Life's Short, Live It

"I don't run because I love the feeling of running. I run because it makes me love the feeling of living." Bonnie Pfiester

Last week, Meg Menzies, an avid runner, devoted mother of three and wife, was struck and killed by

a drunk driver during her morning run. Her death strongly affected her community, whose planned memorial run quickly spread to over 95,000 runners across the nation, hoping to pay their respect and raise awareness of athletes on the road, so this tragedy is not repeated. As I set off on my #megsmiles run, my legs were light but heart was heavy.  As a road runner and cyclist, the dark thought of “I may not return” is always lurking in the back of my mind as I close the front door. This is a sad reality when one shares the road with cars, and the dramatically increasing number of distracted drivers. Should Meg have relegated herself to the soul-stealing treadmill to assure that she would safely return home to her family? I’m sure there are many that think road athletes are “asking for it” and that they are arrogantly impeding their path. Runners and cyclists don’t maliciously plan their routes to disrupt the most drivers; they head out for the love of the sport, fresh air in their lungs and mainly the feeling of being alive. Unless one participates in these activities, they don’t understand the exhilaration received from exercising outside, versus being herded inside a gym for a 60-minute workout, especially after spending the day behind a desk and wheel of a car.  I still remember the anxiety I felt when my husband would set out on 4-hour training bike rides, but I had to keep reminding myself that he was doing what made him happy, and the odds were higher on him not returning home from an I-95 commute, which he didn’t enjoy.

“Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live.” Dorothy Thompson

My trepidation of road riding was very strong when I first got my bike, enough that my husband told me to post it on Craig’s List and stick to kickboxing classes, but I’ve since survived a 64-mile killer ride through the Blue Ridge Mountains and recently headed out on a solo 25-mile ride, and nothing feels better than facing your fears head on.  My fear of open water is also very deep-rooted, but I’ve declared my participation in the Rocky Gap Triathlon in May, even though my Chinese horoscope reads "Dragon people also have to pay attention on the safety, because of an injury sign showing in 2014. The activities related to ocean, lake, boating and swimming are not recommended..." I should probably heed this warning, but I’m determined to overcome this fear, although I may rethink if there are any lake monsters sightings on race day.

“And if all you ever do with your life

Is photosynthesize

Then you deserve every hour of these sleepless nights

That you spend wondering when you're gonna die”

 

Shorter Run, Longer Party…

Blame it on the Government shutdown, taper crazies, or just the marathon gods directing me back on course, but two days before my “back on my feet” marathon, I decided to “opt out” of the long run and go for the shorter route.

Since I grew up in Western Maryland, the Freedom’s Run’s 26 miles through Harpers Ferry, Antietam Battlefield, and the C&O Canal, immediately appealed to my nostalgic side, and found the 2,000 participant limit to be refreshing since I shared my first marathon experience with 30,000 people.  After registering, I only had 12 weeks to train (6 weeks shy of ideal), but everything went smooth, other than being a little indolent with my weekday runs, and some ankle and arch soreness. My two-week taper began, and all was well until the Government decided to shut down. I wasn’t concerned until the foolishness dragged into the weekend, and the realization that the majority of the marathon course was through four National Parks.

The race director announced that they were working on an alternate route, so I remained hopeful, until I saw it was an out-and-back, TWICE!  I tried to stay positive; thinking the extra support from the crowds would be motivating as I headed out for my last 13.1 miles. My husband was encouraging, saying that the course was similar to an Iron Man, and that the original marathon courses were loops, but I know the mental barrier I have with out-and-back courses, and had serious concerns about my ability to push through that and the Wall. The final straw was a rainy race day forecast, and found it almost impossible to stay positive thinking about running a double loop sopping wet.  I made the decision to switch to the half-marathon, allowing me to still participate in the festivities and have more time and energy to spend with my family. I’m now back on track to run  “America’sFriendliest Marathon” in Richmond on November 16, so I’m going to enjoy this weekend’s “shorter run, longer party”, since it’s back to training next week.

 

The House that Raised Us

“What can I say? This house is falling apart. We got no money, but we got heart.” Walk the Moon “Anna Sun”

 

 

Homeownership is the American Dream… I can picture it now, Don Draper making his pitch to the collaborative team of property builders, mortgage lenders, real estate agents and politicians, and the buzz of excitement that follows. Eureka!  They’ve found the way to convince millions of people to enslave themselves to a lifetime of mortgage payments, yard work, improvement projects, and uninspiring careers, all in the name of living the dream.

As a homeowner for the past 10 years, I’ve experienced a gamut of emotions from the gratifying completion of a DIY project to hoping to return home to a pile of ashes. This responsibility is not for everyone, and apparently I’m in that group since I can count at least 20 things I’d rather be doing on the weekends than mowing the lawn or cleaning the house.  But, admittedly, this money pit has taught us a few lessons over the past decade, some that had apparently needed to be learned the hard way.

Don’t make hasty decisions/Think before you act…

It was early 2003 and the real estate market was just starting to explode. My cohabitant and I was on our second apartment, and started to listen to the chatter about wasting money on rent and great tax breaks on mortgages, so we decided that we’d plan to  buy at the end of our lease. Besides, if we didn’t buy now, we’d never be able to afford a home…

I was “fortunate” to have a brother in the mortgage industry, so the pre-approval was seamless. I immediately started scouring online databases for homes in our price range, and my dream of a quaint row house in Alexandria was soon crushed. I really wanted a dog, so had ruled out condos in lieu of a little green space, but was still able to still keep us “around” the Beltway.  Then my darling partner declared that he needed a garage, so the search spread further west and south. Stafford, VA was on our radar, although it was 40 miles from work, we had friends in the area and we could buy a single family dwelling for the price of a townhouse up the road, which was important because if we didn’t buy one now, we’d never be able to afford a home…

We met with a realtor and gave him our wish list, which was basically a garage, 3-bedrooms, backyard, and unfinished basement (you know, for the future bar). During my search of the area, I had come across a deal that seemed too good to be true, a 3-bedroom brick-front colonial on 1/3 acre with an unfinished basement, and the kicker, a full front porch.  This house was not only in our price range, but had been on the market for a couple of months, which was uncommon during this frenzy, so I was intrigued (and a bit fixated). We soon learned that the property had been a rental and didn’t show well (aka pig sty), but my focus was on its potential and the neighborhood didn’t have an HOA, which was important since I was moving in with a cowboy. After some negotiation, the paperwork was signed within six days of our first viewing and I spent the next few months chewing on antacids, telling myself that “if we didn’t buy now, we’d never be able to afford a home…”

 Don’t bite off more than you can chew…

Damn you HGTV! The “Handyman’s Special” looked so romantic on television.  The projects seemed exciting at first-picking out paint swatches, installing wood floors, and designing landscape-and then we learned that we were starters, not finishers. The idealic image I had of us cheerfully spending our weekends renovating was soon dissolved by the realization that commuting is exhausting, and the last thing we wanted to do was pick up a nail gun or a paint brush at the end of the day. Then came a major outdoor water pipe repair, ceiling collapse from a roof leak, and a broken HVAC unit, and all of our “improvement” money was now eaten up by unsexy projects.

If it’s too good to be true, it probably is/Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched

We’re rich! The housing market exploded, buyers are paying $40K-$50k more than the asking price, and homes are sold within hours of listing. Our house value had increased almost 50% in two years, so it “made sense” to take out a home equity loan since we had some credit cards bills and home improvements to finish. We had plans to join our friends in GA after I finished grad school, so the loan would be paid off with the house sale and we’d still have enough for a down payment, since the prices would continue to soar.  Then the market began to retract, houses were moving slower and the prices soon followed, and then the National Bureau of Economic Research made the “surprise” announcement that the country was in a recession.  We were stuck, this property that was once our golden egg, was now not even worth the balance of the first mortgage.  

When life hands you lemons, make lemonade…

The woe-is-me’ing was in full effect. I was commuting 3 hours a day to pay for a house that I didn’t want and bills for forgotten purchases, I truly felt like I was in debtor’s prison. So I did what any desolate person would do, I picked up a homebrew kit. Beer had been a long time passion of mine (majority of my college papers were on the Boston Beer Company), but had slackened over the years, mainly due to my discovery of the quick mind numbing effects of wine.  This new hobby invigorated the both of us; we quickly connected with the homebrew and craft beer communities, met new friends and started to develop a positive view of our surroundings. Our house had a new purpose, the garage was cleared for the brewing equipment, kitchen became central command, dining room was the turned into the barrel aging room, and fermenting vessels lined the walls of the “formal” living room.

I finished my first 5K around the time of our second batch of beer, and immediately had my sights on a half-marathon.  As my training progressed, I was pleased to find enough connecting neighborhoods to keep me off the main roads, and reluctantly found myself admitting the benefits of the exurbs. As our cycling skills and confidence increased, discovering that we had access to dozens of miles of rural country roads from our neighborhood was also a huge bonus, especially since the  hubby set his focus on becoming an Iron Man and 60+ mile rides were a weekly occurrence.

Life is 10% of what happens and 90% of how you react/ Regardless of situation, life goes on

In the past ten years, I’ve learned to stop fretting over the unfinished home projects, relax in traffic and use the time to catch up on podcasts, and focus on being appreciative of what I have.  This does not mean I’ve surrendered the dream of moving on, but I now see our house as the universe’s way of grounding us, until we are ready for our next big move.   Since our plans to move to GA, we’ve been drawn to the localvore culture of Portland, OR, bohemian streets of Austin, TX, and Blue Ridge backdrop of western VA, so maybe our next home will be on wheels…

Iron Widow

I sometimes find myself missing my indolent, pack-a-day, two fast food stops on the way home husband, but only briefly and mainly because then I was the fit one.  I applauded when he quit smoking, hit the gym and picked up a salad fork. I trailed after him when he gravitated toward endurance running, and did my best not to sneer when he came home with a road bike and “Share the Road” license plates. I even found the benefit of cross training with a bike during marathon training, and traded my fitness bike in for a road version so I could keep up with him, which I’m still trying.

But an ominous cloud began to hover, and the talk about swim lessons began.  I was hesitant about spending my precious Saturday afternoons traveling an hour away for a 90-minute swim clinic, but he was determined, so I agreed, figuring I could finally check traversing the English Channel off my bucket list.  The next 12-weekends were spent at a YMCA, and as I began more comfortable in the water (and the locker room shower) I also found myself yearning for a triathlon. As many things, my husband was much more dedicated than me, actually going to the pool between lessons, so he was ready for his first sprint triathlon by May, then an Olympic distance in June. Then came the registration for Beach to Battleship… This Half Ironman distance race consits of a 1.2 mile swim, 56-mile bike ride, 13.1-mile run, so things really started to get real.

 As an Iron Wife, your first apprehension will be to the steady stream of cash that is quickly exiting the account-race fees, training plans, wet suits, really tight clothing that dries quickly, swim paddles, pull buoys, underwater watches, wheel upgrades, high priced corn starch, etc. Then comes the uneasiness of sending off one of the few people in the world that understands you, and still loves you, to “share the road” with a bunch of lunatic drivers for four hours, while you nervously watch the clock. Finally, there’ll be a bit of dejection as his life becomes centered on training. There’ll be plenty of time to watch ‘Downton Abbey’ or a ‘House Hunters’ marathon as he heads to bed at 8:30 on a Friday night, and no worries about a 2-hour long run because he’ll still be out training for another two. All is not lost, because before your eyes, you’re seeing him become the man that he wants to be, and that is priceless. An Iron Wife is more than a title, it’s a duty and one not to be taken lightly. Besides, my first sprint triathlon is on Sunday, so I’ll be expecting the same from him when I’m training for Kona…

Streakin’ in Memory

The run streak…. Proponents tout that it will get you moving and become a better runner, the opponents warn of dreaded injuries and intensive recovery times. The official definition of a running streak, as adopted by the Streak Runners International, Inc., and United States Running Streak Association, Inc., yes, they actually exist, “is to run at least one continuous  mile (1.61 kilometers) within each calendar day under one's own body power (without the utilization of any type of health or mechanical aid other than prosthetic devices). Running under one's own body power can occur on either the roads, a track, over hill and dale, or on a treadmill. Running cannot occur through the use of canes, crutches or banisters, or reliance on pools or aquatic devices to create artificial buoyancy. “

This will be my second attempt at a run streak, the first one ending after 3 days due to a plantar fasciitis flare up, but feeling confident that my foot ailments are behind me and ready to try again. This streak will also be extremely personal since the first day, July 20, signifies the date my mother was diagnosed with leukemia and will end on her last day, November 4. During these 107 days, I will pay homage to her struggles and bravery, while continuing with my own personal growth. Adding to my sufferings, I’ve decided to participate in the Freedom’s Run 26.2 mile dash through four National Parks - Harpers Ferry, the C&O Canal, Antietam National Battlefield, and the Potomac Heritage Trail- on October 12, 2013. Leaving me with less than 12-weeks to train…

My spring running was off to a good start with a 13.1 mile trek through the Roanoke  mountains for the Blue Ridge Half-Marathon followed by the Historic Half and the dreaded Hospital Hill a month later, but haven’t run more than 7 straight miles since. I’m hoping that all my time on the bike this summer, including that Bike VA's brutal 64-miler, has kept me fit enough to catapult into week 8 of a 20-week marathon training plan. Wish me luck!

Born to Run

My passion for running began after finishing my first 5k in December 2009, and the runner’s high and strong sense of accomplishment left me yearning for the next distance milestone.  As a quickly recovered “gym rat,” I regretted the hours spent among the bulked up meat heads and GroupX divas, knowing that I could’ve been running those years instead of starting from scratch in my 30s.  The deep satisfaction and confidence that I received by setting out on a run and not stopping until complete, could not be emulated in the weight room, kickboxing class, or on the elliptical, and cross-training became a chore.

As a flat-footed, over-pronating aspiring runner, I was quickly directed into stability shoes with the recommendation of custom orthotics.  As I lugged the heavy trainers-mile after mile-and the pricey inserts shifted, my battle with plantar fasciitis began and I often questioned how people found this activity enjoyable, but usually had the answer by the end of the run. By May 2010, I had worked my way up to my first half-marathon, a distance I never thought possible, and started to think about the next distance, a 26.1... 

On my 35^th birthday I took the plunge and registered for the 2011 MarineCorps Marathon, so there was no turning back.  At that time, the running world was abuzz with the benefits of “natural running,” so I purchased a pair of Newton’s to assist me with my minimalist running journey.  As a child I was a “toe walker” due to short Achilles tendons, and I found the forward strike position to be intuitive and the light shoes to be liberating. I quickly shaved close to a minute off my average pace and the runner’s knee symptoms were gone, but I still suffered with foot pain. Figuring it was the shifting orthotics, there was about a half-size difference in my new trainers, I made another call to my podiatrist for another pair of custom orthotics and ultrasound therapy.

As my training mileage increased, so did my foot pain and I figured it was something I was going to have to live with if I wanted to continue running, plus I was too close to race day to turn back. The big day arrived and set out to reach my goal of a sub five-hour (4:45 was the magic number) marathon, but my foot pain began at mile 10 so I knew I had a long road ahead. The mile 20 Wall came hard and it was made of bricks, I barely drug myself over the 14^th Street Bridge, but dug deep and was able to pick myself up and run (really just a shuffle) to the finish line. Other than my feet, I felt great for running (shuffling) for 5 hours and 15 minutes, and knew I had to resolve this issue if I was going to continue with this sport.

My answer came in the form of the book, ‘Born to Run’ and I immediately related to McDougall’s struggles and quest to find the secret to natural running. I replaced my custom orthotics with the trainers’ original inserts and never looked back. As my confidence and belief grew in the theory that the feet need to be in contact with the ground to adjust to proper form and  get stronger, I decided to take the plunge and got a pair of New Balance Minimus Zero featuring the Vibram outsole. I’ve been running in them for a year (even bought a spare) and took on Mill Mountain in the Blue Ridge Half-Marathon and Hospital Hill during the Historic Half this year and happy to report there’s been no signs of plantar fasciitis. My next running goal is the Richmond Marathon in November so I may be running that barefoot…

A Mother’s Last Lessons

“Take your boots off and rest your legs,” these were the last words of advice that I received from my mother before she began her journey to her much awaited “home.” It was almost four months since she was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia; and I’d been carrying a heavy physical and emotional load since, so I knew her direction was both literal and figurative. As the hard-headed daughter, I was never accepting of her advice, so she was aware that her last messages would have to be unspoken.

Love
Over the years, my mother was plagued by many health problems that left her body and mind in a weakened state, and I understood the toll that chemo would take on her frail body, so the choice of intensive therapy or imminent death was not black or white. The decision was not easy, but she decided to go with chemotherapy, even though the odds of a recovery were not in her favor, plus she may not survive the treatment. I knew this decision, like the majority in her life, was not based on her true wishes, but how it would affect those she loved. This same self-sacrificing behavior is what set me on my own narcissistic path years earlier, allowing me to think that I was choosing to be strong, but as I grew older, I realized that I chose the easy route. Living for yourself is easy, but living for others takes true strength.

Life
As I looked into her haunted eyes and held her frail body, while she suffered through the poisons being pumped through her body, I could feel that there were moments unlived and things unsaid. At 73, she had lived a long life compared to those taken in their early years, but when one lives with fear, they never truly live. My mother had never been very decisive person, and readily allowed others to make decisions on her behalf. Her fear of trying new things was even apparent when choosing an item off the menu at a local restaurant. Her dependent nature gave me great irritation as a youth, and beyond, as I insisted she had to take charge of her life and stop relying on the direction of family, friends, and especially the doctors…  

As a child, my mother had me participating in many camps, sports, and other extracurricular activities, probably recognizing my own insecurities and shyness and doing what she could to divert me to a path of opportunity not presented to her. She always encouraged me to go to college, and even offered her inheritance when I stubbornly chose to attend an out-of-state university-my dad couldn’t say no to two hard-headed women.  She wasn’t overly supportive when I decided to buy a house, nor the most elated mother-of-the-bride, although she was glad I would no longer be “living in sin,” and she never encouraged grand-children. I used to feel that I would never make her happy, but in retrospect, I believe she saw these things as hindrances to living and she wanted a more unregimented life for me.

 Spirituality

My mother was raised Pentecostal, or as I would lovingly refer to as a “bible thumper” and her strict “fire and brimstone” beliefs never meshed well with my skeptical and open-minded views. From the time I came home from school quoting Emerson’s Self Reliance, religion was always a subject of contention with us, so I usually tried to avoid. During her treatment, it was apparent that she was pulling her strength from a higher power and it gave me great comfort to know that when I left her bedside, she would not be alone. The clearest I’d ever heard her speak was the day she told me that they had exhausted all treatment options, and it was apparent by the calmness in her voice that she was relieved. The doctors offered a short-term treatment option, with the goal of getting her to the holidays, but she was ready and opted for in-home Hospice care.  She arrived home on a Friday and after spending some time with family, went to sleep and began her transition. Over the next two days, I didn’t stray far from her bedside, in anticipation of her call for help, but that call never came.  I did my best to keep her physical body comfortable; a moistened sponge for her dry mouth, pain medicine for distressed breathing… But I could see by her look of serenity that her spirit was quickly exiting the broken body. Close friends and family were quickly called and encouraged to come say their last goodbyes, and by that Sunday evening the house was resemblance of holiday festivities, just as she liked. As the crowd departed, my immediate family gathered around her bedside reflecting on the day and speed of events, and it was at that point that we noticed her extremities had become cold and darkened and realized she had taken her last breathe. The thought of witnessing death always sounded terrifying, but watching my mother’s peaceful passing made me realize that there should never be any fear in dying.

Art of Being Human
As I reflect on my mother’s last lessons, moving forward is about living and reconnecting with myself- a long-distance runner, evolving cyclist, homebrewer, beer hunter, wine taster, plant-based and true food revolutionary, spiritual nomad... Because, I am a Live Culture…