Mormon Mommy Marathon

There's something to be said for the jeers of my peers (call me Dr. Seuss) as they joked that only white females run marathons. I obviously retorted that that just wasn't true - sinewy cross-country boys (who are a category all their own in society) and Kenyans do, too! Errr... OK fine, it's generally an upper-middle class female fad outside of those populations. 

Utah really takes that stereotype to the next level - imagine hearing a gun go off, slowly picking up pace and right around when you find your comfortable zone it begins: the Mormon Mommy banter.

Running behind a herd of women with thigh gaps is one thing, I just use that to my advantage to tell myself that I have more fuel stores for a race of this length. 

The next level was running next to two ladies that can't be older than 30 as they talked about their MANY children and then about how long they've been married. Twelve years... TWELVE?! You look my age! 12 years ago I was in high school, trying to prove to my friends that wet hair was cool and that swimming sweatshirts were really "in"!

The final straw was the conversation that I swear went on for five miles about the great party they had in which the highlight was the mango salsa... I mean, I love mango salsa, but I think the best mango salsa usually accompanies several other treats that just weren't mentioned.

So, around the Half mark, I started to lose it. My 7th grade track pants were so wet they were dragging behind me. I had heard there would be gels to eat at miles 4, 8, 12, 16, 20, and 24 and while I had seen them and failed to keep ahold of them in my icy fingers at mile 4, I was now 8 miles beyond that and starting to head for bonking. By the time the gels reappeared at 17 I was hangry. I popped into a port-a-potty to be out of the rain, downed a Clif Shot gel, and reemerged a new woman. The pacer for a 3:35 race had passed me during my break and I figured that was out of the question anyway for the next eight miles, so I just plugged on.

And I ran.

And ran.

And ran down the canyon. 

And it rained.

And poured.

And at mile 20 I realized I still felt strong. My inner mantra of "comfortable not complacent" resonated and I had stopped worrying about how wet I was. At mile 21 I started to smell bacon and yelled at the spectators with their tent of breakfast meats "It's not fair that you get to eat bacon and I don't!" to which they responded that I could have some! It was for me! But I was moving too fast.

So fast that I almost didn't see the friends that had come to watch me!

And I kept running. And building my speed. And feeling awesome. Taking everything a mile at a time, I realized I'd caught back up to the 3:35 pacer, then was stuck in his herd, then blew by them on a corner.

It was my race and at this point I knew I was ahead of the Boston qualifying standard. So I kept pushing it, scoffing at the volunteers giving dry towels at mile 25 and just trying not to fall back to the pacer again. As I came to the finish I saw two friends who had come to cheer and I realized I was qualifying for the Boston race... and while I like to think it was just rain streaming down my face, I think I cried a little bit.

Then I froze to death in the soaked state I had put myself into over the last three hours and 33 minutes, my friends taking turns to hold me and keep me and my blue lips from going hypothermic. 

And after an afternoon of pizza and grocery shopping on endorphins, those 23 hours awake took control, and I found myself on bar stool dozing as friends danced around me. I fell asleep with the glory that is knowing that your patellas are part of you, though clinging precariously, and that they do in fact have nerve endings.

Buying Friends, or How I Learned the Importance of My Dog

I just returned from two weeks at a camp somewhere west of here, a place of bad winter memories but bursting with spring excitement and adventure. The big pine trees towered over bare trails and the general lack of precipitation all winter made for spring- and even summer-like vibes for at least the first 12 of 17 days (then we got snow, but hey, we can pretend). 

I headed west with the intention of working long, hard days, proving my worth as Team Mom, and putting in just the right amount of miles on the ol' tennies to be fully prepared for my upcoming marathon.

I even thought I had the right combination of staff - a physical therapist with significant running experience, another very athletic PT, and a coach with a competitive past and present (mind you the present consists of basketball and softball leagues in his southern home, but hey, even old men are known to run from time to time). They all seemed open to the idea of putting in at least a couple of miles of my runs with me and I set out optimistic that for once I wouldn't be solo training with my Netflix and a treadmill, wondering why in the world no one likes me.

Day one I made the mistake of running one of the guys ten kilometers, and he was great! But also still sore three days later. The other two caught wind of this and I realized I'd lost any hope. 

But I knew they also were into hiking... 

So, day after day I tried to drag these bums from their afternoon workloads just for a hike. I mean, if you won't run 2-3 miles with me, we might as well hike a Californian mountain.

And then one day I saw it on Instagram: two of the boys had gone hiking without me. And posted them to social media to show the whole world that they didn't need me for an adventure.

This was the last straw. That afternoon I knocked on their door, covering the peep-hole so they wouldn't know it was me, their athletic arch-nemesis. I barged in, promising pancakes in exchange for aerobic pursuits. And that night, when we'd all finished our day's duties, I hiked a mountain at sunset with this coach, getting lost, but finding great vistas and crisp mountain air. 

Upon our return we phoned home, warning those that awaited our return that we would be home soon, but that they would have to go purchase flour and maple syrup before we arrived. I whipped up a fantastic batch of chocolate chip pancakes and we dined in style.

The next day I discovered their condo had a waffle iron, the perfect tool to prove my worth as a human and friend. think those "healthy" waffles and the side salad combined with the next day's sea salt chocolate chip cookies just might have done exactly what I intended: bought me two friends who will never run with me, but will always eat my pancakes.

And if that's not a close second to what I've dreamed of my whole life, I don't know what is.

I miss my white dog. He'll adventure without promise of pancakes.