18 miles. This run will not defeat me.

I’m back in the blogosphere, at last. More on that later…


In 5 weeks, I’m running the New York City Marathon. My training has not been as productive as I had hoped, but I’m racking up the mileage.

Today I ran 18 miles. And it was one of the toughest runs I’ve ever done. Not because of the distance or the hills, which were numerous, but because of everything else.

Two weeks ago, I got a new pair of ear buds – yurbuds. And they are awesome. Can’t imagine running without them.

Yesterday I broke them. Pulled the left ear cord right out of the joiner thingy. So I had to run with a not so good pair.

Yesterday I let my four year old son play with my iphone. Big mistake. He somehow managed to mess up my playlists and as I started my run, my iphone would only play 1 song repeatedly. I figured there was an easy way to fix it, but I sure as heck couldn’t find it. After listening to the same song for 20 minutes, I was ready to scream.

So I called my all-things-technical husband. He didn’t answer my 2 calls on his cell. Then he didn’t answer my two calls home. I was mad. Even Lady Gaga, over and over again, wasn’t making me happy.

Then I hit the Big Hill. And it was only mile 3. It is a huge hill. Why I planned to run it at the beginning of my 18 miler, I don’t know. I walked up. Tried to run down, but my knees were killing me, so I walked down.

I was running a new route this morning, and I had mapped it out before I left. But I couldn’t remember if I had to turn left at mile 5, or the next left a half mile up. I opted for the second left.

Mile 6, hubby finally calls back, but isn’t sure of a fix of the phone, so he advised me to listen to Pandora. Ok, I can do that.

I made the correct left and headed down “Shades of Death” Road. Yes, it’s really called “Shades of Death” Road. It’s a beautiful rural road with quite a history, ranging from murderous bandits, malaria carrying mosquitoes, ghosts and husband-killing wives.

As soon as I headed down the road, the mosquitoes attacked. I must have gotten bitten almost a dozen times in a matter of minutes. Hope they weren’t carrying malaria.

Then my blood sugar started to drop. Seriously drop. This happens to me if I don’t eat enough protein. I get shaky and disoriented. And today it came on fast. So I had to call my husband for help as I wasn’t carrying the right food with me. He wanted to know which way to come – should I go Allamuchy or should I go Great Meadows?

I don’t care, just get the f*%# here.

I passed by some fields and nearly got run over by a tractor turning in front of me.

I passed under an overpass. On the side of the road, a dead mommy deer with her dead baby deer. Baby was missing its head. Oh. My. God. I was on Shades of Death Road, after all.

Almost at mile 9, not even half way home. All I wanted to do was collapse on the side of the road in a flood of tears.

Hubby showed up with 3 kids in the minivan, protein bar in hand. Thank you. Thank you.

My eldest son asked if I wanted them to give me a ride home. That’s when it hit me.

I am not letting this road, these hills and all the other stuff beat me.

This run will not defeat me.

As I watched the van drive off, with its pink 13.1 and 26.2 magnets fading in the distance, I decided to hit the reset button. Time to start again. I was half way home. I could turn this around.

But boy was I dead. I was a more than a half hour off my goal.

But I kept going.

My body and mind kept telling me to quit.

But I kept going. My heart told me to keep going.

I walked the big hills. I couldn’t run them. But I kept going forward.

Mile 10, 11, 12, 13 passed by. Painfully, slowly. But they passed by.

Then an ambulance approached me, lights flashing. I actually seriously thought that some kind driver passing me on the road had called 911, reporting that a 40-something woman was staggering on the side of the road. But it passed me by.

Mile 14. I was running up a hill, distracting myself as much as possible from the pain in my legs and the emotional noise in my head with music screaming from my phone. As I moved my right arm back, my hand hit something furry. And that something furry licked my hand.

Now I live in bear country. I see a few each year. And I was running, alone, in bear country.

So I screamed. I screamed very loudly, thinking I had just punched a bear in the face as it came up behind me.

But no, it was a very friendly lab. A dog that I didn’t hear or see coming up behind me because I was too absorbed in my pain. Don’t worry, shouted the guy in the yard I was passing, he’s harmless.

Yeah, thanks buddy.

Mile 16. I was getting close to home. But close to home meant that everything was pretty much uphill from here. I needed Lady Gaga more than ever. So at mile 16.5, my iphone died. No more music. Great. Now I had to listen to myself puffing and panting as I limped forward.

Then I tuned out. And headed home. My driveway was in sight…I checked my Garmin, which told me that I was at 17.75 miles. I had to do 18, and I wasn’t going to skimp out on the last .25 mile. No way. Not after the run from hell. I was going all the way.

So I ran up and down my drive until the number 18 glowed on my wrist.

The run hadn’t beaten me. It came close, but I was home.

18 miles, check. I know there’s all sorts of emotional analysis I could do, but I’m too darn tired.

Can’t wait for 19 next week.

Yes, Ma'am. I'm a Badass Mother Runner.

This week, I finally ordered the running shirt I have been salivating over for months.  It's from the gals at Run Like A Mother, Dimity and Sarah, two very inspirational mother runners who tell it like it is.  The shirt is black and reads "badass mother runner."  Sure the language may not be right for everyone, but it sure is right for me.

After all, I'm a badass mother runner.

Today I had to do an 8 mile run.  The first 3 miles were absolutely horrible.  Everything hurt.  My knees, my feet, my toes, my head.  And that voice in my head was loudly shouting "What are you doing?  Why are  you running?  It hurts so stop!  You don't need to do this!" etc etc etc.  You know that voice.

But then I looked down and saw the writing on my shirt.

Badass mother runner.

A badass mother runner doesn't quit. 
She may complain a little, but she sure as heck doesn't quit.

So I picked up my pace.  And my attitude.  
And I channeled my inner badass.

I started to think, as I ran through mile 4, what makes me a badass mother runner?  And I spent the next 4 miles coming up with the top 10 reasons why I'm a BAMR.  Here they are:

10. My runnung playlist includes everything from AC/DC to Dolly Parton to Eminem to Elvis to Madonna to the Proclaimers to ZZ Top.  And yes it even includes Miley Cyrus.  And I'm not afraid to admit it.

9.  I like to play the air drums when I run.  And pump my fist in the air.  And sing outloud.  Apologies to those who share the road.

8.  My muffin top jiggles when I run, but I run anyway.  No apologies for that.

7.  I'm 41 and I run in pigtails.  No apologies there either.

6.  When I was 2, my family survived an attack by pirates in the South China Sea.  True story.  You are automtically a badass if you fight off pirates, no matter how old you are.

5. I birthed my 3 baby boys at home, naturally, without so much as an advil.  Boy #2 was 10 pounds.  If I can push that hefty boy out, I can do anything.

4.  I took up running just over a year ago.  My first race was a half marathon.  My second race was a full marathon, which I ran in an astounding 5 hours, 28 minutes.

3.  When I was laughed at to my face for my marathon time, I stood strong because I knew I had thousands of other mother runners at my side.  I suspect that most of them are badass as well.

2.  I have 3 sons.  Enough said.

And the number 1 reason why I am a badass mother runner:

I can clean up a bathub full of little boy poop, unclog a backed up toilet, mop up a flooded bathroom all in the blink of an eye, knock down a couple of martinis and then wake up a few hours later and run 8 miles like only a badass mother runner could.

So, what makes you a badass mother runner?

Wonder Woman Wednesday, Week 1 - Jiggly bits.

I realize that there are many versions of Wonder Woman - just google image her and you'll get 15 million - yes million! - different pictures.  Some are the iconic Lynda Carter in her 70s best, others the original DC Comic cartoon.  There are various, um, sexualized versions, and plenty of girls and women dressed in their Halloween finest, or perhaps not so finest.

No matter what google shows me though, I have an image in my mind of what Wonder Woman looks like - a strong, fit, confident woman.  I love the above picture, even though Lynda Carter's waist is cinched in so much that it looks like she can't breathe.

Motherhood certainly does a job on a woman's body.  Though never skinny, I used to have a good curvy figure.  I was trim and healthy and felt pretty decent in a bathing suit.

Then I got pregnant.  And gained 60 pounds.   And then lost 50.
Then I got pregnant again.  And gained 60 pounds.  And then lost 50.
Then I got pregnant again.  And gained 60 pounds.  And then lost 50.

You know what is coming next...an excess of 30 pounds.  Plus a 10 pound baby boy - my other 2 were small, only in the mid 8 pound range -  will do a number on the ol' tummy muscles, leaving them forever stretched, flabby and rolly polly.  Muffin top central.

Add to this the fact that my husband works for a major candy manufacturer - and has access to all the free chocolate a gal can handle.  And I mean good chocolate.  The really good kind.

I've been trying to lose these darn 30 pounds for a few years now.  And the pesky things just won't go away!  I've read every diet book there is, and tried a good number of them out and failed miserably at each and every one.

I even ran a marathon last year, thinking that all that exercise would result in millions of calories burned.  Well sure those miles burned calories, but those miles also made me ravenous.  So not a single pound was lost.  Sure I had great leg muscles, but said muscles were still covered by jiggly bits.

The truth is, I love to cook.  And I love to eat what I cook.  And eat what others cook for me.  And eat what Panera Bread bakes for me, too.

And I love a glass (or 3) of cabernet.  Or merlot.  And I've rarely met a martini I didn't like.

And don't even get me started on chocolate.  Oh, the chocolate! Dark, milk, white, spicy, flavored with liqueur, in various shapes, colors and wrappers.  You get the picture.

Now it's fine for me to joke about eating and drinking, but when it comes down to it, I am not comfortable in my own skin.  And I haven't been for a while.  I know what I have to do to lose weight - eat healthy, eat less and exercise more - but it is really really hard.  I marvel at how people lose 50, 100, 200 pounds or more.  And I complain about my 30. 

Truth is, I think I've been lazy.  I know what to do, I just haven't done it.

So my first step in rediscovering my inner Wonder Woman is to give myself a kick in the pants - my larger size pants - and get to work at losing these 30 pounds.

I'm realistic about my body.  I know that motherhood and age change a body in ways that you can't necessarily reverse - without a scalpel anyway.  So I'm not expecting to look like Lynda Carter.  I just want to feel good in my own skin and not self conscious about my various jiggly bits.

So I'm finishing off my glass of merlot and getting to work.

Motherhood and Running - Perfectly Imperfect Together

Perfect.  I've come to really dislike that word.

I was the perfect child.  Rarely, if ever, in trouble, straight A's all the way through grad school.  Did as I was told and had the world at my doorstep.  Career planned out.  Oh I was going places. And those places would, no doubt, be perfect.

Then I became a mother.  Of three boys.  I imagined raising young boys of impeccable manners, eager to clean their rooms, help their mom and never say an unkind word to anyone, not even each other. 

I was going to have perfect children.  Just like me.

Well, children have a way of throwing all those visions out the window into a big steaming heap.  My sons are well mannered for the most part, but will eagerly laugh hysterically at the slightest hint of a burp or, as regularly happens in our house of 4 males, wind from the other end.  My goal of 3 well dressed boys in khakis and collared shirts?  I'm lucky if they have anything that isn't stained or ripped.  And right now with the growth rates we are experiencing, a pair of pants that isn't 3 inches above their ankles.

I've scaled back my expectations, and I've realized that that is a good thing.  My kids are happy and well adjusted, for the most part anyway. And the stress - though still there - has been reduced as I realize that my kids are their own selves and with a little guidance from hubby and me, will turn out just fine. Forget perfection.

Then last year I decided to take up running.  I've never been athletic but I decided I wanted to run.  I wasn't going to start at a short 5k (though I ran one - but it wasn't timed, so in my mind, it didn't count.)  Heck no.  I was going for a race with the word "marathon" in it.

And I was going to be the perfect runner, gosh darn it.  Just like I was going to be the perfect mother.

I did pretty well for my very first athletic accomplishment. I finished the half marathon in 2:23.  I was quite proud of myself for my first "official" race.  But I needed to go further.  I signed up for a marathon.  26.2 miles.

And I was going to run the perfect newbie marathon.  I had the shoes, the running skirt, the support of family and friends, and I'd done the training.  But it took me a long time.  A realllyyyy long time.  5 hours and 28 minutes.  I thought I could finish in less than 5, perhaps even 4:30, based on some of my better training runs.  But 26.2 miles is a heck of a long way, especially in bright 70 degree sunshine.  I did well for the first half but at about mile 21 I bonked and half walked/ran the rest of the way.  But I crossed the finish line upright and smiling.

I was proud of myself - but disappointed too.  I didn't run my "perfect" marathon - perfect by my standards any way.  I had different expectations for how I would feel at the end.  I was laughed at by someone who thought my time was slow, and told I was selfish for training for such a long time.  After all it took time away from my family - as if that was my only reason for existence, thank you very much.  I had great support from the Run Like a Mother community which made me feel so much better.  But still, part of me felt like I had failed.

Just like there are days when I feel like am failing as a mother.  You know those days, when the only way you can survive is to park the kids in front of the goggle box and lay on the couch.  Those days when you can not deal with one more argument, fight, spilled glass of milk, load of laundry or toilet to clean.

But running has put this whole experience in perspective.  When you run, you put one foot in front of the other and keep going.  There are days when you are slow, and days when you are fast.  There are days when you can't drag yourself out of bed and there are days when you hop out of bed and go straight to your happy place while putting on your running shoes.

Just like there are days when you can't stand motherhood, and then days when your kids tell you that you are beautiful and the best mom in the world.  You just have to put one foot in front of the other and keep on going, avoiding the legos strewn across the floor, of course.

So my visions of being the perfect mother, the perfect runner?  Replaced by visions - and reality - of being a mother runner who is doing her best.  Putting one foot in front of the other, the best - and only - way I can.

This tough broad's new name.

Since I became a stay at home mom, or family manager, or home CEO, or whatever I want to call it on any given day, I've really struggled with my identity.  Before kids, I was slated for a great career in corporate America with a generous salary and recognition for my work.  Now, after kids, my home is my work place and my days are filled with laundry, cooking, cleaning, child care and the occasional Panera trip with various mom friends. 

Thanks to these Panera trips, and three babies that unapologetically changed my metabolism and body structure, I struggle with my physical identity as well.  I carry around an extra few pounds, and thanks to mass media and women's magazines that tell me over and over again how to lose weight, sometimes I think I never will be comfortable in my own skin.  I thought my marathon training - all 400+ miles of running over 18 weeks - would get rid of my jiggly bits.  Well, I have muscles of steel now, but the jiggly bits remain firmly - or un-firmly, as it were - in place over said muscles of steel.   

I've had an ongoing battle in my head for years - should I get rid of the extra 20 pounds or finally accept that they are part of me and embrace my body?  This body that has given birth to 3 boys - naturally, without so much as an advil, one baby at 10 pounds (!), all born at home?  This body that spent 6 years nursing my babies?  This body that provides a safe and nurturing home for my family, 24 hours a day?  And of course, this body that can hold my fair share of Woman Warrior martinis? This body has more strength in it than I ever thought possible.  I never thought I'd ever run 5 miles, let alone 26.2.  But here I am, running mile after mile after mile, and thoroughly enjoying it. 

I had a moment of clarity while running this past weekend.  My BFF Beth joined me for a couple of loops at the park during my short, comparatively speaking, 14 mile run.  I had my typical long run attire on - capris, running skirt, tank top, visor and pigtails.  (Yes I'm 41 and run in pigtails.  I LOVE it!)  The path encircles numerous baseball fields. It was opening day for the local men's league and there were a lot of fine men pitching and hitting and running.  And of course they checked us out as we ran by.  I felt a little self conscious, thinking about the muffin top and jiggly bits, and Beth and I had our usual conversation about body image.  Then she said I was like a roller derby girl.  At first I was aghast, but then I pictured a roller derby girl.  Strong and tough.  Physically and mentally.  No skinny legs for those gals.  Tattooed.  Check, have one of those (now you know mum, I have a tattoo)  Bright colored clothes.  I always run in bright pink. And lip gloss.

Hmm, maybe Beth is on to something.  Maybe I just need to look at myself differently.  Not as a runner who has a few pounds to lose, but as a strong woman who is one tough broad.  But in a nice way, of course.

A cool name is a must for a roller derby girl.  I've been calling myself a muffin top marathon mom, but I need something much edgier than that.  So I thought of the tattoo on my right shoulder.  I designed it myself and I'm proud of it.  It has three thistles, one for each of my boys, and represents my strong Scottish heritage.  And the thistles are pink, of course.  The leaves of the thistles form the shape of Ohm, a very meaningful symbol to me from the time I spent living in India. 

So now when I run, I'm the Pink Thistlenator. 

Step aside, skinny girls, I'm coming through.  Jiggly bits and all.