Pam Moore's Blog, page 12

Why I never bothered to research the preschool curriculum

Many parents spend hours researching the best preschool for their children. Not me. It’s not that I don’t care about my little angels. Like all parents, my greatest desire is for my kids to be happy (and for them to sleep through the night). But for my eldest- an outgoing kid without any developmental issues- choosing a preschool was as simple as taking a quick look at two options and, after a ten-minute chat with my husband, choosing the closer, cheaper option. And while I’m sure that details like educational philosophy and curriculum content matter, when making a preschool decision, I couldn’t be bothered to worry about them. Here’s why.

1) It’s only preschool

I don’t care if preschool teaches reading, as long as it familiarizes the kids with the letters of the alphabet and exposes them to the joy of reading. Similarly, I want the teachers to put numbers in context by counting kids in the room and crayons on the table, but I have no expectation that they teach addition or subtraction. Young children (and adults) learn best when they are actively engaged in the subject, and play is what engages children.  [click here to read more on Parent.co]

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#We’re With Her

My great grandparents immigrated to the United States in the late 1800’s to escape the pogroms in Eastern Europe. Once here, they had three girls, including my grandmother, Edith Berger Sinel. Having skipped a grade, she and her older sister graduated high school the same year. Their father said, “Girls, I can buy a house or I can send you to college.” They said, “Papa, you can always buy a house, but we want to go to college now.” My Memee and my great aunt Ruth were two of ten Jewish girls admitted to Pembroke’s (now Brown University) class of 1932. The quota system allowed a maximum of ten Jews in one class. My grandmother majored in German, but because of the Nazis were beginning their political ascent in Germany, she cancelled her plans to study there upon graduation.

In the 1960’s my grandfather passed away suddenly. leaving my grandmother to raise two boys and to run the family scrap metal business, which her father established in 1916. That business has provided for my family for a century. My dad finally retired this year. My uncle, my brother, and a cousin still work work there.

For two weeks, every day after preschool pick-up, before lunch, I took my daughters, ages two and four canvassing to get out the vote. We would get to anywhere from four to ten houses at a time, but we made steady progress. I think my grandmother would be proud.

I am a proud member of Pantsuit Nation

 

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Barre 3 Streaming: An Honest Review

With limited access to studio barre classes, I streamed Barre 3 classes for a couple of months, and I want to tell you all about it.  This is my honest review of Barre 3 Streaming.

Disclaimer: They gave me one month of free streaming in exchange for an honest review.

If you know me or have been reading my blog for a while, feel free skip this part, but I thought it would be useful to understand my fitness background for context.

-My dance experience is limited to ballet classes at the local Y ca. 1983. I was in it for the tutu. I feel I should mention this because aspects of barre fitness are rooted in ballet as well as Pilates.

-I have a long history as an endurance athlete. Since 2001, I have run six marathons, completed two ironmans, and competed in many other endurance events. Since having my first child in 2012, I have focused on running. My running actually improved (significantly) after having kids, as evidenced by PR’s in the half marathon (1:44), ten-mile (1:19), and 5k (21:58) distances.

-After having my second baby in 2014, I was diagnosed with diastasis recti. To remedy it, I tried Pilates (somewhat helpful) and physical therapy with a therapist who specialized in pelvic floor issues (very helpful. Boulder/Denver ladies check out N2 Physical Therapy; I saw them for my diastasis but I have heard they do amazing work with postpartum incontinence, painful sex and other fun womanly issues).

-Though I had rehabbed my diastasis recti, since having my second baby, I was plagued by frequent aches and pains that kept me from running consistently. Also, despite having lost the baby weight I still had a pooch. Although I have never had a flat stomach (even before having babies) my pooch was more prominent than usual (if only to my eyes). Equal parts vanity and a desire to strengthen my core inspired me to take classes at my local Dailey Method studio.

-Within a few months of attending classes about twice a week, I noticed significant changes. My core was more toned and stronger (as in I had a much easier time doing certain moves in class than when I had started). As for the running injuries, I really started noticing a change in my ability to sustain consistent mileage when I started seeing a fantastic new physical therapist.

I loved barre classes. They weren’t like anything I had done before. To put it into perspective, here is a non-exhaustive list of group exercise classes I have tried in the past:

-Cardio Kickboxing

-Step aerobics

-Booty Camp

–Boot Camp (not to be confused with Booty Camp)

–Spin class (I have been teaching classes on and off for over ten years)

–Zumba

-Body Pump

–Yoga (Hatha, Vinyasa, Turbo, Bikram)

-Cardio Chisel

-Water Running

The sweat factor at Dailey Method classes (I know, I know, this is about Barre 3, but we’re getting there, I promise) was low to non-existent, which I liked, once I got used to it. I accepted that if I wanted to sweat, I would need to do a different workout. Meanwhile, the limited sweat factor meant I could hit an evening class without being amped up right before bedtime. I liked the fun music, I liked how the teachers would pay attention to each student and correct your form, if needed (and for me, it was certainly needed). The emphasis was not on range of motion but on proper form and alignment, which I appreciated. The teachers offered modifications of most exercises, or at least didn’t mind if I made up my own, to protect my core. Even though my physical therapist said my diastasis is functional, I should avoid certain exercises (eg V-ups). I can’t say I’m sad about never doing another V-up.

Why I decided to try Barre 3 streaming

Regular barre classes do not fit into our budget. As much as I love the classes, I do not love them enough to give up my gym membership or to justify both expenses.

Maybe the Dailey Method spoiled me, but the Total Barre class at my gym, which I hoped would be an adequate replacement, didn’t do it for me. I went consistently for over four months and was disappointed that the class is 95% the same every time, including the playlist. That said, the class is generally pretty full, with many regulars. Apparently there are many women who enjoy knowing exactly what to expect, but I prefer variety.

For a month I tried Dailey Method streaming and was extremely disappointed with that, too. The video quality was poor, the music annoyed me, and the workouts were consistently way too easy.

For another month, I tried random free videos I found on YouTube. Some of them (specifically, a Pure Barre video) were fantastic. But alas, the fantastic ones would have disappeared when I’d try to find them a week or two later. Or I’d start a video with high hopes, only to find it sorely lacking, and I’d be annoyed that I’d wasted 20 minutes. I just felt like I never knew what I was going to get and I was getting tired of wasting time with videos that didn’t give me what I wanted.

When a friend recommended Barre 3 streaming, I decided to give it a try.

What I loved

Video Quality

The video quality was excellent. The lighting was good, the sound was good, and the camera angles allowed you to see each of the three professionals doing the workout. Generally, one did the normal moves, one did a modified (easier) version, and one did an extra-challenging version.

Sound options

Barre 3 offers the option to mute the generic background music without muting the instructor’s cues. This is pure brilliance. (Copyright laws preclude the streaming videos from using the awesome music they play during studio classes.)

Options

There are many class options, as far as length and area of focus, and it’s easy to narrow down your preferences to make it easy to select the video that meets your needs. The video library includes ten minute, 30 minute, 40 minute, and hour-long videos. You can also filter them by equipment needs (some require no equipment, some require just a chair, some require a chair, a ball, a band, and light weights). You can filter your choices further by choosing a workout focus (options include core, upper body, lower body, full body, prenatal, and stretching).

Challenging moves

Some of the moves were really challenging and different. I’m looking at you, side plank-regular plank- other side plank –thing-with-resistance band!

What I didn’t love

Buffering

The buffering wasn’t annoying… It was out of control. To the point where over a full minute would pass and I’d be stuck looking at the frozen screen, listening as the instructor advanced the workout, but unable to follow along without the visual cues. (Maybe a more coordinated person would be fine with just audio cues but that doesn’t work for me). I wouldn’t even mention it if this were an intermittent problem, but it was pretty consistent- every video, multiple times per video. When I asked customer support for assistance I was told it was most likely a problem with my internet connection. Considering I had no problems streaming Netflix, YouTube, or Dailey Method classes, I wasn’t convinced this was true.

Chatting

I love talking… with my friends. I don’t love being talked at by a stranger through a screen. In each video, the instructors made a point of sharing personal facts, whether about themselves or the other instructors featured in the video. Each video had one instructor teaching the class and two other instructors taking the class. The teacher would typically say something like “Jenny here has two kids! She runs around after them all day. She is strong!” Or “I’ve turned my dad into a Barre 3 addict! Hi, Dad!” It struck me as fake and cutesy. I just want to focus on the workout.

Excessive Yoga poses

There was too much yoga and not enough strengthening, burning, and shaking for me. If there’s one reason I avoid group fitness, it’s that I hate coming for one thing and getting another. Barre 3 was no exception. What I wanted was a workout that required me to do a gazillion reps of teeny, tiny, burn-y movements. At least once in every workout, I wanted to feel every major mucle group—shoulders, arms, core, glutes, quads—burning. I wanted my body to beg me to quit while my mind forced it to keep up with the instructor. What I got was a decent burn in two or three muscle groups in each workout if I was lucky, interspersed with enough warrior pose to last me through 2025. If I wanted warrior pose, I’d go to a yoga class.

The Cardio

The cardio added nothing to the workouts, beside frustration. If wanted cardio, I’d lace up my running shoes, hop on my bike, take a spin class, get on the elliptical, or go for a swim… in other words, I’d do anything but a barre class. The cardio they mixed in felt like a distraction from the muscle burning I came for. Not only that, but it was barely enough for me to break a sweat. If you’re new to fitness or returning from a break, a mix of some ass-burning barre moves and light cardio would be a fantastic well-rounded, heart pumping challenge. For me, it wasn’t enough cardio to be a true cardio workout and not quite enough strength to feel like it was a great use of my time. Ugh.

Bottom Line

While I am unlikely to do another Barre 3 video, I can’t say I wouldn’t recommend it. It just depends what you are looking for in a workout. I will definitely incorporate some of the new moves I learned from Barre 3 into my routine when I do my own barre workout in my basement (which is something I actually do about once a week, not just something I say I should do). But I don’t have time for buffering, excessive warrior pose, and light cardio, which is why it’s not for me in this season of my life. All of that said, if they re-vamped their video library and let you filter workouts by difficulty level, I would give Barre 3 another chance.

If you want to know more, please feel free to ask me any questions in the comments. Also check out Stephanie Hslaang’s fantastic blog, A Mom Walks Into a Barre. Stephanie is a barre fanatic and she’s funny, to boot.

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I turned “I can’t” into “I did” (without vomiting)

Three years ago, I sat at a table with a successful, smart, genuine woman at the BlogHer conference. I met many amazing women that weekend but this one said something to me that I’ve held close ever since. Her blog was huge, she was traveling the world sharing her message, and she had a book deal with a major publishing house. She was doing things I never even dared imagine doing. I was still hoping to someday get paid to write (which for the record, I did for the first time, just a month later).

She said, “If something makes me feel scared, that’s how I know I should probably do it.” I’ve been trying my best to embrace the scary ever since.

Which is how, on a random Sunday night, I ended up on stage in front of 200 strangers, under hot lights, with a microphone in my hand, and some words in my head, telling the story of how my attempt to act like the grown-ass 27-year-old woman I was, ended with me crying buckets of tears in the ladies room at work.

Dan and I attended Truth Be Told, Boulder’s bi-monthly story slam, an event where audience members may put their name in a hat (of note, it was an actual hat) for a chance to take the stage and tell a five-minute, true story, without any notes. Afterward, the audience would vote on their favorite.

When we bought tickets, there were two weeks until the slam. Coming up with a story could wait until I’d resolved the pressing issue of finding a sitter.

With one week left, I made a mental note to stop procrastinating. I successfully ignored the mental note for three days. Four days out, I was confident I could repurpose a blog post for my story. But nothing came to mind and I didn’t feel like sifting through the archives. Three days out, an idea I’d never used as blog fodder came to me. All I had to do was write it down and practice a few times. I had plenty of time. Or so I thought.

After you subtract the hours you spend doing necessary life activities —sleeping, eating, bickering with your spouse about stupid shit, asking your kids for the bazillionth time to find their other shoe, picking up the rogue doll shoes waiting to poke sharp holes in your feet, venting about the stress of your life on the phone with your sister, hugging your husband and apologizing for haranguing him about the pile of papers on the credenza, doing laundry, exercising, showering, and reading one more chapter of The Girl With the Lower Back Tattoo— two days leaves you exactly four free minutes in which to contemplate the Very Important Matter of Your Entertaining Story Slam Story.

With 48 hours to go, I discovered “just writing it out” was a horrible plan. There was no “just” about it. Like every time I write, demons possessed my fingertips, keeping them turning the genius ideas in my brain into the perfect, beautiful words they were supposed to become. I forced myself to vomit whatever shitty words I could come up with onto the screen and clean it up later.

But dealing with it later became less realistic with every passing hour. (See stresses and time-sucking necessities of my life, above). My first draft was boring, rambling, and well over the five-minute mark. I locked myself in our bedroom, whittled it down and tried it on Dan. We had to stop the timer a few times to field requests for snacks, incident reports regarding serious matters such as “she hit me on purpose!” and “I had it first!”, but eventually I got to the end.

Dan said it had the elements of a good story but needed work; polishing, more details, and more tension.

I hid in our bedroom, set my stopwatch and tried again. I wrapped it up as the clock turned from 4:59 to 5:00. It was within the time limit and not horrible. I made Dan listen again.

“I need more details. More context. Like, why should I care about this?”

Details and context were parts of my story I’d included in the original version and deleted. I cut some pieces out to make room for the discarded nuggets, added them back in, and tried again.

I liked it.

I asked Dan if I could try it again. Dan is many things, but a multi-tasker he is not. At this moment, Lady Bug bounced on his lap while Sweet Pea interrupted us every five seconds to offer insights into her imaginary world. Now I’m pretending my baby is sick and I’m taking her to the doctor. Now I’m pretending I have twin babies. Now lets pretend me and Lady Bug are twins. He made a face like “Are you crazy?”

Once we were alone in the car en route to the show, he was captive. I practiced once more. Dan said it was really good. With twenty minutes until show time, my story was presentable. And with precisely twenty minutes until show time, the idea of putting my name in the hat made me want to puke.

As we handed the ticket taker our tickets, Dan gently shoved me over to the table in the lobby, where I filled out a white slip of paper with my name, my story’s name, and a “fun factoid” about me, and placed it in the hat. Dan has been gently shoving me toward stuff I’m scared of but should definitely do since 2008, starting with learning Excel so I wouldn’t run out of money (again). I’m used to it.

As we took our seats, I officially hoped they would not choose my name.

The 250-seat theater was nearly full. The first storyteller was hilarious. The second was ok. The third was a riot. The fourth blew my mind. The fifth broke my heart. The sixth was me.

As they called my name, Dan gave my hand a squeeze. I whispered, “I’m scared.” Then I stood up and scooted awkwardly across half my row to the aisle and walked down to the stage. I took the microphone and told my story, The Day I Acted Like a Grown-up at Work.

I began just as I’d practiced.

“It was 2007 and I was working as an occupational therapist at the shittiest hospital in the world.”

I kept talking. I kept breathing. I kept my voice from wavering. I paused when the audience laughed. (They laughed!!). At the end, they clapped. I went back to my seat. At intermission, strangers came up to me just to say they liked my story. At the end, we voted. I voted for myself. Dan did, too. Maybe no one else did. I will never know. I don’t care.

One of the luxuries of being an adult is, to a great extent, you get to control your environment. You can make your environment as comfortable as you want. Which is awesome if you’re talking about creating a tranquil bedroom motif based on the mood board you’ve been Pinterest-ing for six months. But when it comes to actual life… it doesn’t work that way. As far as I’m concerned, comfortable is boring. I don’t want to stop learning and changing and growing just because I’m a grown-up and no one is forcing me into scary situations anymore. I’m not on this earth to lie on a couch with a fleece blanket and a Real World marathon (although that would be nice once in a while). I’m here to stretch myself, to explore my limits, to learn about myself, to explore the unknown and the uncomfortable, to feel the exhilaration of turning “I can’t” into “I did.”

I’m here to try and embrace the experiences that scare me.

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Race Report: RBVFC Firefightin’ 5k

Summer vacation is for drinking homemade sangria in a red Solo cup on the beach, going out for Soft Serve while the sky turns pink, building epic sandcastles, jumping waves, happy hour on the third floor deck, and racing at sea level.

My family (including my parents, my sister, her family, and one of my cousins and her family) rented a house at Bethany Beach, Delaware, and while I was looking forward to spending time some of my very favorite people, meeting one of my nephews for the very first time, and putting my feet (and the rest of me) in the ocean, I was also eagerly anticipating a local 5k I discovered with a little help from Google. I even convinced Dan to do it with me.

Race morning, I was up early with my oatmeal, a cup of coffee, and a picture in my head. It was the time clock at the finish line glowing 22:00. I’d never finished a 5k faster than 22:35 before. Nothing about my training (if you could call it that) should have led me to think it was possible, but I’d had some good results lately; I ran the 5k run portion of a recent Stroke and Stride in 22:40, which led me to think it couldn’t hurt to try.

Even as we got into the car at 7am to drive across the picturesque Indian River Inlet Bridge from Bethany to Rehoboth, the air was hot and thick. Between the weather and  this article, I was inspired to wear nothing more than a pair of shorts and a sports bra. My legs felt fresh as I began my warmup, which made me happy. Meanwhile, I found the cleanest, freshest-smelling, port-o-potty maybe in the whole entire world, during my warm-up, which I took as a good luck charm.

Dan and I explored the old, tree-lined neighborhood that backed up to the main road as we jogged at a relaxed pace for about 15 minutes. Toward the end, I did a few strides, and we made it to the start line at 7:57, just in time for the 8am start. Cutting it this close almost gave me a heart attack, but I had pre-race race jitters to begin with, so who knows what was really going on.

I lined up toward the front. I checked out my competition. Around me were mostly men, some who looked fast, some who didn’t, and a handful of women who didn’t look especially fit. I weaved my way to within a couple of feet of the timing mat. I wondered for a second who I was to line up so close to the front, and then asked myself who I was I not to. I pretended I belonged exactly where I was, standing there in just a pair of nylon shorts and my reversible sports bra (pink side out) like I was the type of runner who was used to letting her midriff see the sun, who didn’t think twice about standing in spitting distance of the start line.

The gun went off. We rushed across the timing mat, onto the main street. Within a hundred yards, we turned right, into a neighborhood, down a slight incline. Trees created welcome shade. I had already dropped the blonde woman who had started by my right shoulder. The only other woman in sight was at least 10 yards ahead. I thought about surging to catch her, but I knew that if I was meant to run with her, I’d reel her in later. Otherwise, I’d blow up if I tried to run with her now. Better to be patient. I glanced at my TomTom. My pace was 6:20. Much too fast. I wondered if I’d already squandered the chance to be patient. I kept running, checking my pace every so often. 6:40. 6:55. 7:11. I stopped looking at my watch and focused instead on the road.

Effort  strong and relaxed. Breathe hard. Gaze steady. Face relaxed.

We turned right, leaving the neighborhood, heading toward the boardwalk. There was no more shade and the sun was punishing even at a few minutes past 8. I heard breathing in my right ear. I was sure it was Dan. I quickened my step ever so slightly. A few beats later, a non-Dan guy passed me. I heard another runner breathing behind me. This time, I was sure I recognized the rhythm of the breath and the sound of the footfalls as Dan’s. He’d already told me that if he couldn’t stay in front of me, his plan was to stay on my shoulder. I surged. Still, I heard him in my ear.

Toddlers wandered dangerously close. Parents told older kids to wait to cross the boardwalk. People cheered. Some told me I wasn’t far behind the first woman. I appreciated it but knew they were wrong. I couldn’t see the woman ahead of me anymore. We hit the first mile mark. I looked at my watch. It was dead. I didn’t need my watch to tell me I was doing exactly what I needed to be doing. Running right at my edge. Holding back just enough to avoid running out of gas before the finish line, going hard enough to wish I was much closer than 2.1 miles from the finish line. Wondering why I was here instead of having a cup of coffee back on the porch of our rental house or making sandwiches to take to the beach like a normal person on vacation.

I heard Dan making friendly, upbeat conversation right behind me. I wondered why he wasn’t more stealthy. I wondered if he knew this was a race, not a coffee-klatsch. I reminded myself not everyone runs a 5k like their life depends on it.

I focused on getting to the next orange cone. And then the next. And the next one after that. And finally the turn-around. Ice cream, flip flops, donut-shaped inner tubes, homemade candy, lined the boardwalk to my left. Waves crested and crashed on the sand to my right. I focused my attention ahead. Nearly the entire race fanned out behind me, which I could now see coming toward me.

The boardwalk turned into a road and I saw cones to my left and cones ahead of me. Now my breathing was ragged and I felt the trace of a chill on my cheeks. Just before I ran right right past my left turn, a volunteer lamely motioned to the left and told me I need turn go left, instead of continuing straight. I made a sharp turn which resembled more of a U-turn than a left, but thankfully I didn’t miss it entirely. I was back in the shade, now headed slightly uphill when an older, much faster gentleman approached, said something encouraging and then passed me. Dang, he’s fast for an old guy, I thought.

Just keep running.

My breath was coming out in wretched wheezes but I was less than a mile from the finish now. The older man in front of me faded into the distance. There was no one, at least no one I could hear, chasing me. I knew I wasn’t supposed to feel cold but I told myself to worry about that later. For now I just needed to keep pushing until the finish line. I turned left back onto the main road. Almost done.

I can do this. Yes I can. Yes I can. But it hurts. It’s supposed to. Keep going. Keep going.

The clock comes into my line of vision. It reads 21:48. I am going to make it under 22 minutes. I can do this. I can do this. My breath is coming out in choked gasps and I can keep doing this because I am almost done. I cross the finish line and I look and the clock says 22:00 and oh my god I have never run a 5k this fast, ever, and I am so glad I took a minute to imagine this moment over oatmeal this morning. They say the body cannot go where the mind has never been. I think maybe they’re right.

When the results are posted, I’m the eleventh finisher, second woman. My official time is 22:58, a 7:04/mile pace.

I never did accomplish my Stretch Vacation Goal—a game of mini-golf—but that’s ok. I did this.

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Race Report: 2016 Longmont Outdoor Divas Sprint Triathlon

Overheard at the Outdoor Divas Sprint Triathlon this Sunday…

I found the best kombucha bar in the Highlands.

Putting on a wetsuit is like putting on a wedding dress. You’re like “Please, zip! Please, zip!”

All she ate was sandwiches and mac and cheese, for, like, every meal.  

I can’t help noticing these things, I’m a chronic eavesdropper fascinated by humanity.

I signed up for my first triathlon since 2012

I signed up for this race on a whim about a month ago. My running injuries had been under control for over a month and I was up to 15-20ish pain-free miles per week. A friend talked me into doing a Stroke and Stride (a casual but timed 750m swim + 5k run), my first since 2008. I had a blast and decided to come back several weeks in a row. As a bonus, I was pleased to find my running speed had returned and my wetsuit still fit. My biking was limited to occasional rides with the kiddos in the Burley and some longer, challenging weekend rides up Sunshine Canyon, up Flagstaff, and one epic, 60 mile ride up to Ward via Lyons and Raymond. I knew I could easily finish the race, and hopefully do well.

I “trained”

The distances were 750m swim, 12.9 mile bike, 5k run. A sprint triathlon is sometimes referred to as a “mini” triathlon, although even the fastest women took over an hour. Most mortals can’t just jump off the couch into a race of this distance. Case in point: I worked my way back from nine months of a fit pregnancy, birth, and six weeks of postpartum rest to do a sprint triathlon when Sweet Pea was four months old. I nearly had a panic attack during the swim (in retrospect, my wetsuit was probably suffocating me, as I had yet to lose all the baby weight), and I shuffled my way to the finish at the very back of the pack.

Since that 2012 race, my sexy orange and blue triathlon bike has sat glumly in the basement. Three weeks ago, I changed out the rear tire, worn thin from infrequent trainer workouts, for a fresh one. With only three weeks to prepare, there was no real structure to my training, but I did the best I could.

For example…

-Where I might normally have run for 45 minutes, instead I woke up a little earlier, asked Dan to start work a little later, and squeezed in a 40 minute ride followed by a 2 mile run.

-I did four Stroke and Strides (a local Thursday evening timed 750m swim followed by a 5k run).

-Where I would normally have done the 750m swim ad 5k run at the Stroke and Stride and called it a night, one night I let my friends talk me into 4 mile cool-down run afterward.

-When I would normally have met a friend for a 50 minute trail run, instead I swam at the reservoir for 45 minutes and hopped on my bike for 15 minutes right after.

-I teach spin class every Monday, so I created workouts that would maximize my performance on race day.

While I didn’t do anything major or over a sustained period of time, it was fun to add some purpose to my workouts and it was at the very least mentally useful to structure my workouts around my race.

And what I realize, in light of the fantastic race I had, was that everything—not just what I did in the short weeks since I signed up for the race—counted. Everything I’ve done since Lady Bug was born—the treadmill runs that were interrupted by a crying baby, the 20 minute bike rides with the kids to the library, the 30 minute swims—they all counted. All the training I did before Sweet Pea was born—the interminable, lonesome six hour Ironman training rides, the four thousand yard pool swims, the duathlons, the marathons, the track workouts, the mountains I pedaled up so slowly I thought my bike and I would tip over—they all counted.

Race Day

I wake up at 5am. I sit at the kitchen table eating my instant oatmeal, drinking my Starbucks Via coffee while the sky is still an inky blue-black and I know it will be a good day. I could fall apart on the course but right now I am alone with my breakfast while my family sleeps and I feel grateful to have stolen this little luxury for myself.

I show up on schedule and the other women, my competitors, are milling about and they are my inspiration. They are tall and lean, short and round, and every shape and size in between. They have long, white, perfect braids, blonde ponytails, and pixie cuts. Some have wrinkles. Some have six packs. There are prominent collarbones and generous booties. I try not to stare at the big ladies. It’s just that I am intrigued and awed by them. I have no idea what it feels to stretch spandex over heaping mounds of flesh, but I imagine it takes an insane amount of courage. I want to high-five these women for being out here, for wearing these clothes, for telling the world that fitness doesn’t always look like an Instagram model, but I can’t do that so instead I give them a high five in my mind.

Fitness doesn’t always look like an Instagram model
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The race starts at 8:00 and by 7:38 my transition area is arranged, my cap and goggles are tucked into the sports bra, my wetsuit is half on, and I have nothing left to do so I walk barefoot to the water’s edge and study the swim course. I smile to myself as I remember my last triathlon. It was four years ago and I was frantically nursing my baby when I should have been doing this. For the first time in my life, I swim around the warm-up area like a “real” swimmer. I figure I need to “act as if.”

I feel ready when the siren goes off for my wave. It’s a maelstrom of arms and legs. They’re on top of me, under me, in my ribcage, on my shoulder and it’s ok. Women are everywhere and I can’t see them because this water is murky and brown. I can feel them, though. Fingertips brushing my leg. A foot in my elbow. I think, this is nothing compared to the way my older brother wailed on me when we were kids.

I just need to swim and breathe. I focus on gliding, on scooping lots of water, on remembering to look up at the light blue sky. Buoey by buoey, I make it around the rectangle, and then finally through the inflatable red archway, and I am jogging to the transition area, yanking my wetsuit down to my waist, gasping for air as I go.

I stomp and cajole my way out of my wetsuit, free my head of my cap and goggles, sit down to don my bike shoes, my helmet and sunglasses and I am flying out of the transition area with my bike.

I am supposed to mount my bike on a dirt road and I am not prepared for this. Dirt roads and gravel make me anxious but I pretend they don’t while I hop on my bike and clip my right foot in. I can’t help it but I yell “Whoa!” and swerve while I’m clipping my left foot in and it’s embarrassing but soon the road turns to pavement and no one is around me and I relax my forearms into my aerobars, take a few sips of my drink, and imagine myself slicing powerfully through the air, gliding easily over the road.

The course is mostly flat with a couple of gentle climbs. I notice the edges of subdivisions. In my periphery, I see green space and a pond. Mostly though, I am focused on my breath. Is it labored enough? Is it too labored? Can I keep breathing like this and save enough for the run? I am constantly monitoring my effort. My watch is set to the stopwatch function. My mileage, my speed, and my heart rate are unknown. I say “On your left” and then “Good job” as I pass woman after woman after woman.

I feel good. I feel great, even. I had forgotten the sensation of damp spandex clinging to my body, drying in the morning sun, wind whipping in my face, ponytails dripping. I love this.

A fit-looking woman on a fancy bike passes me but I keep her close. We play cat and mouse for the entire bike course, offering each other smiles and encouragement as we pass each other.

My stomach clenches as I approach the rutted dirt road where I am supposed to dismount my bike and I think to myself “It’s ok” and it is. I run my bike into the transition area and fling off my helmet, change shoes, fasten my race belt, grab my hat, and go.

I feel like I am running in quicksand. I am take short, gasping breaths and I tell myself to just keep on going and my breathing will work itself out but it never does. I pass the fit woman who passed me on the bike and we smile and wave and I say “looking good” even though it takes way too much effort to make words.

People are cheering from the sidelines but I only see what is in front of me because I don’t have the energy to look around. There’s a dirt road that curves in the distance and on it is not an inch of shade. I tell myself it’s only 3.1 miles. Less, now that I’ve probably covered at least a few tenths of a mile.

The race announcer made a big deal about the fireman manning the aid station at the first mile marker and I thought I would not care who handed out the water but when I see the shirtless men at the crest of the hill, it is a treat. I take a little sip of water and pour the rest on my head, down my back. I look at my watch. It says eight minutes and forty seconds. I am not sure how much that hill affected my split. It doesn’t matter because there is nothing else to do but keep running.

It is only half a mile until the turn-around. I can do this. I am passing woman after woman after woman and I don’t know how because I feel like my legs are moving through mud. It feels like a dream where I need to run away from the bad guy but I can’t make my legs go.

I pass the firemen again and take a water. I hit the second mile mark. My watch says 7:40. A little over a mile to go. Can I go faster? I see a woman in yellow and black way up ahead and I imagine a rope connects us. The rope is tightening and I am getting closer and closer until I pass her.

I see another woman ahead and I want to pass her but my legs will not cooperate. I focus on getting to the next tree, the next rock, the next dad with a Baby Bjorn. I wonder if Dan and the girls are here, planning to surprise me at the finish chute. I ask myself if I will even remember how this feels a day from now, an hour from now, twenty minutes from now. Can I go faster?

I have been running for 22 minutes and change. I am practically done. Where is the finish? Why can I not see the finish? It must be soon. Keep running. Keep running. I turn a corner and there is the blessed finish line. I am steps behind Yellow and Black but I’ve lost my chance to close the gap. I cross the finish line. Someone takes my timing chip. Someone hands me a chilly water bottle. I stop. I breathe. I congratulate Yellow and Black. I press the button on my watch.

I am totally spent.

I am happy.

 

I am super happy with my results…. 5th in my age group, 17th woman… My swim (just under 17 minutes) was average, which for me is excellent (to put it in perspective, I swam the same distance in 22 minutes at my first triathlon in 2004, and found my bike was one of the only ones left in the transition area). I biked 19.9 mph and ran a 7:46/mile pace (faster than I’ve ever run at the end of a sprint triathlon before, even at sea level).

 

 

The post Race Report: 2016 Longmont Outdoor Divas Sprint Triathlon appeared first on Fitness and Running | Motherhood | Marriage | Whatevs Blog.

My Second TV Appearance (hello maturity, goodbye flippers)

I am running a flash sale on my  book, There’s No Room For Fear in a Burley Trailer!

It’s light. It’s funny. It’s a perfect summer read.

Today only, use the coupon code NOFEAR10 to save $10 on a SIGNED hardcover copy when you buy it here.

Please note, the coupon is valid only on purchases of the hardcover book through my website (not Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc).

What are you waiting for?? The sale ends at midnight MST tonight (Wednesday 8/10).

Seriously. Get over there, order your copy, and then you can come right back and read the rest of this blog post.

The first time I was on TV, the local news interviewed me in a Stop and Shop parking lot while I used a flipper to clear snow from my windshield during a blizzard. The roads were so bad, I didn’t get home in time to watch the evening news. My disappointment over missing my debut was way out of proportion to the situation.

The second time I was on TV was an entirely different story. I bugged followed up with the producer of Off The Page, a local cable show that interviews Colorado authors, a number of times over email until she scheduled an interview. A few days prior, I started to really think about the kinds of questions she might ask and practice my answers. A few hours prior, still unsure about what to wear, I raced through the racks at Violette like a coked up Supermarket Sweep contestant.

I worried I would look fat on camera. I worried I’d watch three seconds of the interview, cringe at the sound of my own voice, and have to turn it off.

When it aired a couple weeks later, Dan and I watched together. I was relieved to find that it was not cringe-worthy. It was fine. It was better than fine, actually. Except for one thing. I looked old. Up to now, I didn’t know I needed to worry about that.

I told myself maybe it was all in my head. But when I mentioned it to Dan, he agreed.

“You looked distinguished,” he said.

Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing by validating me. Maybe he thought it was a compliment. After all, George Clooney is distinguished and he is quite attractive. And like me, he has Bell’s Palsy. But I do not aspire to look like George Clooney.

“You think I look distinguished.” I spit the last word out like a bitter choke cherry.

“You know who is distinguished?” His smile was eager, optimistic. Was he really going to try and dig himself out of this hole with more nonsense?

“WHO!?” I demanded. “Ruth Bader Ginsburg!? My grandmother? Never mind. I don’t actually want to know who you think is distinguished. Just please stop talking.”

With that, he placed his shovel aside. Hot and sexy have been the only words he’s used to describe my appearance since then. In his defense, he later explained he was trying to use a word that meant both older and sexy.

And there you have it,  the story behind the story. I will never know if my second TV appearance was any better than my first. I do know that despite the ravages of time… or perhaps because of my, ahem, maturity, I said what I meant to say and I had a lot of fun.

Some topics we covered in the interview:

The unique story behind my book, There’s No Room For Fear in a Burley Trailer (see for yourself, here)

The meaning of the title and why the book was almost named You Could Be Homeless.

Why I started blogging

How I decide what to publish on my blog versus what I submit to other websites

My experiments with flash fiction, specifically Mash Stories

The 30-Day writing challenge my friend Susan and I created for ourselves—and the dreaded consequence for failure to comply with the rules.

What to do if you have writer’s block

How writing is like running

Why I’d be a fabulous guest speaker at your group’s next event

Where you can purchase There’s No Room For Fear in a Burley Trailer (Online at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or directly through me. Locally, you can find signed copies at The Mama’hood, Flatirons Running Inc., and Full Cycle).

 

The post My Second TV Appearance (hello maturity, goodbye flippers) appeared first on Fitness and Running | Motherhood | Marriage | Whatevs Blog.

If we went out for coffee…

Full disclosure: I’m taking a page out of my friend Elena’s book with the “If we went out for coffee” prompt.

If we went out for coffee, hopefully we are meeting at Que’s. It’s my favorite Boulder coffee shop. It’s close to home, parking is easy, and it’s not a scene. But those are all just bonuses. The coffee is sublime. Specifically, the Roaster’s Reserve Blend. They have a few different blends. My favorite barista is happy (and I mean happy!) to pour you a sample of any blend you’d like to taste. He loves coffee and his name is Dan. Dan’s identifying features: obviously delights in pouring excellent coffee, great smile, beard, chipped tooth.

Once we’re settled at a table, I’ll probably ask you what you’re reading. If it sounds good, I will ask you to please pardon me while I add it (real quick!) to my “To read” shelf in the Goodreads app. (Also, I will need to know if you’re on Goodreads. I love this app. Please download this app and friend me, kay?) Truthfully, I rarely consult my “to read” shelf when deciding what to read next. By default, I tend to read whatever random book is finally available on the hold shelf. Getting the email where the library tells me the book I requested months ago and have totally forgotten about feels like finding $20 in my pocket. While I’m at the library, I almost always grab at least one or two books from the Lucky Day shelf in addition to my stuff from the hold shelf.

Right now, I’m in the middle of “The Bridge Ladies” (Lucky Day), and waiting on my dresser are Mindsight (hold), After You (Hold- specifically for book club), and Sweetbitter (Lucky Day). I might ask you if you’ve read Mindsight (I happened to love Whole Brain Child- same author. Did you read it?). I will definitely ask you if you’ve read 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl. I randomly bought it at the BookWorm because the cover caught my eye and OH MY GOD I have never read a book like this, except maybe When the Messenger Is Hot (which I have a copy you can borrow if you promise to give it back). I mean you have to read this book. I will laugh because I know I’m being kind of pushy about this book, but it’s that good. It’s about a woman and the way the size of her body and her obsession with her weight and caloric intake inform all of her interactions but that’s not why it is amazing. It’s Awad’s superb knack for getting the details right. The way she articulates her razor sharp observations (or imaginings, considering this is, after all, a work of fiction) is hilarious and heartbreaking and plain old genius.

I love this book so hard.

 

For sure I’m going to ask you what trips or other fun things you have planned this summer. Dan and I randomly stayed at the Niwot Inn on a Thursday night in June. I will have to tell you this because it was lovely. You haven’t heard of the Niwot Inn? Neither had I. I was hell bent on finding a place in or close to Boulder that was under $200 a night and not gross, a task that proved damn near impossible. Until I came across the Niwot Inn. I’d call it rustic-chic. It has only about a dozen rooms and a sweet front porch. It’s in downtown Niwot and your room includes a happy hour wine and cheese plus a breakfast of anything you might want except scrambled eggs. For dinner we walked to Colterra, and for dessert we got ice cream at Lefty’s Gourmet Pizza and Ice Cream. In the morning, I talked Dan into running with me before breakfast.

We ate our breakfast on the Niwot Inn’s porch. I drank my coffee while it was still hot. We read the paper. We talked. Small voices did not interrupt us. It was heavenly. After checkout, we hit Harlequin’s for a couple of rose bushes. Then we went to McGuckins to pick up all the materials for the fountain we made. You haven’t seen our fountain!? You need to come over and see it. And hear it. The gurgling sound the water makes when it hits the rocks makes you feel like you’re at the spa. We made it ourselves, using a tutorial I found on Pinterest. Actually, I did most of the work (even the wire splitting!). It really wasn’t that hard.

We hustled home to get back to our kids and the sitter, who told us he definitely wants kids but he’s definitely not ready. We laughed. We told him we understood. At this point, I’ll probably tell you that most days, I’m still not sure I’m ready to be a parent.

If you don’t already know, you will probably ask me what’s up with our male babysitter. I get it. You’ve probably never hired, or maybe even heard of a male sitter. (PS It drives me batshit crazy when people say their husband is babysitting the kids. That’s actually called being a parent.) So I’ll tell you all about The Amazing Male Babysitter and I will ask you if you want his number because he’d love more work and because friends don’t deny friends access to good babysitters.

We won’t believe where the time went. Why do we have to get back to work/our kids/whatever so soon? Also, I will want to know how you liked your coffee. My enthusiasm for the coffee here rivals my excitement over 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl.

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Why having a home birth doesn’t mean I’m brave

“You’re so brave! I could never do that.”

I hear this a lot. It’s not because I scaled Mount Everest (I didn’t). It’s not because my husband and I took a newborn and a toddler on a cross-country road trip and forgot the iPad (we did). It’s the reaction I often get when I say I gave birth at home.

Here’s the thing: You could do it—assuming the pregnancy is low-risk and the birth is attended by an experienced, professional midwife. Whether you want to have a baby at home is another matter entirely, and I’m not saying you should. I’m just saying that after I researched my options and weighed the risks of a home birth against the risks of a hospital birth, I felt more comfortable with the former. And that does not make me brave.

Bravery, to quote the late Susan Jeffers, is to “feel the fear and do it anyway.” I was afraid I might murder my husband for ordering Indian take-out while I was laboring with our first child (curry just doesn’t smell the same when you’re pushing out a baby). But I was not afraid of giving birth at home. Here is what I was afraid of… [Click here to read the rest on Parent.co]

The post Why having a home birth doesn’t mean I’m brave appeared first on Fitness and Running | Motherhood | Marriage | Whatevs Blog.

7 Reasons I Work Out

Life is messy and confusing. Sport, on the other hand, is clear and measurable. Normally, my next race motivates me to train. The race is my “why.” But I’ve been slowly coming back from an injury, running consistently for the first time in over six months. Without a race on the horizon, my “why” has been less obvious, leaving me unmoored, and at times unmotivated. As I’ve struggled to rest, rehab, ice, heat, massage, strengthen, stretch, and visualize my way back to racing, I’ve had to embrace other “why’s.”

It turns out there are many reasons why I work out.

1)Exercise is time to myself. Of course there are other ways for me to practice self-care, but sweating is my favorite.

2)I haven’t yet given up on my eventual goal of qualifying for and running the Boston Marathon. Although my workouts have not been specifically geared toward this goal, as the talented Dan King pointed out at an awesome talk I attended this spring, everything counts, whether it’s a short run, a bike ride, or any other form of cross training.

3)Exercise makes me happy. I know most writers will tell you the best time of day to write is the morning, and maybe it is, but I would prefer to begin my day by moving, not sitting at my desk. Returning from a run or a ride as my family is sitting down to breakfast makes me feel like I am ahead of the game and gives me energy for the whole day. Or at least naptime, depending on how many times I got up with Lady Bug. And if you’re like “Wait, what? I thought the child was two.” She is. She’s just not a great sleeper.

4)Exercise is a chance to be social. No miles are covered quicker and more easily than those peppered with conversation and laughter. Even on a bike ride, when wind or having to ride single file makes it impossible to chat, a pair or a group shares a collective energy that you just don’t have when you’re solo. Also, there’s the physical energy, you get from drafting off of the wheel in front of you, of course. Even in a class where you don’t socialize (like the Total Barre class I’ve been at my gym lately), motivates me to show up and try my harder than I would if I were alone in my basement with a video.

5)Exercise is a way to enjoy the outdoors. This winter, when I was unable to run and totally unmotivated to ride, I noticed I rarely went outside, except for little jaunts from the house to the car and across parking lots. I felt restless and realized I needed to get out more, even if it was just a walk in my neighborhood. One of my favorite tricks for getting a baby to stop crying is to step outside with her. Nature has a soothing effect, whether you’re three months old or one hundred and three years old.

6)I’m not proud of it but exercise helps me manage my anxiety about food and my weight. I don’t remember a time in my adult life when I didn’t wish I were thinner and/or else being really anal in order to maintain my current weight. My scale is tucked away where it’s hard to access, so I rarely use it, but I know when my pants are feeling tight and I occasionally hop on the scale at my gym. While I don’t plan my meals according to my exercise plans, I feel freer to indulge in ice cream or a restaurant meal when I’ve worked out. I know I should be dealing with the root of the anxiety instead of trying to assuage it, but I don’t know what to say about this except I’m not perfect, which should be a surprise to no one.

7)I really enjoy watching a show while I workout indoors. I never feel guilty for watching a show while I’m exercising indoors. Once in a great while I relax with my laptop and Netflix but the vast majority of my TV watching occurs not on the couch, but with my iPad on the treadmill, the trainer, the elliptical, or the stairmaster. Generally, I watch an entire series, and then I move onto a new series. I feel like I have accomplished something every time I complete an episode, similar to how I feel when I finish a chapter of a book. I know, it is no feat to stare at a screen for 45 minutes, but that is just how my mind works. I’m about halfway through the final season of Parenthood, and as much as I will be happy to have completed it, I think I will miss it.

Why do you work out?

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