Training Across the Miles

My mother and I think we can move mountains--if we only lived closer. If I lived close to you, I could show you that knitting stitch. If you lived closer to me, we could go shopping together. If you lived up here, you could come give Curly her insulin shots.

But we don't. I'm in PA. She's in south, south Maryland. But we manage through email and phone, but yesterday brought on the newest string of If we only lived close to each other...

My mom has been trying to get back into shape. I think she realizes she can do it (she has before), and I think she knows it won't happen over night. But her main trouble is the motivation to get up and do something (hm...think it runs in the family?). A few weeks ago, she told me she had found a new walking route. I even run a little sometimes.

Yesterday I received the email...If you lived closer to me, I bet you would motivate me more. I think the new wore off and now it was a chore instead of something fun and new.

I sent some websites to her that might help...and told her to try going out at different times that might work in the schedule a bit easier. On my way home is when I thought of it.

Mom... I said into her answering machine last night. Mom...if you get up tomorrow morning and walk, I'll get up and do something. What, I wasn't exactly sure. But I'd get up and find something to do. Then we'll have to come in and tell each other about it.

At 5:30 the alarm went off and I staggered out of bed. Ted muttered his encouragement...Your mom is going to be waiting for you and went back to sleep. I opted to do a weight workout this morning, so headed out to the garage, wondering how she was doing.

Just a bit ago we had "check-in". She did the 2 miles, knowing she'd have to answer to me...which of course would intimidate just about anyone! :-)

Good job, Mommy. Same time, tomorrow?

Two of each--this way, please

Last evening, Ted and I decided around 9:00 to take a break from building our ark to do a quick 2-mile run around the neighborhood. The rain had stopped for the moment, the weather wasn't too sticky or humid, the thrill of the 10-inch "lake" in our backyard was beginning to wear off, and we hadn't really been out for about five days. It turned out to be one of the best runs, and Ted was thrilled...best quote of the night was when we first started out, I said I was surprised he suggested the run (it was his idea). He said he was feeling guilty and itchy to get back out..."You are turning me into a runner, dammit." He felt that he was truly ready to start adding on, so we'll start building the distance on tomorrow night.

On a side note, if you are religious, please keep my cat Curly in your prayers. (If you aren't religious, well, this one time wouldn't hurt, would it?) She was diagnosed with feline diabetes, and while that isn't a problem (we are working on regulating her, she isn't to insulin yet, I hope she doesn't have to go that route) but the big problem is her bathroom habits. She'll have an "accident" every few days, and it's kind of routine enough that every time I go in the house or into a room, I get nervous and start looking for the puddle. We aren't sure why she is doing that, and have tried everything, and I'm hoping she'll straighten herself out. So keep Curly in your thoughts, and Ted and I, as well. I can't be cleaning up her messes for years to come, and it's very stressful. Thanks.

Mmmmm.....caaaake

The other evening, Ted came home from work with a print-out from his corporate Intranet. A college student was begging for anything for an apartment--dishes, silverware, kitchen utensils. "Do we still have the old things we were saving for your brother?"

(Note: My brother, due to graduate college in December, is a guy's guy, and I've learned that while he only has a bowl, a plate, a spoon, a fork, a knife, a cup, and maybe a storage container or two, he feels it more than covers his need for anything more, especially the old matching place setting I felt compelled to buy for mere dollars at a Boscovs sale years ago).

"Yes...you want to give it to them?" Ted nodded, and, since we've both been there not too long ago and have no desire to go back or re-live the extreme penny pinching days, we ventured up to the attic to dig out the old dishes and silverware we had stowed.

In the digging/impromptu attic clean-out, I ran across old pictures from my freshman and sophomore year in college. I didn't come to Philly until my junior year, and that is when I met Ted. Prior to that, I refer to as my "fat years". (Another note: I was never really fat...at 5'5 or 5'6, the most I've ever weighed is 145, which is still a healthy weight...but upon moving on my own my senior year of college with no meal plan, I dropped 25 of that) I gasped at the picture...."Ted. This looks like me now, doesn't it?"

Ted looked at it closely. "Wow. Look at your boobs."

The most recent issue of Runner's World had a pull-out section referring to plyometrics, and the benefits it can have for runners. The phrases that caught my attention referred to an expert talking about how it very well may be better than speedwork. I'm not going to argue the sense of that, but it's all I needed to hear (for my loyal reader or two, you know by now I avoid speedwork much as I avoid the bird flu).

So, due to the picture-finding of last evening, the clothes that fit now but were too big years before, and Robin's wedding (which is a year out, but as the only bridesmaid traveling to Montana for the nuptuals, I must represent Eastern Pennsylvania), I hopped on the bike this morning and headed to the school track to do the plyometrics the magazine suggested.

I hopped around on each leg for awhile and headed home. Tonight is another run with Ted (the 5K is coming up soon much to his dismay) and I'm feeling good. Still wondering how the heck I tweaked 10 miles out but I feel good. Of course, the jury is still out on if the real work out was the hopping on the football field, the bike ride up hill to the track in a hard gear (no I don't like to change gears on my bike...long story, another blog-day), or the fact that my back tire desparately needed air, so I may as well have been biking through water.

Don't get me wrong--I am comfortable with my size. I am still, on average, smaller than many people in today's society (not that that means very much), and by no means would anyone look at me and determine that I am overweight, or close to it. But I would like to tone up that stomach of fluff I've acquired, fit into my "small jeans" and be comfortbale to walk out of the house in (both literally and figuratively), and still be able to be fast and eat the food I love.

Maybe I'll make that my goal--can I have my cake and eat it too? (Again, both literally and figuratively). It's an experiment, so to say...stay tuned! This is going to be an interesting summer! :-)

The Cruelty of Nature

Recently, Ted and I pulled our running shoes back from under the bed, dusted them off, and laced them up. Mine were really towards the front, with only a few weeks of spotty running at best since Broad Street more than a month ago.

Ted's were growing cobwebs.

We started out small, with two miles three days a week, working our way up to the 5K in July. Just this week, I started doing duel runs...getting up in the morning, and promising to run in the evening with Ted, too. While it was hard at first, it quicky brought the itch back, and I feel I have re-gained control over who is in charge with my running workouts.

What always amazes me, and pisses me off, is the ease one's body will forget what it was once capable of. It took me months to gain the endurance (and confidence) to run Broad Street. And a mere few weeks after Broad Street, my body protests any activity that carries it beyond the street corner, two blocks away. So long to gain it, so quick to lose it.

But it's also a good life-lesson learned from running. As with any talent, the practice is an important aspect of improving, and with no practice, things get forgotten. Whether it's a musical instrument or a physical activity, the return after any hibernation always reminds me that it is just, whether you like it or not, nature's way of making you earn what you get, and making the success that much sweeter.

Or, loosely related, as my mother used to always tell my brother and me, "If you don't use your brain, God will take it back".

Hang 10

I grew up on a small dairy farm in Western PA (think 9/11 plane crash area and miners being rescued...that's where I lived). Summer vacations were few and far between, and weekend escapes to other houses were virtually only in the movies. Only some families made the trek to the beach-y area in summer, and then it was the talk of the school that fall. When I transferred to Philly my junior year in college, I could literally count the times I had stepped in the surf on one hand. Then I met Ted, who informed me he basically spent every weekend of each summer at the family house in Sea Isle. I was in awe.

For that reason, the beach will always hold something spectacular for me. While Ted enjoys it, it doesn't hold the same power over him that it does me--it is a long-awaited for treat, everytime we go, and my favorite part of the summer.

This past weekend, we headed down to Bethany Beach in Delaware. Ted's mother has a little trailer in a park down there where they spend their weekends. Yes, it was a little windy, and yes, the water was more than a little cold. But that didn't stop Ted's brother Dave from handing me his old surf board and a surf shirt--"You are learning."

After a quick lesson on the beach (I must have looked silly pretending to paddle in sand, but I like to think Dave looked even sillier, pretending to paddle in sand in a wetsuit), we headed out to the ocean (I have never had numb feet and a sunburnt face at the same time). "Okay, Maggie. Climb on the board." I laid on my stomach and Dave started out by positioning me towards the shore. His extent of teaching was this:
Dave: "When I say 'Go', start paddling. When I say 'Go' again, stand up."
Me: "But, Dave, when you say 'Go' the second time, does that mean--"
Dave: "Go, Maggie! Take this one!"
Me: "Take what? This one--oh! Oh, um...okay..."
Dave: "Stand! Stand!"
Me: *explicit comment*

After a few more go-rounds of this, we decided that I was comfortable enough that Dave could get his own board (I think he was mad because there were some good waves, even for Delaware, and I was doing a little more than floating over them).

We floated around a bit, had some good conversations about peanut butter and Smores and the video racing game we had played the night before (I created this kick-ass tricked out pink Hummer...I think I missed my true calling). I think that was my favorite part. I never actually stood on the board...I got on my knees a few times, which was really alot of fun. I flirted with the other surfing guys, who flirted back, until a big wave came and I panicked and made them fall off their boards, then they kind of stopped and went away.

That night, over Smores (yum) and family discussions about drunken neighbors, Dave asked me how I felt. I thought about it. My foot was cut somehow (I bled all over the beach), I had a bruise on my thigh, and a knot on my head from where the surf board wacked me when I was trying to carry it all cool-like. My arms were sore, and, becuase I had shaved that morning, my legs were covered in a painful, itchy rash from a combination of razor burn and salt/cold water against already-raw skin.

"Great." I told him. "Surf's up, Dude." I would have dropped some really cool surfer-speak, but didn't want to intimidate him.

Your age, please.

When I was younger, there were a select list of questions I would answer without blinking--What grade are you in? When is your birthday? What is your teacher's name? How old are you? Anyone asking these questions was viewed as incompetent since the answers were SO obvious. Duh, I was in X grade, everyone knew that...my teacher was Mrs. Long...my birthday is in September...and of COURSE I am [this many] years old!

Over the weekend, I completed an entry form for a local 5K in July in our town. The questions were routinely completed...Name? Address? Easy. Age at race date?

I stared at Ted. How old am I? I realized then that at some point after my 23rd birthday, I (without realizing it) had stopped counting. I thought I was 24, then laughed and went to write 25. Ted stared back at me. For some reason, he has been able to remember his age and answer it on a whim. I now rely on the calculater--this year minus my birth year, plus -1 since my birthday hasn't arrived yet. And you would think the first time I forgot such an important fact, it would be the last. Not true.

This has happened on many occasions, but not just filling out an entry form. I was searching a popular website for classmates I have lost touch with, and was allowed to enter an age range in which I could limit my search. While reviewing the list of returned names, I found myself clicking on those whose age was reported as "24", or "23", thinking they were in my graduating class and I would know them. I was shocked to see those were the ones who were starting school after I left...therefore I would only have crossed their paths if they were visiting prior to their high school graduation.

I never imagined I'd be so senile as to forget my age. For years, that established who I was...now, suddenly, I'm required to resort to basic mathmatic skills to figure out how old I'll be on my next birthday.