Here we go...

Six days out and I'm happily clad in compression pants, enjoying my Philz' coffee and the taper. In the strangest of circumstances, I don't feel stressed about the race at all. The last eight weeks have been...awesome. Rejuvenating. Almost inspiring. It's odd to say, but a reboot exactly what I needed. I rediscovered my love of running over the past two months. I have no idea how or why, but I realize now how burnt-out I was in late September. 

Last week was an interesting one. Three distinct events happened that really brought it home for me. First, I had a recovery run early Monday. Seven miles before 6am. Pretty standard. I love my Monday miles; those recovery runs are at a comfortable pace and I almost always run alone. It's a chance to look at the city lights, warm up the legs, and reflect. I decided to do the Beltway Trail, which is pitch black at that time of day. I had my headlamp, but I could barely see my own hand in front of my face (may be time to change the batteries). I spent a solid three miles simply concentrating on not turning into Beltway roadkill; I didn't wipe out though I did crash into quite a few low-hanging tree branches. (I literally had to pick out the leaves from my hair later that morning). Regardless, by the time I got back to the park, I realized I had gone way faster than I should have. That blackness prevented me from looking at my watch (mainly because my arms were over my head, swatting branches). Out of curiosity, I compared the pace of those seven miles to several seven milers I did last year. What was once speed work is now a recovery run. Seriously. I used to do seven miles on the treadmill in about an hour (two 10 min warm-up miles, 5 miles at an 8 min pace). Now that was my post-16 miler pre-boot camp shakeout.

I'm not breaking any land-speed records here, but it was a nice mental win.

Then, on Thanksgiving, seated at the dinner table of a friend's house, was a former professional triathlete. He just happens to be friends with our friends. We must have talked for at least an hour about running and racing. I tried very hard to not pepper him with questions but I couldn't control how fast the words were flying out of my mouth. Thankfully, he seemed equally excited to share wisdom about his former profession, and somehow, we ended up on the subject of negative splitting (running the second half the race faster than the first). I watched as others milled in and out of the family room, their eyes glazing over upon hearing our conversation (I can't help it if they don't find the subject as fascinating as we did). He made so, so many good points - like why the world record for a half is around 56 minutes, but the WR for a full is 2:02. Technically, at the half pace, the full should be around 1:54. But there's a full 8 minute fade. And the few men in the world that can hit those numbers? Even they do the first half slower, around 1:03, then negative split the second. He must have said 15 times, "You have to go out slowly. You have to. You have to go out slowly." This made me think. Negative splitting is like the holy grail of running, a true sign of discipline, patience, and belief in your fitness ability and training. I don't think I've negative split a race in my whole life, including my shiny little gem, the Cedar City half. Then he commented on how "time in the bank" (i.e. running fast out of the gate to bank time) almost always blows up in the runner's face. One minute of banked time in the first twenty miles can equate to an extra five in the last 10K. "What about going out five seconds under marathon pace?" I pressed. "Not even one second. Stay on pace," he cautioned. "You want to race that last 10K like you just started running. The first twenty is nothing more than a warm-up. A walk in the park. Use as little effort as possible." Then he said something I'll never forget: "Imagine if you can run that last mile the fastest you've ever run. That's how you race a marathon."

Mind = blown.

Finally, with that conversation was still swirling through my brain, I tackled speed work on Friday afternoon (which was, ironically, set in the park. It wasn't a walk in the park but a run around the park.)  It was a tough set - 4x1600m at tempo pace (for me, that's 7:42), 3x1000m at interval pace (4:31). The purpose was to mimic the lactic acid buildup at the end of the marathon and learn to push through it. I took off as I usually do, at full speed, ready for the inevitable pain. My watch read 7:08 and I groaned. Ow. But then I heard my new friend's advice and backed off significantly. I slowed down, easing into a 7:33 pace and found myself...comfortable. Like, really comfortable. (again, there are about 3 million people in this world faster than I am. If you are guffawing at your computer screen or phone, please keep it to yourself. I'm using my times as an example only. Comparisons are no bueno for anyone involved). I could run this speed for a long time. I got through my four sets with ease. Gas still in the tank. I had three 1000m to do at a faster clip (interval is faster than tempo) but my legs felt fresh. I wasn't slumping into the Sad Runner's Shuffle.  By not banking time, I was actually going to get through this workout - like a boss. And I did, with my last 1000m coming in the fastest, at a lovely 4:27, a full four seconds under pace.

Mind you, I did this exact workout 10 days before St. George. I was so cashed I didn't even get to the three 1000m. My last two mile repeats were way over pace since I faded so quickly. I limped off the track that day.

What have I learned from all of this? I'm going to go out slowly. Also, I don't know if this is my race to BQ. I know, I know, it sounds like I'm hedging now that it's race week. But I'm not backing off because I'm scared or nervous. I'm backing off because 1) I know what I'm capable of and 2) I want to run my best race. BQ'ing would mean I need to hit the half at 1:45. I can do that - but that will be at near-maximum effort. Hitting the half at 1:50, giving myself an additional five minutes, is a far more conservative approach and will set me up for a stronger second half. To BQ, I would have to negative split and run 1:47. That's the hiccup. I just don't think it's going to happen. But that's okay! Really. I would be absolutely delighted to come in under four hours at this point, but mostly, I want to finish strong. I'm okay if I need another marathon or two to get to Boston 2017. 

Enough with boring numbers. Just this morning, I happen to catch the end of Kobe Bryant's press conference about his retirement. He said that he appreciates all of the struggles in his career, almost more than the good things, because it got him to where he needed to be. I am not much of a Kobe fan (or basketball in general), but that statement hit home. In some ways, DNF'ing may be one of the best things that ever happened. Had I finished St. George, I would have gotten a medal but would have missed so much more. Eight weeks of gorgeous fall miles and Vegas sunrises. I would have missed conquering my almost-paralyzing fear on that first post-George 20-miler. I was so nervous that morning, I was shaking when I got out of my car. I would have given anything to get back in my car and crawl under the covers of my safe, warm bed. Instead, I put on my hydration pack and tried not to think. Getting through the yucky emotions like disappointment, confusion and shame was as simple as putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again. Like I realized last year, I'm no longer running away from anything. Instead, I'm running toward all kinds of good things - joy, accomplishment, wonder. Bliss.

I feel good. I feel thankful. I feel ready. :-)

Full race recap in the blog next Monday.

                (cue the thoughtfully selected quote from Pinterest)

Seventeen days until CIM. Training is going unbelievably well. All three 20-milers were strong runs with my final foray this past Saturday. This week the focus is speed and I'm hitting all those numbers too. Work is unbelievable (yay for the holiday season!) and everything on the home front appears to be smooth sailing. On Tuesday, I found myself thinking, "This is going to work out. I'm actually going to pull this off." Marathon training, seasonal business, volunteer stuff, baseball, family, life in general. Let's not question it; let's just ride the wave.

Naturally, there was going to be a speed bump. Of course. Hopefully, we got it out of our system yesterday afternoon.

On my way to pick-up, after a very productive morning, the "check engine" light came on. Subie will be eleven this January and is pushing 130,000 miles. The ole girl's days are numbered, I know. But she's been with me before car seats and baseball gear cluttered the back, so I have a soft place in my heart for her. I'm just not ready to let go.

I was literally on the phone with the dealership scheduling an appointment that afternoon as I walked in to school to pick up the motley crew: Scotty plus two friends. No sooner did I get off the phone and enter his class did the teacher flag me down. I saw him sitting at his desk, head down, arms at his side, grimacing. I genuinely couldn't tell if he had gotten in trouble and was remorseful or was just sick. The teacher cataloged his symptoms: heartburn, sore throat, tired legs. His little green eyes, now bloodshot, told me, "I'm sick."

Sick kid, sick car. No problem.

I hustled the crew out of the building and called the dealership again. We're not going to make it, I told him. Sick kiddo. He told me he had secured a loaner car for me and it was available now. On second thought, I told him, we are on our way. Let's head over there now, get the loaner, and then get the kids home safely.

No problem, no problem.

Of course, the whole thing took longer than expected. I'm also not used to rolling with three little people following me like ducklings, so when Samantha told me she had to use the bathroom, I looked at the boys with concern. Now what? We all trooped dutifully into the ladies room. Carson averted his eyes and quietly ate a complimentary granola bar. Scotty sniffed the paper towels and proclaimed his approval. (he loves smelling paper towels). 

After an eternity of paperwork and printer jams, with their free slushies in hand, I moved the whole group towards the loaner car. The nice employee helped me shuffle all the car seats, backpacks, and snacks. Scotty was looking more and more peaked, stating he was too tired to walk. Even hugs and encouragement from Samantha didn't help.

No problem. We were going to get in the new car and head home. Almost there...

And then, we got stuck in traffic. Like, really annoying, rush-hour-through-a-construction-zone traffic. Not knowing how to manage the controls, the car got warmer and warmer. I rolled down some windows. Scotty closed his eyes, laid his head back, and turned a nasty shade of green.

Then he announced he was going to puke.

I looked around the pristine new car that had all of 34 miles on it. There wasn't an empty bag, old cup, or even sheet of construction paper he could use to throw up on. I glanced at my beloved black-studded Michael Kors bag, gifted to me by my mom last Christmas, and briefly contemplated handing it to him. No way. I'd rather scrub vomit off a car seat than that bag. Then, inspiration struck.

"Use your old slushie cup!" I yelled, right as red liquid came barreling out of his mouth.

I'm not sure what was more dramatic: Scotty's puking or Sam and Carson's screaming, hysterical reaction. Carson, stuck in the middle next to him, immediately attempted to get as far away as possible by scaling his sister, who was howling. The smell instantly filled the hot car. Sam announced that smelling puke makes her want to puke, too, and started making this strange barking coughing noise.

I weaved through traffic to pull onto a side street and immediately began ripping children from the car. No one else was puking, not on my watch. Thankfully, in this neighborhood, it was garbage day. I positioned Scotty directly in front of some poor person's unsuspecting can and directed him to aim. More pink and red came out. Sam, revitalized by the fresh cold air, stopped barking. Carson, probably the most traumatized since he was closest to the action, remained frozen in his spot, eyes wide and unblinking.

Scotty requested a tissue to wipe the vomit from his nose. Again, I had nothing. I handed him my scarf. Good-bye, favorite scarf. I'm going to have to dump bleach on it now. He took a few tentative sips of water and announced he felt better. I cautiously reboarded all the children. I was less than five minutes from Courtney's house but it felt like an eternity. There was only one empty slushie cup left before we had to resort to my purse.

Scott, burning up and flushed, demanded all the windows be rolled down. Sam and Carson screamed they were freezing, huddling together like orphans. I sang at the top of my lungs in an attempt to distract everyone.

Isn't Motherhood fun?

So...yeah. Seventeen days and one stomach bug. I figure if it hits me, I'll drop some additional weight and then try to rehydrate as fast as possible. A lot can happen in seventeen days.

No problem.

Hitting the reset button after a DNF is an interesting process.

In a traditional training program, it's a fairly routine progression. There's the "I Decided to Run a Marathon!" initial excitement. This quickly morphs into the "Hmm, This is a Bit Tougher Than I Anticipated" phase. After that, it's the "OMG Everything Hurts and I'm Dying" stage right before the taper, at which point the brain messes with all of your hard work. It convinces you that taking a day or two off from running will result in spontaneous weight gain and a total loss of fitness. Race day arrives, you run, you finish, you eat a banana, you post it on Facebook and life goes on. The End.

Except when you don't finish. My running narrative was interrupted by an exploding cyst and I didn't get to the ending. It's not bad though - probably the only thing more surprising than my DNF was how quickly I accepted what had happened. Even before they had taken the IV out, friends were helping me focus on the future, not the past and I was already looking ahead. Getting in CIM was like a giant beacon of light on that yucky rainy Monday. I had my newly revamped 8 week training program written out by Wednesday, excited and hopeful for my second chance. 

Until I really looked at it. Eight weeks doesn't seem long, then I noticed it involved three 20 milers. Ugh. My shoulders instantly hurt at having to carry all that water, all over again. Remember all the speed work? The countless laps around the track - let's do it again. This time, faster! Who wants to tempo run? It felt like all of my energy spent in August and September -- all of those early mornings, foam roll-outs, and chiropractic appointments - OMG I had to repeat all of that. The enormity of what I had decided to do suddenly hit me. If you count my training for LA earlier this year, I've been in marathon training for every single week this year, minus six. SIX WEEKS. And during that brief hiatus, I willingly ran a half marathon. So much for training less in 2015.

Right when I was getting discouraged and overwhelmed, I found inspiration in the most unlikely of places: the Bear.

If you are a long-time reader of the blog, you know Scotty is a sweet, smart, sensitive little guy. He's goofy, wiggly and six. He's exactly what he should be. What he is not is highly motivated. While some kids push their parents, our little guy is a ridiculously low maintenance child. He's not particularly strong-willed. We joke that his burner is set to low. If he cant' do it, he will find someone to do it for him. There's not a lot of tenacity in the boy. 

All of this, of course, is baffling to Brian and I. Considering Scotty's lineage, his parents are two incredibly intense, type-A, competitive people. My family won't play board games with us after one unfortunate involving Monopoly in 2002. The only two times Brian and I have ever almost broken up in 14 years involved a game of mini golf and a tennis match. (And to date: I refuse to play mini-golf and Brian won't play tennis with me). Brian's a lot smarter and more strategic with his killer instinct, whereas I'm more primal, resorting to simplistic anger and aggression. Charming, I know. 

Enter a very mellow, could-care-less child. We were dumbfounded and genuinely concerned at first. You don't want to play until someone cries? What's wrong with you? Go for the throat! No mercy, right? Even in our family games of Star Wars Trouble, Brian and I would be glaring at each other from across the die, frantically knocking each other off the board while Scotty blissfully moved his piece, unaware that Mom and Dad were locked in a duel to the death.

Then baseball started this fall. And by baseball, I mean: real baseball. No more of this t-ball nonnense. This is coach-pitch, run hard, hit hard, play with 8-year olds-kind of baseball. The first day we showed up to practice, I was shocked we didn't have to explain where to stand at the plate. The kids knew. And they were good! They were crushing the ball to the outfield. On day one! And the wheels on these kids - some of them are faster than I am. ("These are the kids passing me in the last 200m of 5Ks...terrific..."). 

I looked at my 45-pound bobble-headed child and thought, "We're dead."

The first six week of the season were rough. There were a lot of "Ks" next to his name in the score book. When he was in left field, I breathed with relief when the ball was hit to right. In a particularly low moment of Motherhood, he was up to bat in the last inning of the game.  We were down by three, bases loaded, and a full count. I actually caught myself silently hoping he'd get hit by a pitch.

(just a little graze, nothing big. You know, off the booty. There's plenty of padding there. Okay, you're right, I'm a horrible person).

He struck out. We lost.

And then, over the past two weeks, something happened. All that time at practice, hanging out with impossibly cool big kids ("Mom, they're EIGHT!") and the countless hours in the batting cages, I noticed a difference. His swing was faster. He was tracking the ball. Instead of him going through a 1/2 bucket of balls in 30 minutes, complaining the whole time his arms were hurting, he was blowing through 2 full buckets. And he was making consistent contact.

Last week, during yet another batting session, I noted that we were running low on time. "Five more balls," I called out to him from behind the pitching machine. He put his bat down and pouted. I braced for the inevitable whining. "No!" he shouted. "TEN MORE!"

YES!

That burner just got turned up to medium-low, folks.

It hit me - if my little Bear, my breezy, cheerful child could dig deep - I can too. Watching him fall in love withe the sport made me think about how and when I fell in love with one, too. It's motivating and so exciting to see him race around to get his uniform on, or take off to catch up with his teammates. It's a good lesson for me. Time to stop whining about those 20s. Tempo runs? Absolutely necessary. Here I am, already in marathon shape with just a bit of fine tuning to do, panicking about the next eight weeks when my child is learning a sport from the ground up and developing and building brand new muscles. He has to balance this with all the newness that kindergarten brings - the poor kid's brain is probably fried by the end of the day. (no wonder he's sleeping so well these days).

Watching Scotty's progress has simply reinforced that I need to trust the process. It doesn't happen overnight. It doesn't happen in a week. And it's certainly not linear. It takes consistent effort, thoughtfulness, and dedication to see improvement. I need to stop critiquing my own performance and just let it go. Putting St. George behind me was the first step; now I have a whole bunch more to go. But I am happy to report that with Scottys' progress in mind, I've had two awesomely successful 20-milers since hitting the reset button. Only four more long runs until CIM and I'm staying positive. If my six year old can do it, so can I.

WARNING! Shameless Mother bragging ahead: in our last game of the season, the Bear batted 4 for 4 (1000), brought in 2 RBIs, and scored two runs. His goal was to "run around all the bases" at least once this season, and he got to do it twice during the game. I'm just glad I didn't keel over from a heart attack during the process. Little League is not for the faint of heart.