” 

 

Generally, I am at peace with the fact that I am a middle-aged, hopelessly out-of-touch, decidedly uncool mommy -- except when it comes to running. In running a marathon, I think I have done something kinda cool.

 

My children are grudgingly admiring, but they like to point out that, although I have run long distances and achieved previously undreamed-of results, I still look like a complete dork when I run. They take great joy in imitating my run in a mocking way: “Mommy, when you run, you look like this (cocks head to the side, flails arms, shuffles feet like a zombie).” This is one criticism I refused to accept. Until you’ve achieved some kind of running excellence yourself, little boys, you are just birds pooping on the queen’s hat, while I myself am the queen.

 

Then I saw this picture, from a 5K event I ran in Prince Edward Island this summer (dig the hairband):

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And this one, from earlier in the race (apparently showing off some smokin' dance moves):

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And this picture, from the Ottawa Marathon:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, now I know I’m thoroughly unhip. But dude, guess what? It’s kind of relaxing.

The Meanest Mommy Ever

On Mother’s Day, I completed what I’m calling the Parenting Tri. The event included:

· A “short” 23K run with my marathon clinic buddies. Despite the reduced distance, I still managed to be the last one to retrieve my keys from the box where we toss them for safekeeping during the run. But I felt great.

·        A mad dash downtown to watch my oldest son’s jazz band perform at a “concert in the park” for Ottawa’s Tulip Festival. This leg of the parenting triathlon was the least taxing – mostly it involved sitting in the sun and being entertained. I resisted the temptation to embarrass my son by starting a mosh pit in front of the band.

·        A 10K bike ride alongside both boys, who are planning to run the 10K during our National Capital Race Weekend two weeks from now. I wore the Garmin, carried water and monitored their pace. Just as they do with almost everything else, each son approached running completely differently. My 14-year-old started out way too fast (gee, I wonder where he gets that from?) and spent much of the race alternating between running full-tilt and walking. My youngest son (age 11) kept a slow but steady pace and refused to stop running, even for traffic lights. I urged him to use the opportunity to take a break but not, I confess, out of concern for his health – it was my own reputation I was worried about. What would you think if you saw a skinny, sweat-stained 11-year-old jogging on the spot at a traffic light while his mom sat comfortably on the bike beside him, brandishing a water bottle and a Garmin? That’s right -- psycho-training-mommy-from-hell.

Post-tri celebrations included a fantastic dinner cooked by The Runner I Married (barbecued tandoori trout – mmm…), and the completion of a very satisfying amount of ironing while watching the Survivor finale. It was busy, but I’ve got no complaints. It was an absolutely perfect Mother’s Day. I wish the same for my fellow moms, grand-moms, surrogate moms, and moms-to-be.

The Runner I Married

Yesterday was my 16^th wedding anniversary. So let me take a moment to tell you about the runner I married.

My husband started running right around the time our first child was born – and I try not to read too much into that. But really, he is a born runner. Physically, he is lean and swift. He ran his first half-marathon in just over an hour and 45 minutes, and has whittled his 10K PR to just a shade under 46 minutes.

Mentally, he is self-disciplined and courageous in the face of pain. Here are two stories to illustrate. The first occurred about 18 months ago. He went out for a run, developed a painful stress fracture about 7K into his route, and walked home. Which is brave and all, but he could have called, y’know?

The second occurred last June when I got a call from him at work. Our conversation went something like this:

Him:     “How was your commute in?”

Me:      “Not bad. What about yours?”

Him:     “Well, I’m in the hospital right now.”

Me:      “What?! What happened?”

Him:     “I’m really sorry, but I don’t remember.”

What did happen is that he took a spectacular header off his bike while riding to work. At least that’s what the nice people who stopped to help him say. He doesn’t remember a thing. He ended up with concussion, a banged up face and several impressive-looking lines of stitches. (And just for the record, I am not an ogre. The dear man is not required to apologize for being in the emergency room and not knowing how it got there.)

After each injury (and others, like the time he broke his ankle on a run), he has laced on his shoes or gotten back on the bike as soon as was humanly possible. He does not slack – ever.

You would think that would be an annoying quality in a spouse and running buddy – especially for a born slacker like me. But on the whole, it’s actually inspiring. He makes me want to run because he gets so much pleasure and physical benefit from doing so. Plus, he never pushes me to do anything I don’t want to do, never judges when I miss a run, and always supports me in all my goals.

He’s a treasure, the runner I married.

Choices

Our mechanic has a sign up in his shop. It reads:

Good.

Fast.

Cheap

Pick Two.

This sign used to amuse me as I considered which two I would pick. Good and cheap but not fast? Fast and good but expensive? Something that sucks but is fast and cheap?

Anyways, I think about that sign sometimes and how it would apply to my own life. It would probably read something like this:

Mother.

Employee.

Manager.

Wife.

Homemaker.

Student.

Runner.

Friend.

Daughter.

Community member.

Pick one and stick with it for the next ten minutes.

It’s like the mental exercise I play with the mechanic's sign, only more stressful. Yesterday, I nicked a little extra time at lunch and spent it on the treadmill: good runner, bad employee. Last week, I went to work extra early and didn’t get to say good morning to my kids: good employee, bad mom.

I am not complaining … much. I’m incredibly lucky to be able to step into any one of those roles, even for 10 minutes. It’s just challenging when they come into conflict and I realize I am just not going to be able to do it all that day. But it didn’t seem to worry my mechanic much. Maybe I should follow his lead.

I will leave you with this cute YouTube video of a mom juggling for her baby ... because who doesn't like to see a baby laugh so hard he falls over?