New World Symphony

there are few more recognizable composers of the Romantic musical era than Antonin Dvorak, and his symphony number 9 will always stand out as a gleaming, beacon and breath of fresh air.  When I was a little girl, I played his New World Symphony on my father's record player over and over.    more notably, his second movement has made itself a familiar household tune, and something I've found myself humming in all corners of the globe while underway to a familiar harbour.  Some nights are quiet and calm- offshore, with the loom of shore thousands of miles in either direction- nowhere to be seen in the black night sky uninterrupted by light pollution- watching the countless shooting stars zoom by overhead- the night well lit by thousands of the stars I am so familiar with.  Some nights are tumultuous and violent- and I cling to the helm, feeling each windshift and keeping prudent to sail trim, chart, fellow marine traffic, and any other impending factors that will get us there safely and with little incident as possible.  this song has come with me for tens of thousands of miles, and now it is time to impart these instincts upon my son.   

the older i get, the more homes i have.  the more places and people i have fallen in love with.  the world is my home now.  it is quite a feeling being homesick for Greenland, Alicante, Roma, Nantucket, English Harbor, Cane Garden Bay, and Gustavia all at once!  They say home isn't where you originated- it's where your heart chooses to be.

  we're going back to one of our homes to be with friends who are family- where we've not been for 7 months, and it will be a good healing time for our souls, and to live the way I feel we were designed to be living.  it was a hard decision to make, but i know that this is 100% the right decision for us now.   See you when we see you.  Xxx.

  That awkward moment when you think you're considering a Hal Higdon training plan, but it turns out to be Amby Burfoot and Bart Yasso....  which I would have known had I opened up the no less than 394872394872938742094812093 emails Runners World sends imploring me to buy their latest (3 years ago) marathon themed literary masterpiece.  I bought this book when it first came out, and yet- that is still not enough for the powers that be.  they want me to own.... six, i'm thinking. 

  i selected an intermediate schedule after convincing my ego that I in no way have the mileage inside of me for an advanced program.  i can peak at 55 miles easy.  I can't peak at 70 miles, with sustained 50 + mile weeks before and after.  hats off to those who can, though.  i salute you.

Owen's been coming with me on all my runs.  i've decided to train for this race by pushing him the entire way.  and on race day, run alone.  i hate to make a claim so bold as to say i'm out for a BQ, but really I am.  I fell pregnant with Owen literally the same week I got into Boston, so i've been on the warpath since, and can rest easy once i take care of unfinished business. 

i've been too exhausted/busy/lazy to chronicle my fall running pursuits, but that's what i've been doing instead of keeping everyone up to date on our activities. 

Owen did it.  he Toddlered me.  I tried to nudge him away from the trash can, holding his hand.  and he sat down.  he just sat down.  that was it.  he knew what he wanted to do.  I wouldn't let him.  so he crumpled when I tried to pull him away.  stubborn kid. 

what impresses me most about his little spirit is the amount of confidence that he has.  he's not afraid to fall.  to fall hard.  he gets right up.  he's a rough little ragamuffin.  and nothing's cuter than hearing his little voice say "momma" 

i think spring might be starting.

it's always a tease to visit Philly in April because I'm reminded of the springtimes of yore- which begin in earnest in march.  The island is still relatively quiet, and the laughing gulls are squeaking away.  the ravine and the pines are full of such lush verdure that there's no trace of there ever being a winter here at all. 

Spring, more than any time of the year is a time I reflect.  It's scent for me that is most strongly tied to memory, and the lilac and wisteria and hyacinth all bring me back to days which were nothing short of enchanting.

I brought Owen to the ravine- which conveniently enough is my father's backyard- and I showed him the words and dates on the trees that a much smaller me carved out with a knife- memorializing a more innocent time of tree climbing and poison ivy having.  He is much closer in age to myself then than I'll ever be again.  and still the creek trickles on below whether we're down there or not.  I haven't been there in ten years.  Well, I have.  but not in earnest.  just one of those instances of never really being able to go home, I guess.  so much time offshore has brought me to new homes, and I suppose I've seen too much to ever really sew roots somewhere and not find myself restless for the places and the people I have loved.   

all things considered, I find myself wondering how I've arrived at this station of life.  a tiny little barefoot alpha girl in her dad's race shirts who wanted just to run forever and never be assed by the norms of society- have her heart (and her Champagne glass) always be full, and always have lots and lots of wide open space that goes on forever.  That was me. 

I never thought I'd be somebody's Mom.  But here we are- and it is Springtime that  introduces the urgency to go back and be sure that my son lives out a childhood full of every single thing that made mine so astounding.  I feel like I never did construe a proper anthology of the days spent wholly out of doors, with dirt beneath our nails, swinging hammers, and running through rock quarries, along the dunes, and through fields of wheat. 

final thoughts before race day-

time to head south-

 
   bags are packed.  I cannot go back and change any of my training.  all that is left is to pin my number on and perform the way I've always performed.  with more efficiency.  this is not an ultra marathon.  this is not a race I aspire just to complete.  there is no trail, and no track.  just one long, straight sprint from A to B that I've done ten times before on this familiar course.  it is not scenic.  but the city streets are full the entire length of crowds watching all forty thousand of us pass.    

it's just a run.   and every year I make it to the finish faster than I ever did before.  I only race against myself. 

because that's all there is.   

the 11th hour.

In the days leading up to a race, there are many things that happen only because runners are the most deliberate creatures of habit you will ever meet. 

  we eat the same meals, wear the same clothing, and avoid all places and things which may have unfamiliar outcomes.  now is never the time to try anything new.  so put on that old race shirt that you've worn every sunday since you were five years old before you keep reading. 

  packed in my race bag is my lucky racing thong undies, my lucky bra, my lucky singlet, my lucky socks, my lucky skirt, my lucky necklace, my lucky headband, my lucky eye shadow... you get the idea.  and that's okay!  because i'm going to an event where I will be surrounded by 40,000 like minded individuals who have all packed their lucky shit into their lucky bags, hopped into their lucky car (or plane) and will be cheered on by their lucky loved ones.  it's all good. 

  ironically, everyone's pre-race ritualistic behavior will vary greatly with hopes for the exact same outcome:  run the perfect race.  I don't know how this is, but in all my years, I have PRed on this course nearly every time I've run it, and I'm hoping my postpartum bod will be my fastest version of me yet.  Jonathan Livingston Seagull level. 

tonight is my last workout.  I've got 8 miles of speed training and an hour of cardio kickboxing.  Tomorrow after work, Nat, Owen, and myself will drive down to Philadelphia.  Saturday is the expo, and pre-race dinner with Linda and the family up in Yardley.  And Sunday morning, we go back to the hallowed ground, and the magic repeats itself....

 

FDR, Classics, and the BSR.

these three events always come piled upon one another- two different types of races in the spring, and both races I've done for a long time.  Before the BSR, there are several trails I run before race day.  Ocean Drive, Cliffwalk, Shirley Heights, Tyler, and FDR-

  Owen comes with me to all of these trails now, and pushing the jogger is making me a faster runner. 

  Owen is discovering his personality, and discovering how to most adequately communicate his likes and dislikes.  I'm learning something new about this little man every single day.  I have the ability to turn his tears into laughing just by appearing, and we're soon becoming best friends to one another.  nobody told me this would happen- but I'm loving every single moment of this new life.  what a privilege to be the steward to such an amazing human being- giving him life doesn't end once he's arrived in this world.  we give each other life every single day. 

 

VE RI TAS

We had a little family trip to Boston this weekend so the indomitable Ti Team could finish up some last minute requirements for the Halifax race.  Nattie and Bowen had some coursework to do, and I was just thankful I wasn't required to attend.  The ladies half of the consortium ventured off in all parts out of doors where fresh air, shopping, and starbucks drinking could be readily achieved.  While it was unreasonably gusty and cold as a....  something very frigid, we certainly made the rounds and great feats were accomplished with Little Dude bundled up, and happily enjoying being squired around by two fine ladyfolk. 

eventually something happened.  that left from Hereford to Boyleston.  trotting along with Owen in the lead, and headed straight for the library, there it was.  The finish of the start of the finish.  Getting into Boston is hard work.  if you're a serious recreational runner, one might say it's considered their life's work.  and it was mine.  My application was in.  I had my number.  it was all there in front of my eyes being handed to me by someone in white gloves on a silver platter.  I could already taste that beautiful BAA medal.  Aaaand then boom.  Gone.  So the irony of holding Owen over the finish line was not lost.  And then the boys picked us up, we had a wonderful dinner, laughs were had, and everything was perfect.

officially BSR-ready.

woah- where to start?  i'm not much of a holiday observer.  every single day is pretty much as arbitrary as the next... until you start throwing words like "Broad Street Run"  and "Boston Marathon" and "Antigua Classics" around.... and then we have a horse of an entirely different color.  And obviously my birthday is an international day of revelry, it being "Patriots" day and all.  My relations really cared a great deal about the American Revolution, I'm sure, whilst they were tending to their vineyards in southern Italy. 

but I've been invited to partake in some corned beef and cabbage tonight after boxing, so i'll happily arrive libations in one hand, and Owen in the next.  I also realize I've forgotten to wear green.

Regardless of times, dates, and anniversaries, March 17th is one day that I will not soon forget.  It was day one of a very long and uphill journey towards living pain-free, being re-mobile, and living a life of happiness and ease.  It was a time I made some intense discoveries (for example: is it possible to pick your eyeballs and lower jaw up off the floor when you're stuck in a hospital bed and cannot move?  and exactly what type of appetizers Zen Gardens in Dominica serves their guests for dinner)  mostly stuff that will never matter-  365 days later, I'm still climbing the ladder and preparing for Broad Street- as I have every year for the past 10.  Looking forward to returning to that lush green grass behind the stadium, and sprinting south for a brief ten miles with the sun and a smile on my face the entire way down.  There will be special people at the finish line this year- like my first BSR.... and as always, there will be a great party later on in the day.  but this year we'll have completely different reasons to celebrate.  and May 3rd, all are invited.       

I Yoga....ed....

  Thursday night was another snowstorm.  you know, just another one of our daily snowstorms up here in RI that we've been getting...  so kickboxing was cancelled. 

Saturday morning, I decided to head over to the gym for a "cardio/core" class- which I really liked.  and some yoga.  I own a LOT (when I say a LOT, I mean EVERYTHING.  because I work for them.) of Patagonia yoga gear so I dressed the part of a catalog model, packed up my mat and towel, and staked out my little piece of real estate on the hardwood.

the instructor asked if anyone was brand new.  I raised my hand.  she gave me the once over.  the up and down.  and frowned.  "you don't look like you've never done yoga." 

the answer was a half truth.  I have tried heated power yoga about a dozen times but I in no way consider myself to be a yoga...er.  yoger?  yogist?  It was all over when the shirtless guy next to me decided to drop his sweat off his fingertip onto my mat during warrior 3.  and I screamed in the middle of the class.  and all of the yoga people shot me nasty faces for ruining their zen.  okay.  it's gross!

I winced and explained that my running coach recommended it.  the guy next to me was already practicing his inversions and swinging from the ceiling.  show-off. 

so I can't do yoga.  I don't lack the strength or stamina.  I lack the balance and coordination.  I fell over.  a lot.  the Patagucci wasn't doing me any favors.  I'll stick with the kickboxing and long distance racing.  but I'll keep up with the yoga once a week.  on Saturday mornings.  mostly because that Patagonia gear looks extra adorable on me. 

  Owen is making lots of great strides recently in the development department.  mobility is a high priority for that little guy and adventure is his middle name.  his favorite texture is "crinkly" and his favorite food is... paper.  although if forced, mango, "apples & chicken" and bananas aren't so bad.  forget veggies.  he loves the sweet things.

  this morning while I was picking up the living room and Nathanael was reading the newspaper on the couch before work, Owen managed to crawl out of his bouncer seat, flip himself onto his stomach, and stand on the floor, holding himself against it.  his main endeavor was to venture off to the other side of the carpet, but was nervous to let go of the bouncer.  well, he did.  he fell and went boom.  learned a lesson.  cried for about a second (he wasn't hurt, just startled and unhappy about not being able to get back up)  Nat collected him and held him up long enough to help him "walk" around the room.

  he doesn't seem to be excited about crawling.  he definitely has the desire to walk first.  poor kid.

so everyone in the family seems to have been getting over some sort of illness- none having anything to do with another, of course, and a myriad of symptoms ranging from vomiting, dizziness, fever, bronchitis, and exhaustion. 

  finally, I was able to get my own items organized, washed, folded, donated, etc. with the help of my loyal companion and under the scrutinous watchful eye of my sister when I decided to give Owen a cuddle for the first time in hours. 

  he projectile vomited first all over my sweater, letting the warm, slimy curdled milk pool in my brand new Patagonia corduroy lap, secondly, all over my rug and on the edge of the hardwood floors, and thirdly,  all over newly dried and folded laundry.  I didn't think this amount of liquid was capable of being housed by such a diminutive specimen- but there it was.  and somewhere, off in the ether that is the universe, I could hear my mother's amused giggle- total paybacks for the many times, i'm sure, i'd done the same thing.