Best Laid Plans

I am supposed to run the Omaha Marathon this weekend. It’s Nebraska. That’s a pretty big state to color in on my map and it stretches the colors into new territory. Sure I have Minnesota and Florida and Massachusetts. But Nebraska looks more like I am getting a toe hold to the East. I feel like I am playing Risk instead of running a marathon in every state.

On Sunday, Mary suddenly got sick. I took her to the doctor on Monday. The doctor refused to test for the type of flu that it is, but definitely said it was the flu. She seems to be a little better today. But just a little. Yesterday, Charlie got sick. His teacher said he had an awful day at school. I think she was worried about this starting a trend. He isn’t prone to awfulness. Yes, he is different. But awful? Never. He said he wasn’t feeling well. When we got home, his temperature was 101. Today, he was worse. Will they be better for me to go to Omaha? Will I be ok?

I really need a marathon.

Lucky in Love

I love running. Mostly I love running. Except on mornings when I am running alone and my brain mites have taken over. “You can’t do it.” they tell me. “Just stay in bed.” “Run later.” If I am lucky enough to have rationality win over the brain mites and I put my running shoes on and get out there, usually I feel better. Unless the brain mites launch an insurgency. “Isn’t that your IT band that’s hurting?” “Ouch! Your ankles! You can’t run on sore ankles. You might as well go home.” To combat the brain mites, I try to run with other people who get me thinking about something besides the ongoing dialog in my head.

This morning I was facing the prospect of running alone. I set up the Map My Run app on my new iPhone. At least that would be fun. I headed out the door listening to tunes on my iPhone and hoping the new app was working. I stopped to check it at about half a mile. It said I was running at a 14 minute mile pace. I knew I was slow, but not that slow! Stinkin’ iPhone app. I began running again and by mile 1 it said I was running at an 8:23 pace. That’s better.

By three miles, the brain mites were winning and I thought I might just retrace my steps and go home. I ran up to the meeting spot for tomorrow’s cross country workout for no reason at all, but as I was running back, I saw a guy and two girls run past the street lights down by the canal. That has to be Frank and Theresa, I thought, and I sprinted to catch up with them. They were running with Cindy, who I had never met. She was nice – younger and faster than I am. Frank is just back to running after 8 months off with an injury, so he was only running 10 miles. They hit their turn around sooner than I expected. But, lucky for me, Theresa is training for Ironman and had to put in 6 more miles.

It was hot and muggy as soon as it was light, but we managed to slog through it. Theresa makes me run a little faster than I would have on a day like today and that is a good thing. We picked up another runner who I saw last week who is also training for Ironman. He wants to improve his running because it is his “weak link.” He buys a Coke at his turn around and I am dying to tell him how bad that is for him, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t have any data on the deleterious effects of drinking Coke, but just reading the label is all I need to know.

I ended the day happy with 15 miles. My iPhone App died somewhere after 8 miles (the last time I checked) and I didn’t really care. I won’t use it again. It’s too much technology for a run. Too distracting. Like bringing a generator on a camping trip to the woods.

I know I am lucky to be able to run. I know I am lucky to be able to overcome the brain mites. I know I am lucky to actually enjoy running once I get out there and have company. My body doesn’t fail me, just my brain. For some people, running is more of a struggle. My friend Alan finds that he isn’t a natural runner, but knows that when he does run, it enables him to manage his diabetes more effectively. He writes a terrific blog http://dommy.com/ihaterunning/ and he is raising money for diabetes research, education, and support at: http://bit.ly/3hSxyN I am not raising money but, if you, dear reader, are so inclined, I ask you to support Alan. He allows me to see that I should never take running for granted.

Passing the torch

My closet floor is cluttered with old running shoes I can’t bear to part with, my Boston drop bag, Brooks shoe boxes and other detritus of a Marathon Maniac. There was also a bag filled half full with excess swag I picked up at conferences, marathon expos, and through the generous donations of people I asked for give-away goodies. I use them as prizes for my kids running team. Every time we met, at the end of our run, I would pull out my Brooks shoe box containing slips of paper. Each slip held a child’s name. You must be present to win.

“Let me pick this time, Mrs. Wyman!” “Can I pick, Coach?” They gathered around me like little birds in the nest begging to be fed the latest worm. Depending on the day, I might ask one of the kids who could read to draw the name. If I had a lot of prizes in my bag and a lot of kids in front of me, we would draw another name. If there were still a few minutes before the bell rang, we would draw another name. The kids who were lucky enough to have their name drawn would dive into the bag looking for the perfect prize. I kept about ten prizes in the bag at any one time. If these winners had to go through all the swag to find their perfect prize, we would still be out there waiting. This was coveted swag.

I don’t want to say I had favorites on the team. Each kid on the team was special. Although there were often close to 70 kids aged from four to eleven on the team, at workouts we usually had 40 to 50. Sometimes fewer if it was really cold. There was one boy who ran with us every year for the past five years. When he started, he had to wear leg braces. Big white molded plastic contraptions that strapped on with wide Velcro straps. He hated his leg braces. He didn’t want anyone to see the tears that would form in the corners of his eyes at the thought of his ugly leg braces. I imagine they were painful, but I never asked. The neat thing about this kid was that every single time I saw him on campus, which was just about every day, his face would light up and he would ask “Do we get to run today, Mrs. Wyman?” He needed no swag. For him, running was swag.

Last year, my youngest son spent most of the time curled up on the ground crying. It was a tough year for him. His Tourettes was coming into full flower. He wanted 100% of my attention, but I couldn’t give it to him if I was coaching. I figured my turn as coach was coming to an end. I didn’t enjoy coaching with my son crumpled on the ground crying. I couldn’t coach if I was helping him. It was time to give someone else a turn as coach.

On Sunday, I pushed the shoes aside and hidden underneath the dresses I never wear was the swag bag. I put it in my car and dropped it off at the new coach’s house. I miss the swag bag. Running is swag for me, too, but so is running with the kids.