On Time

While my Mom is assembled of Irish and Croatian parts, my Dad is 100% German engineered. Precision, detail, and absolute timeliness are synonymous with the way he runs.

While my Mom's internal clock is more variable, surprising us at early dismissals on one hand and leaving us waiting to sit down to dinner as she cruised along the Boulevard of the Allies on the other; my Dad's timing is scientific. The numbers that dictated certain practices and procedures growing up are still implanted in my mind.

1 minute,10 seconds: exactly how long a cold cup of coffee should be in the microwave to return to its optimal temperature.
7 minutes: how far ahead all my Dad's clocks are. His philosophy is that if he is 'running late' he's actually on time.
9 minutes: precisely how long it took my Dad to get from Children's Hospital to Extended Day if he went through the Park ...
Which meant he could leave work at exactly 5:51 PM and arrive to pick us up just as after school care was closing at 6:00.
45 minutes: the boast worthy time between getting home and getting a quality dinner on the table.

I'd like to say that I inherited a combination of my parents' genetic make-up, but I feel that I was born with my own, unique strain of tardiness. I'm chronically guilty of finding one more thing to do, arriving ten minutes late, and planning only to break said plans.

On Sunday, I had built untimeliness into my marathon equation. Running a little behind wouldn't matter - I would make it when I made it.

That is, until I lined up; until Rahm Emanuel stepped up, the Star Spangled Banner waved, Born to Run blared, and the Kenyans started (and basically finished) the race. One foot in front of the other, I willed myself to be on time. I had told Peter and Mary that I would see them at 9:45 AM on Taylor Street and I wasn't going to keep them waiting.

So I ran fast. And then faster. I ran past the men peeing and puking; the women who had applied make-up for today's race (really?); and my teammates as they eased up.

I ran past the Lincoln Park lawn picnics, the drag queens of Boys Town, drums, cow bells, and kazoos; past the barbecue pits near the United Center, the garlic roasting in Greek Town, and the spaghetti bolognese bubbling in Little Italy.

I reached mile 17.5 and with it my biggest and littlest fans at 9:50 AM. If only I had set my clock seven minutes ahead.

By far - this was the best visual I have seen on any course to date.

After that moment, my eight minute miles got harder, then nearly impossible. When I reached mile 20, then 21, 22, 23, and 24 I considered walking and kept the temptation circling through my head, but one foot in front of the other I ran on.

I ran past the tacos in Pilsen, the General Tsao's chicken in China Town, and the beer man as I turned down Michigan Avenue. I ran past the people passing out, the nurses running to their rescue and the stretchers taking them off the course.

I ran to get to the finish line on time because I had promised my baby girl I'd be there for brunch (and my homemade brunch was ready an hour ago.)

I made it. And in a new time to add to my list: - 3:41:37 - Precisely how long it took this mommy to run 26.2 miles so she should be with her family again; to hug her baby and thank her husband for making a marathon, seven months out, a possibility.

Lo.

Baby of Steel

While this past weekend was momentous for Mary - so many firsts and so many milestone events - 

(First road trip and first stop at McDonald's. First time outside of Illinois, and inside Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. First time at Notre Dame; under the Dome, around the Lakes and in front of the Grotto. 

First time at Nana and Opa's house.

First time meeting Cousin Lyla.

First time at Mass. First blessing from a priest. And first trip to Walnut Street and the Pittsburgh Golf Club.) This weekend, particularly Sunday, was pretty momentous for me as well; it was my first race as a mother.

After making it to Pittsburgh on Saturday night, carbo loading with the family around my parent's table, getting a pretty good night's sleep, and then pumping about eight ounces of milk before double bagging the girls, I made my way down to the Point to run Pittsburgh's half marathon.

As I lined up in Corral A, surrounded by a lot of seasoned runners, set on breaking personal records, I thought, 'Okay. Here I am. So what?' What's the big deal? I've run marathons before and 13 miles used to be a cake walk for me. Why am I nervous? Worse, why am I intimidated?'

Because I realized that running as a mother, especially as a seven-week old mom, added some new challenges. After going through a nine month taper period and birth, I was out of shape. Very out of shape - inside and out. And I was told that I had to wait six weeks before doing anything strenuous again. (Right - I said I'd give it a week.) So running as a new mom meant that I hadn't properly trained and I was about to go the distance without the lungs and legs that I was used to. Even after pumping, running as a mom adds some hefty chest weight to your tour of Pittsburgh. If you are so unlucky, running as a mom can mean finding out halfway through the race that you can't control your bladder - another one of those postpartum side effects. Yuck. And then around mile 10, as you ascend the Birmingham Bridge, running as a mom means separation anxiety; three hours away from your little one can start to feel devastating. But when you reach the finish line, claiming the title 'Runner of Steel' as a mom, you get to claim something else as well. That is, a little bit of your old self. And it felt amazing.


This week brought one more first for both us - our first without Daddy. And we can't explain how much we miss him. Just a couple more days till he can hold you again, Mary.

Lo. 

Doing It All Volume 2

Yes, I am allowed to post two unoriginal, 'volume 2' titles in one week. Yes, I'm allowed to take back what I said about 'doing it all' a couple years ago. My blog. My rules.

After taking my family's favorite mantras of 'making every trip count' and 'sleeping when I'm dead' to the next level this weekend, I gathered both excellent blog fodder and a fresh perspective. That is, that you can most certainly 'do it all' and have a great time doing it, if you tell your crazy weekend plans to key stakeholders, and recruit them to be your enthusiastic support crew along the way.

You can have dinner at the Mark in South Bend on Friday, and power walk around the Lakes with your Mom on Saturday morning.

You can be at Moe and Shawn's wedding at the Basilica on Saturday afternoon, watching the beautiful bride and groom exchange vows and seal them with the best wedding kiss I've ever seen.

 

You can then pack up and drive to Pittsburgh. Yes, you will feel sad (and bad) to leave some of your best friends behind, to miss the reception and celebration and jokers in matching seersucker, but you are comforted by the fact that Peter will party for two and make it to the Backer after the band stops playing.

 

That night, you can carbo load a la PGC and get a decent night's sleep in your childhood twin bed. 

On Sunday morning you can wake up at 5:15, put together your in case of emergency mix, and shew away the butterflies in your stomach. At 7:15, you can be in corral B, find your Pittsburgh Marathon running buddy Drew and suddenly cross the starting line.

You can run the most picturesque, yet challenging marathon course, on a day a little too warm for runners, and keep building momentum along the way because Kassen, Erin and Laura ran alongside you.

 

You can cross the finish line with a personal record of 3:42, a big smile on your face and the feeling that this was in fact, the best marathon ever.

 

Afterwards, you can shower and change and sit down to brunch with friends and family. Then be downtown again at 2:00 PM for the Opera - Mozart's The Abduction from the Seraglio. Which was delightful. Followed by an early dinner at Habitat, a trip to the airport, and a flight home at 8:20 PM.

Yes, you can do it all. And I did it over the course of one absolutely fantastic weekend. But I needed an amazing husband, understanding friends, two very loving, very generous parents, four incredible running buddies, familiar faces all along the course, a network of support from family and friends across the country, and of course, RMHC on my back to get er done. 

 

Yes Lyla, when you are SO much bigger, you can do it all too. And I promise just like your Mommy and Daddy helped me, I'll help you too!

Lo

The Chicago Marathon, The Captain, and Me on Monday

I'm going to preclude this blog entry by saying it's Monday - the day after my second 26.2 mile run through the once again blazing hot, sunny streets of Chicago. I've got an ice pack on my left knee. There is a weird weezing sound piping out my still stuffed up respiratory system. My second toes are pulsing with pain and ready to lose their nails. The walk, or should I say waddle, down the Mendoza staircase and into Giovanni A today wasn't quite as graceful as I remember it to during my days as a business student. The rubbing and punching of my quads throughout our case presentation was probably not the best look for a wanna be astute, composed visiting educator. And those last 6 miles are still fresh, very fresh, in my mind.

Tonight, I'm saying it. I will never run a marathon again.

Tomorrow, I'll deny that statement. (That's why I wrote it this year.)

Somewhere in between now and then, I'll rationalize the negatives away. It wasn't that bad. What pain? There was never really a toenail there to begin with. I can do better. I can shave off seven minutes and qualify for Boston. (Despite my inside cold and the outside heat, it kills me that I didn't.) AND how am I going to help recruit Team RMHC 2012 without being an active, running member of it?

In the meantime, I'll reminisce about where I've been in the past 48 hours with pictures.

I trained, and ate, and carbo loaded right - complete with pumpkin bread pudding on Friday night.

I embraced the game day atmosphere that lit up Chicago

I didn't get stressed out that I wasn't winning. I let the Kenyans make their magic.

I ran for the right reason - for Ronald McDonald House Charities.

I had THE most amazing fans at miles 3, 6, 14, 15, 17, 22, and 25. And I ran over to thank them.

... and shock them with my sweaty stench.

I loved being at the post tent party and took advantage of all the athlete services.

And I got another photo with Ronald.

But ... because I feel like I don't have that first timers glow - that fresh perspective on a Marathon that made what I wrote last year so fun, I thought I would turn the page over to a guest blogger with a better story. I wanted one of my fellow Team RMHC teammates to tell her story. She is not only a teammate though, she is my cousin, my friend, my bridesmaid, one of my heroes and one of my inspirations. A woman who never ceases to totally amaze me. She is Captain Meghan Cumpston.

That's her. (From her shirt, you can see she's running for the right reason too.)

And that's her. Running like a champ.

And these are the hysterical words describing her 26.2 mile tour that she wrote to me this morning. I just loved them, and I had to share. 

Mile 1:  This isn't too bad!  Nice, slow pace...wow, Chicago has nice architecture.  I should definitely come back sometime when there isn't a marathon involved.  Dear Garmin, you need to get your sh*t together, I know that I'm not running a 6:25 pace right now...nothing convinces my watch otherwise.

Mile 4:  A bit less than 1/6 of the way there!  Oh wait...that actually doesn't make me feel better.  Darn.  What does make me feel better?  The guy holding a sign that says "You are all great at exercise."  Garmin has settled down for the long haul.  I high-five people, smiling.  I am enjoying myself, it's a beautiful day.

Mile 6:  Hmm, I've had to pee since this thing started.  But I hate Port-a-Potties.  And the lines.  And stopping during a long run.  Wait, I know...if I have to pee, then obviously I can't be dehydrated.  I'll use this as a gauge to see if I need to drink more fluids.  Yes, the marathon has allowed me to add "amateur doctor" to my resume.

Miles 8-9:  Rihanna and Eminem songs were good choices (pats self on back for the obviously brilliant running playlist.)  Oh, a good T-shirt:  "Please God, let someone be behind me to read this"...written on the back.  I snicker, then remind myself not to waste energy on laughing, especially since I'm behind her.  Reading it.

Mile 13.1:  Halfway!  Just saw Peter and Uncle Don.  Also just saw a really heavy girl pass me...WTF?  I know I didn't train much, but how is she moving THAT much faster than me?  Remind myself what Charles wrote in one of his emails: "Run your own race."  Solid advice that I continue to repeat to myself lest my competitive side get the best of me, causing me to go down in flames circa mile 17.

Mile 14:  Started editing my snarky comments about other runners when I realize they might be thinking that about me as I pass them.  Oops.  See a girl wearing a shirt that says "PLEASE, Girl.  My mascara runs faster than you."  Hmm, kind of mean, but I can appreciate the Nike-brand humor.

Mile 16:  Well, this is the farthest I've ever run.  See a sign:  "The last ten miles is all downhill."  Not encouraging.  At all.  Also, where am I?  The blacktop roads seem to radiate heat...probably because they are, in fact, radiating heat.  Remind myself that Alexander the Great created an empire by making his troops put one foot in front of the other, all the way to India.  Later, I will realize what an incoherent thought that is.  I press on.

Mile 19:  Starting to slow down.  I tell myself just to make it to Mile 20, then I can walk.  I make it to mile 20, and, frightened of how much I will slow down, keep running.  

Mile 21:  Feel genuinely sorry for myself...as in having the verbatim thought "I feel sorry for myself."  Remind myself that I have no one to blame for this but myself. Still, I start walking...like a soccer mom power walk.  Still maintaining a 13:30 mile.

Mile 23:  What is wrong with my feet?  Is it possible for the entire bottom to burn off while cramping?  And why does it feel like there is some sort of weird bubble coming out of my knee?  I start wondering if the marathon will literally cause my body to fall apart.  I am NOT quitting with only 3 miles to go. 

Mile 24.2:  All I have left is the equivalent of an Army PT test.  I've done those hundreds of times.  Must finish!

Mile 25:  I try to tell people along the edge of the route that it's my first marathon and they should cheer for me.  Unfortunately, my voice now resembles some sort of braying donkey.  While my message is probably not effective, I do get a few cheers.

Mile 26:  WHERE IS THE FINISH LINE?  Oh...it's up that hill.  Sweet.  I'm back to running, if only to get it over with faster.

Mile 26.2:  So.  Freakin'.  Happy.  Borderline emotional when they give me my medal.  I scamper away from the people with the odd foil warmer things.  It's 82 degrees out, I'm plenty warm, thanks.  Briefly consider hugging the girl who is handing out ice cold towels, but realize I'm coated in a mixture of Gatorade, water, sweat, and Chicago hose water.  I decide she would not appreciate it, and try to make my way to Charity Village.

Unfortunately I never made it quite that far, because of my hotel check out time--a shame, cause I hear I missed a great party.  Lesson learned:  When running a marathon, stay the night after the marathon too.

Here's what I'm thinking - she didn't get a chance to go the pasta dinner party before the race OR the tent extravaganza after the race. I think we BOTH might have to run it again next year, and perhaps recruit two more? Takers?

Lo.

Let Us Eat Cake

On Friday, Peter and I watched Marie Antoinette. I had told him about it when we were walking through the Tuilleries in Paris a couple weeks ago. "We should definitely watch it when we get back!"  I alluded that it would be able to provide an accurate historical representation of 18th century Paris and would be fun for us to learn from together.

Honestly, this was mostly a selfish act as I had seen it countless times before and knew it was Sofia Coppola's artsy adaptation of the youthful, beautiful, party-going queen. I also knew it was in Peter's terms, "a girl movie." I first saw the film when it came out in theaters in 2006 - a year when the theme and, as Peter put it, "plotless story line," seemed to hit home. When I felt like I was more or less in Marie Antoinette's pointy-toed, courtly shoes leading a life of shopping, dining, and drinking in fancy long gloves (yes, I wore gloves on a couple occasions) with no real goals in sight. As MA said, "it's fun!" And that was the sole explanation I was looking for.

This time around, on Peter's first viewing and my 10th perhaps, I had a different sentiment. I still loved the costumes and the modern music and Jason Schwartzman's awkward portrayal of Louis Auguste and the Swedish captain with the dark eyes who fought valiantly in America. But instead of opening up my own closet after the film, getting dressed, calling my ladies in waiting and Mini Coopering over to SOBA for French martinis a la Rob Hirst, I had a bedtime of 9:30 and alarm clock set to 5:30 to look forward to.

There were no French fetes to attend this weekend, and I found myself more or less among the common masses, incredulously ogling the behavior at Versailles, dismissing any desire to be a part of it, but simultaneously disappointed that we weren't invited. I became one of the people who was supposed to eat cake while Marie Antoinette and the Contesse and the Dukes and Duchesses were partying.

So I did.

The next morning I made and ate old fashioned sour cream cake donuts - recipe courtesy of the one and only and totally amazing Jess Thompson who just published her first cookbook about what else, mmmmmmm, doughnuts. (Rolling pin made by her equally amazing husband Jim.)

And I made some petites madeleines - perfect little French sponge cakes.

And in an effort to make sure no one in this house went hungry and revolted against Naperville's own revelers, the cougars at Jilly's, I went all out last night and made an entire stuffed, roasted chicken, which we will be eating tonight as well.

At which point my mind was really off going to court, because I wouldn't have been able to fit into any of my ruffly dresses.

It was the first weekend in a long time when Peter and I had nothing planned and no parties to attend, and I've got to say, it felt weird at first. So I spent a significant amount of time making a scrap book about all the places we'd been over the past year, all the people we had partied with, and all the times we had said, because it's fun!  

And then I realized something while showing off my weekend's worth of work to Peter last night, I had a lot of pages left to fill. My scrap book was far from finished.

Sometimes though, you need a time out and a whole weekend when it's just you and me (and Roscoe), to reflect on where you've been, to confirm that the future of your life in your little ranch house is far rosier than that of those living at Versailles, and to make sure that life together will always be happy and the kind of private party that everyone wants to emulate. And that's really fun. 

Now, I'm off for a morning jog with my new running partner.

Lo.