Kristin Armstrong's Blog, page 19

Tapping into Taper

As a girl who prefers training to race day, is it any wonder I dislike taper?  It marks the  between the part I like to the part I don't.  Taper makes me nervous, hungry, sleepy, achy, restless, and impatient.  I get a cold.  I get a couple zits.  My sleep isn't as deep.

I much prefer the ramping up of training…the long runs with friends, the big breakfast and hot shower afterwards.  I like building up the mileage.  I like feeling clean and tired from effort.  I like eating whatever the heck I please.  I like having a perfectly good reason why I need a massage (besides 'because,' which also works).

Race day is nothing like that.  Race day is usually on Sunday (my sleep in day!).  The alarm rings at the crack, but instead of a pleasant amble to the coffeemaker I make an anxious, desperate bolt, my stomach already in a knot.  Speaking of which, there are at least 4 trips to the loo – standard. Noise.  Crowds.  Loudspeakers.  Pins, chips, numbers and fumbling fingers.  Corrals. Stripping layers.  Garmin check.  Recheck. One more trip to the loo.  Anthem. Prayer.  GO.

Race day is never fun for me until afterwards, when I hold a cold beer or glass of red in my hand and all the memories in my head and heart.  I like it better from the rear mirror.  I like all the stories on the ride home.

Now with two race days coming up, two weeks apart, one marathon, one fitty miler, with nothing but a taper to buffer me…I am (gulp) feeling it.

To counteract my usual symptoms, I am trying like never before to embrace (that which I do not like) the taper.  I am popping vitamin C and trying to be patient with my cold.  I am trying to see the humor in the fact that Grace and I have matching zits.  I am having a glass of wine at night and being intentionally patient with my children and their homework.  I am trying to use my restless energy usually expended on training and direct it towards getting other things done.  I am reveling in being showered and fresh and dressed for the day more often than not.  I am trying to focus on building up for the effort(s) ahead rather than tearing myself down with fear.  I am being nice to my tired feet, in fact, my toes have a festive red pedi right this minute.

Maybe if I can tap into taper I can relax into race day. 

Eventually, anyway.

Going There

 My Dad is the king of good quotes.  Maybe because he gave so many speeches in his IBM career he can recognize the perfect words to inspire others.  He often sends me something that applies perfectly to my life, a goal, or a current situation.  This morning was one of those times.  He sent me a zinger.  I sat with it while I drank a cup of coffee.

"If you think you can do a thing, or think you can't do a thing, you're right."

-Henry Ford

I told you all about how I surprised Paige for her birthday with entry into the NY Marathon.  But what I forgot-on-purpose-didn't-tell-you (I sound like one of my kids) is that to thank me for NY, she turned right around and made one of my dreams possible (maybe).  She signed us up for a 50 miler, on trails, called Wild Hare.

We definitely have a wild hair, or a full head of them.  WHAT ARE WE THINKING?

This race is two weeks after NY, so that will be our final "training" run.  Ha.  This race is why we ran 30 miles a couple weeks ago.  I am not sure if we have lost our minds, but just the idea of it is so fun to me, thinking of an all day adventure with my friend.  The possibility of it rolls around in my head and frees up space in there.

Originally I wanted to do a 40 miler for my 40th year.  But then my friend (and trail running guru, Scott Dunlap) insisted that ultra runners don't really consider a 50K a real ultra (gee, thanks for NOT telling me that when I was so excited to call myself an ultra runner after 50K!) so I should go for the 50 miler instead.  Besides, he continued, 40 is about the past…50 is the future, baby.  Alll-righty then. 

So, I haven't said anything to you, and barely any of my other friends, because…because…well, I guess I'm freaking out that saying it puts it out there and if I put it out there, what happens if I totally crap out, bonk, wimp out, dissolve in tears at mile 30, or some sort of nonsense and then I have to explain myself.  Or maybe up until now, it has been a private possibility, a hopeful what-if, and I have savored it by keeping it on the downlow.  Kind of like the window of time after you get engaged or pee on the stick, before you pick up any phone, and you hold it right there.  No comments, no explaining, no expectations…it's yours, just for a little while.

Then I saw this quote from my Dad this morning.  And I realized it is past due time to be honest and own my Wild Hare.  If I think I can do it, or think I can't do it, then I'm probably right.  If I can't say it out loud, there ain't no way I'ma makin' it 50 miles.  Or "fitty-miles" as Paige and I say when we talk smack to each other.

So I'm telling you.  I'm running fifty, 5-OH, miles in November.  40 for my past, ten for my future.  My plan is to finish.  But even if I realize that I am not, after all, an ultra runner – I will not be disappointed or feel like I wimp.  I won't regret telling you that I aim to try.  Hitting that start line might be one of my bravest moments, even braver than the finish line.  However that day unfolds, God has an adventure and some lessons planned for my friend and me, and I cannot wait to see what they turn out to be. 

There is something magical about running; after a certain distance, it transcends the body.  Then a bit futher, it transcends the mind.   A bit further yet, and what you have before you, laid bare, is the soul.

And at 40 years, I am willing to go there and have a look.

Bridging

I'm trying to be kind to my body as our training wears on, which means making time for YOGA. This week I blocked out an hour class and it popped up on my calendar that I had a date with my mat. I had a hard time settling in and turning off my brain, especially because the guy next to me must have had heartburn or something because he kept shamelessly making belching sounds. Very distracting, to say the least. After a while I was able to tune in and tune him out.

We got to "bridge" pose, which is the precursor to "wheel" (basically a backbend). Our instructor got us ready for the pose, instructing us on our breathing and alignment. Then he paused.

When this happens I inadvertently hold my breath (despite this being a yoga no-no) because with my favorite instructors, a pause often comes before a piece of wisdom that I desperately need (and often don't even know how badly I need it).

"Bridge." he said. "A perfect opportunity to consider the gaps in our own lives. Where do you want to cross over? What do you need to transcend? What could flow beneath you if only you could elevate?"  He encouraged us to breathe deeply and consider the implications of the pose.

I hoisted my tired, tight hips in the air and wriggled my shoulders underneath me and took some deep breaths. I thought about the bridges I could create in my life.

I want to cross over to new levels of endurance, patience and strength in my running. I want to continue to build solid and sustainable bridges with my children, even when adolescence can cause us to drift apart. I want to bridge across into new territory with my writing. I want to bridge across caverns in my faith life, spanning things like unbelief and lack of trust. I want to stretch towards people I'd like to know better and deepen the connections with the people I dearly love – and I want to be bolder in bridging towards strangers in need. I want to use words and actions to bridge across gaps of misunderstanding and neglect, the passage of too much time and too much water beneath. I want to have the flexibility to lift myself above the current of life when it's moving dangerously fast, threatening to carry me away. I want to have the strength in my core to be able to hold myself steady in this position, bearing the weight of my children if necessary, whenever the need arises. I want to be able to stretch across to what comes next without losing my traction on the past and my steadiness in the present.

What bridges need some work in your life? Do you have relational gaps that need mending? Do you have people you love who seem to be floating farther away? Is there a raging current you need to rise above? Do you need the strength to be able to hold your ground? Are you being called to stretch past your comfort zone and into new territory? Is there water beneath your bridge that needs to flow more freely? Can you lift yourself out of the way?

Bridges are beautiful metaphors. Like carefully chosen words, they connect us to one another and help us cross over when surmounting the distance would otherwise be impossible.

Best Kind of Fun

Today was epic, awesome, amazing, a memory I will never forget.

Months ago I asked Paige if we could do an "all day run" one day.  I was talking about drop-off through pick-up – which in mommy-speak means 8ish-2:30ish.  I wanted the time with her, the block on my calendar, the respite from routine, the day long adventure, the vacay in our own hometown.  And today she gave me my wish.

I met her up at the elementary school after we dropped our middle schoolers.  In classic "us" fashion I was over prepared with a hydration backpack, a multitude of snacks (pband j, pretzels, trail mix, bars, clif bloks, and a pop tart) cellphone, bandaids, tissues, ibuprofen and money.  She had swagger, a sense of direction, a pack of Clif Bloks and twenty bucks.

We ran for a few hours, taking the road to the trail along the greenbelt.  We had a fantasy about having lunch at Taco Deli, one of our favorite local joints, so we went there and while she ordered tacos I went to the adjacent convenient store to score up some Gatorade and some water to refill my pack.  Just as I was remarking how much I wanted to get a photo of this perfect moment, our photographer friend Elizabeth Kruetz walked up with her new baby. She snapped a pic of us stuffing our faces full of tacos.  Then we wanted to hightail it over to the State Capitol because our daughters were on a 4th grade field trip and supposedly having lunch on the Capitol lawn.  We made it just in time to see them finishing lunch and playing on the grass.  My girls thought I was sweaty and disgusting but I got "air hugs" and lots of odd looks from other kids ("you RAN here??").  I didn't have it in me to explain that yes grasshopper, not only did we run here, but we have been running since you said the Pledge of Allegiance.  They would have pegged us as the freaks we are.  Grace felt free to share that, "My Mom is running ALL DAY TODAY.  Otherwise she would have been a driver."  More air hugs and we were onto our next segment, a tour through UT campus.  It was crowded with students and I fit right in with my backpack; I think it was just my crowsfeet that kept me from being mistaken as a student.  I think we drank the drinking fountain at Jester Hall completely dry. 

We cruised around town, up through the old neighborhoods in Hyde park, down Guadalupe to Lamar.  There were a couple raindrops and we nearly lost our minds thinking that rain was possible (Texas is DESPERATE for rain), but it was just a sprinkle, enough to make spots in the dust coating on my calves.  We started to fade a bit in here, so we prayed and shuffled and talked nonsense in our delirium.  We decided to save ourselves and head to P Terry's burger joint.  We stumbled in, ordered a cheeseburger and large cokes, and slid (literally) into a booth.  We shoved food in our faces, chugged our cokes like gluttons (I think the last time I ordered coke was on a similar run in San Francisco in 2003 when we gorged ourselves on lunch from In and Out Burger on the ferry to Alcatraz…?), cracked up like lunatics and took photos of each other.  Second (12th?) wind was restored and we trucked onward.

We passed a funeral home and I had Paige take a photo of me stretched out like a corpse on the front steps next to the sign.  This was funny until a grieving family pulled into the parking lot and we scurried off in utter shame.  I blame the caffeine and the mileage for my social blunder.  I should note that Paige never approved of my antics so she is in the clear.

Some dear friends have a little sister who was having a jewelry show, and we decided we should stop by.  This decision was made after deliberating the pros and cons – supportive vs. sweaty?  We bumbled in there, stinking and red faced, and found some necklaces we liked.  We put those on hold since we spent all our cash on food and gatorade and promised to return post-shower.  They called us Forrest Gumps and sent us on our merry way.  I'm pretty sure they lit a candle in our wake.  After a certain point, you can no longer smell yourself, you know what I mean?

We wound around until we made it back to the elementary school parking lot.  At this point there wasn't much left to say that we hadn't already covered in 30 miles of chat and silence.  I hugged her (full slime, no air hugs for these renegades) and thanked her for the best day ever, and she marveled aloud that she wasn't even sick of me.  This may be the best compliment I have ever received, so I'm writing it down.  She also said, "I like how you don't complain."

Complain?  What's to complain about?  A breezy day zipping around town with my best friend who is just as weird as me, likely weirder?

Endurance isn't just important for races, rough patches in life, and parenting adolescents.  Sometimes we need endurance in order to have the best kind of fun.

Anything But That

It's easy to come up with perfectly good reasons to put off the hard stuff.

I'll get to that later. I'm not ready just yet. I'll focus my attention over here right now.

Anything But That.

My Anything-But-That came this week and despite my best attempts, I could not deny it any longer.

I have mentioned our four dogs, two are young, one is huge, one is old. The old one is Boone. And I had been saying for at least a year that Boone was on his last leg. But as I watched him limp around the house, sleep his days away, pant and wheeze, fall down the stairs, eventually wait at the bottom of the stairs, and lose his bowels across the floor – I made every excuse for him. He's old. He just can't see very well. He's had problems ever since he fell two stories onto the road below our house in France (and miraculously survived). He can't hear me.

And now in our new house, more excuses – he's just confused.

The excuse I was really making was for myself. I could not bear the thought of life without my dingy, ancient maltese with skittery nails on the hardwood floors and a tongue that hung out permanently because he had so many teeth pulled. No matter that I had to carry him to the bathroom or crouch down low to make sure he was still breathing when he slept on and on, no longer meeting us with wags and yips when we bustled in the front door.

I broached the subject with our vet and then with the kids; everyone agreed it was time. I figured I would take him in during school, to minimize the pain for my kids. When I mentioned this to them, they were outraged. So Monday after school we all went to the vet. We talked about handing him over or going in and we kept changing our minds the whole ride there, crying and taking turns petting him. The song "Dust in the Wind" came on the Sirius radio station I listen to, and this had us in fits. My eyes were so swollen from a day of outbursts that I could barely see.

In the end, the girls chose to stay in the waiting room (where they huddled in a corner and sobbed – loudly) and Luke and I went in. He said, "I've known Boone the longest, so I need to be there at the end." Boone was a wedding present from Lance to me, way back when, and a flood of memories came rushing back. Holding him as a fluffy little puppy at our rehearsal dinner. All the international flights to and from Europe when I would illegally unzip his travel carrier beneath the seat in front of me and cover myself in a blanket so he could sneak up the footrest and snuggle in beside me for the duration of the flight. He never once made his presence known to a single flight attendant. He was stuffed in the bottom of my partially zipped backpack when he was my touring buddy overseas. He has been to cathedrals in Milan, museums in Paris, restaurants in Lake Como, Italy. He has seen more of the world than most people I know. He walked with me when I was pregnant and couldn't run. He licked my tears through a failed fertility treatment. He snuggled infants in Moses Baskets, pack and plays, and carseats. He patiently allowed toddlers to yank his tail and smack him down as a "pet." Gennnnntle with the doggie. He regularly pooped under Lance's desk when our marriage went dark. He had to be put on Prozac during our divorce, and I know he was vicariously taking my pain. He humbly put up with the transition of being my original baby to becoming one of many – three kids, three other dogs. If he was bitter about that, he never let on. He followed me from room to room as long as his legs could carry him.

As Luke and I sat there waiting for his final IV, I told Luke how much Boone liked riding in the bottom of his stroller. I told him how much I wished I could save him from painful moments like this one, and all the ones ahead in the future. But we all know I can't. We held hands and cried. The vet came in and Boone turned to look at us one last time, and in that moment I knew that being at his side was the absolute right thing to do. He knew what he always knew whenever he looked at me – that everything must be okay. We placed our hands over him and in a brief moment he went limp. I took his collar off and we left. We sat in the parking lot for a long time.

The next day I ran with his collar in my hand, the worn black leather felt familiar and comfortable. I let the sweat and tears mix and when my breathing finally evened out, I knew it was okay to turn and head home. It helps a bit to picture him able to run and play again. I remind myself over and over that part of loving well is knowing when to let go.

My head is in agreement, and with time, my heart will eventually come around.

Road Work on Memory Lane

I sit and type/talk to you from my new office, which at this point is more of a fortress of boxes.  They are stacked up four or five high around me and I am nested in the middle.  The kids are snuggled in upstairs along with their dogs and the house has that hazy calm to it, the way a busy, bustling house gets after the day has settled.

This has been an epic week…furniture to consignment, endless loops to Goodwill, movers, boxes, trucks, more movers, more boxes, dogs back and forth to the kennel, unpacking, and organizing.  As any mom knows, my bedroom and office are last on the list – I'm trying to focus first on the areas that matter most to my kids.  I vacilate between feeling elated and overwhelmed.  I am completely exhausted and an ominous scratch at the very back of my throat suggests that my sleepless nights and over-exertion actually might take a toll.

I got the best text ever on Monday morning.  I was busy rushing from Grace and Isabelle's school drop off to Luke's, then to the kennel, trying to make it back before the movers arrived when my mom sent this:

"I am at your house.  Movers just pulled up.  All good.  Go for a run on your way home and I'll see you in a bit. Love you."

I read it as I was leaving the kennel and my eyes clouded over with tears.  I really love my Mom.  What could be kinder than that?  My parents have kept me sane this week, my kids have kept my sense of humor and perspective, and Paige has kept me running.  No matter how my day tosses and turns, a morning run together is the anchor that keeps me and my day from floating off course.  She has even been patient with me running with my cellphone, stopping and answering calls, or having to divert home to meet electricians, tile guys, cable guys, etc.  My life is a whirl of details right now. 

But like most worthwhile endeavors, things are going to have to get a lot messier before clarity comes.  The process of moving is the perfect metaphor for the intangible clutter we carry around.  The only way to sort it out is to open the boxes and see what's inside.  It's overwhelming and quite tempting just to leave some boxes sealed and send them straight to the attic but to do so would be to miss the point of the exercise. No one said purging was easy.  Going through our stuff is like revisiting areas and epochs of our life, it takes time and emotional energy.  It's both draining and healing, all at the same time.

Running has helped me process it all.  The old photos, letters, and papers, the potholes and speedbumps along memory lane, the realization that my children are indeed growing up way too fast – it's sometimes too much and I need to get out of my head and house and into the fresh air.  My run recalibrates me, resets me, and refreshes me to return to base and keep working.

Do you have boxes that need opening?  Things to sort out? Parts of you (your heart or your environment) that need purging? 

Do you have some road work to do on Memory Lane?

Blank Page

Chicago was great!  Cool weather and cool people.  I really enjoyed getting to meet some of you, thank you for coming to say hello.  My half marathon didn't have the snap I had hoped for in the end, but at least I ran steady, around an 8 minute pace, without sputtering to the finish.  The course was an out and back along Lakeshore drive, and I was hoping that I could dial it up after the turn at mile 8, but I never could seem to shift into another gear.  So I decided to be grateful with steady and hold it.  I finished happy.  Especially when I got to the RW Challenge tent and slid (literally, I was so sweaty!) onto an empty massage table.  The woman was so amazing, I shut my eyes and pretended I was in a spa.  

Meeting readers, spending time with colleagues that I usually only "talk" to via email, running, enjoying a great city, and reconnecting with my best friend from college, all  amounted to one amazing weekend.

And I soaked it in, even the wait at the airport on the way home, knowing that when I got back to town it would be game ON with my kids, their schedules, and our upcoming move (happening this Monday and Tuesday).  I have been busy going through old stuff, not wanting to put old junk into our freshly painted new pad.  Regardless of how much stuff I ditch, I know it's still going to be a long sorting process on the other end.

This is where pacing comes in, and running has helped me a lot in this area.  I am not someone who is very patient by nature, mostly as it relates to circumstances or to myself.  I have a 'go for it' mentality when I'm working on something and focus so much on the end result that I am apt to miss things about the process.  And moving is a process, that's for sure.  We are closing up a chapter at one place (we have been here since 2003, my girls were one and Luke was three) and starting a fresh chapter someplace else.  And with our clean, white paint it looks just like a blank page, begging for a story.

It took a long time to fully settle into this nest, so I need to pace myself that it will take time to feather our new one.  I don't want to rush and shove things in cabinets just to get rid of the boxes.  We need to decide what things we really want to keep and put them away mindfully.  I want to savor the process, not just the end result.

Besides, I told my kids stories of my childhood (we moved 13 times) and how we would have dinner together, sitting on boxes in the kitchen and how fun that was.  All those adventures made my family the airtight unit it is today, and I want to create the same sense of optimism and unity for my kids now.  So think of us on Monday night, eating pizza on boxes, toasting with sparkling cider and a big, fat glass of Cab for mom.

And that is how our new chapter opens.

Chicago Bound

Along with all the sadness and destruction from the raging wildfires in Central Texas (in fact, my brother's fiancee's parents lost their home in Bastrop, TX) there was one redeeming factor to this week – we had a merciful cool front.  Finally, after months of 100 degrees, we woke up Sunday morning to temperatures in the 60's.  Of course by afternoon temperatures are back up into the 90's but for a few blissful hours in the morning, we can breathe again (minus the smoke, of course).

When I first walked outside to get the Sunday paper, I did a double take at the front door.  I felt like I had gone to sleep and woken up someplace else.  I could not tell you when I last walked outside without instantly breaking into a sweat.  The kids and I took a long walk with the dogs, enjoying the cool windy morning – not yet knowing that the wind was blowing the fires all over creation.  We found that out later.  But for a few hours, it was heavenly.

A short week always throws me off, and I have been coming from behind since Tuesday (which felt like Monday, but of course was not).  A friend ran into my front tire at middle school pick up on Tuesday and although I was initially thrilled that there was no scrape on either of our cars, my elation quickly faded when I drove on to after school activities with my front axle at an angle…literally clutching the steering wheel like I was steering a clipper ship in high seas.  Needless to say, my car is in the shop.  And the closing on my new house is delayed due to issues with the buyers of my current house, so everything is in a holding pattern.  The control freak in me wants to get on with it already and move forward with a plan.  The heart in me is broken for people all around me whose homes are a heap of smoldering ashes.  It's a weird week, what else can I say?  External chaos calls for internal steadiness, so I have been trying to manifest that motto in all my decisions this week.  So far peace has prevailed.

On Wednesday I re-wrapped my head around my upcoming trip to Chicago this weekend (!!!). I am racing the Runner's World Challenge Half Marathon on Sunday.  I leave tomorrow and am so excited – after a couple chilly (comparatively) runs this week I am feeling snappy and happy on my feet again.  I hope my race reflects the suffering of my training.  My son Luke has a little piece of paper in his wallet that says "Sweat more in training, bleed less in battle."  We shall see.  I have definitely been sweating.

Here is my schedule for the weekend if you are anywhere nearby and want to come hang out:

Friday 9/9 – I am signing books at the RW booth at the expo at Navy Pier from 4-6 pm

Saturday 9/10 at 8 am – I am joining other RW editors and readers for a shake out run – loosening up my travel legs, getting ride of any jitters, and enjoying some time with readers.

At 2 pm I will be at the Puma store for a prerace strategy session with other RW editors.  This is exclusive to RW Challengers and families so if you haven't signed up yet, do that first!  I think I will be signing Mile Markers copies here also.  Come see me!

Sunday 9/11 Race Day – Half Marathon starts at 7 am, I will be there!  There is a finish line reception afterwards and a VIP tent for all the Challengers (another reason to sign up).  Good luck prying me off the massage table or elbowing me away from the food.

Time to pack, I have a bit more time before I transform into Carpool Mama (in the rent car).  I hope to see some of you this weekend!

k

Empire State of Mind

Paige's birthday follows mine like a wave following another wave, with barely any time to catch a breath in between. Her 45th birthday was on Monday of this week. She always makes such a fuss over me that it's almost intimidating to try and celebrate her. Not to mention that she avoids every mention of her birthday, not wanting to discuss any plans, in spite of the fact that everyone knows she loves her birthday and wants to be celebrated and lavished in love. She is a beautiful quandary. After many years of being her friend, I have gotten used to her birthday weirdness and make plans in spite of her.

This year I made big plans.

I turned 40, she turned 45- I figured it was high time to do it up right. So very slyly, behind her back, I signed us up for the NY Marathon (with approval from her husband beforehand – I am no fool). He thought it was a great idea; Paige has done over 20 marathons but never New York. She always hates when people talk about it, because if there is one thing that Paige cannot stand it is the idea of missing a party. And for anyone who has ever done NY, you know that is exactly what it is: a 26.2 mile long par-tay. Not to say it isn't hard, of course it's hard, that goes without saying. But the difficulty is overruled by the experience; seeing such an amazing city from this unique perspective, and winding through the different cultures and people is like Epcot on steroids (but not contrived). It's just fantastic. Really, it makes me giddy just to recall it.

The other sly thing I had to pull of was getting her to start training without letting her know what we were training for. This was easier than I expected, maybe because after being apart all summer whenever I mentioned a nice, long run she was always game. We had a whole summer of things to catch up on and the time flew by every Saturday morning. She didn't even blink when I told her, "Let's do 18 tomorrow, okay?" If someone told me to run 18 without any supporting evidence, I would be highly suspicious. I would at least question their motives (or sanity) especially when it's 90 degrees at 6 in the morning. But she just went with it, God bless her easy-going self. Our coach Gilbert was in on the surprise, so he worked us appropriately at every training run.

We have no time goal: let me make that clear. To wear a watch in NY is to spoil the fun, in my opinion. I want to soak this one in, savor this adventure, stop and dance the samba, grab a cold beer, eat the bagel the nice Hasidic Jew tried to hand me last time- I don't want us to miss a thing. I rushed my way through NY last time (2004) in pursuit of a PR (and I got it) but in my hurry I did not do justice to the day. I am too old to make that mistake again. There are plenty of other races with fast courses, small crowds, and no scenery, and I will save my suffering for one of those. November 6, 2011 will be a day for the memory book.

We went on a run the morning of Paige's birthday. While we did 5 x 2,000 meters, Katie snuck over to where we parked and decorated Paige's car with signs, shoe polish and streamers. Driving around town getting honked at (HONK, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY on the back window) gave her great delight. We went to brunch in our sweaty clothes, keeping our birthday momentum at all costs. Other friends were waiting (much cleaner, cuter, and better smelling than us) and we huddled around a round table in the corner, chatting and eating breakfast tacos. She started opening presents and I was suddenly nervous. What if she wasn't as excited as me? What if she liked the idea of no fall marathon? Oh dear.

When my package was up, I cued up the song "Empire State of Mind" on my iPhone and I played that while she opened her package. In the box was a printed email confirmation, a NY hat, a marathon poster from 2004 (I scratched out that date and wrote in 11/6/11), and a very dorky poem written by yours truly. She read it out loud and got all choked up, with the biggest smile on her face. She squealed with excitement just like a child, and I knew at that moment that I had scored with my surprise. I cannot tell you how good it felt to pull this off, to really celebrate the Celebrator.

The secret is out, the mileage is up, and the game is on.

In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made, oh

There's nothing you can't do, now you're in New York

These streets will make you feel brand new

Big lights will inspire you, let's hear it for New York

New York, New York…

-Empire State of Mind, Jay-Z and Alicia Keys

Lordy, lordy…

Epic week over here at Chez Armstrong.

Luke did make weight and is able to play with all his friends on his football team.  He started middle school this week and all the boys proudly wear their team shirts and he could not be happier.  I realize my candor caused quiet a stir, which I love because I get a chance to practice what I preach to my kids anytime they are judged.  Criticism is a beautiful opportunity to reflect on your choices and remember who you are.  I always ask my kids, "Who defines you?"  Our family has One answer for that.

Playing football with his friends meant a lot to Luke, and he did it. And, even better, he had a smooth start to middle school.  He's loving changing classes and having a locker with a combination lock for PE.  He's figuring out how to balance homework and his practice and scrimmage schedule.  And Grace and Isabelle are blooming with all things 4th grade.  They love their teachers and the heavier load of homework makes them feel grown-up.  Grace has new glasses that she got over the summer and she looks so cute with her spectacled nose in a book.  The girls start volleyball after Labor Day.  I'm kind of excited to have a sport to watch indoors – it is still holding steady over 100 degrees!

Tuesday was an important day on my personal calendar, I crossed over to a new decade and celebrated my big four-oh.  With the start of school, I had no time to ponder the meaning of the day, it was just suddenly upon me and it felt as natural as I do in my new age group.  I started my day, as you might guess, with a run with my friends after school drop off.  The Gazelle (our training group) workout of the day was 5-7 repeats on a hill called Wilke.  I briefly considered doing something a bit friendlier in honor of my celebration but then decided that there really is no better way to mark a milestone than with a massive "up and over."  So Wilke it was.

We warmed up from the trail and by the time we got close to Wilke we were soaked with sweat and wheezing.  We made a left hand turn and there it was, looming, hot, and calling my name.   We did five repeats, and Paige assigned each one to a decade of my life.  I gave little vignettes of myself at various ages and we all made fun of me.  I was happy to recall my 30's – both the beauty and the bane – and I left them there, on Wilke.  The final hill was one to grow on.

We shuffled home, talking and laughing back to our cars.  I had time to shower and glam and meet a larger group of friends for lunch.  They all wore white to represent my new decade, my fresh clean slate.  Most of them have already crossed over, and they were happy to welcome me to 40.  They look so good and are so complete and content in their skin that they make 40 look enviable.  I always wanted to grow up and be like that.  They ordered champagne, and each one of my beloved girls offered sweet/silly/sentimental toasts that made us laugh and cry at the same time.  I felt so loved that I floated out of the restaurant with 40 while balloons in one hand and a bundle of calla lillies in the other.

Lordy, lordy, I think I like forty…