Kristin Armstrong's Blog, page 20

El Bees

We have been picking up our training.  Last weekend Paige and I ran 18 – which for me is always a hurdle, a tough run that marks the gateway to longer distances.  It felt good to cross over.  I was such a soggy mess afterwards I had to wrap my body in a towel like I was straight from the shower or pool, and then get in my car – for risk of sliding right back out.  Then this past week was a combination of yoga, Bar Method, hill repeats and speed work – 8x 1,000 meters.  I'm happy-tired.  And especially tired since I do all of these things before dawn (I need to beat the heat and I don't want to miss out on any time with my kids in their last week of summer). 

Simultaneously, my son Luke is in the throes of his personal challenge.  He is in the midst of football conditioning, suffering in the late afternoon/evening heat.  Bear in mind that this is Texas football, so there are very strict rules and the boys are treated like young men.  You do not mess around when it comes to football in Texas.  He has an amazing coach and a team made up of his closest friends – a perfect way to start middle school.

With one small (okay, not so small) hurdle.

Luke has to make weight.  I remember this from high school, when the wrestling team was in a panic before meets, trying to drop to the highest weight in the lowest possible weight class.  They would run in layers of clothing, wrap themselves in Saran Wrap, subsist on orange slices, and not drink a drop of water before weigh in. Luke is not a small guy, he's almost as tall as me these days, so his first weigh in of the season was 129 pounds.  He has to be at 120 or less by Saturday morning at 9 am or he cannot play. Gulp.

I understand the importance of the rule.  If I had a child who was 75 pounds, I would not want some giant kid steamrolling him either.  It has to be fair, and more importantly, it has to be safe.  But these past several weeks have been hard, hot, and grumpy at our house.  He is working hard, eating minimally and is tired and crabby from the heat and the exertion.  And I have been in the thick of it with him, trying to be an encourager, a drill sergeant, a nutritionist, a stingy chef, a massage therapist, a sounding board and a life raft.  He loves me and hates me all at once, and he has told me so.  It's hard when someone you love wants something so badly that you can't help but want it for him.  But that passion, that discipline, that fire – it all has to come from him or it's nothing.  He has to decide for himself that a season of football with his friends tastes better than a cheeseburger and fries.  He has to want it enough to work for it.  It is a beautiful life lesson, but hard to watch. 

My radar is on high alert when it comes to issues with kids and food and obsession with weight so I watch for signs that his confidence or body image are being affected.  So far with him, it's all about the football, all about a goal and not so much about the el-bees.  I guess I'm lucky it's not about my daughters and gymnastics or something, because then I would really be freaking out. Aside from his evening practice, Luke chooses some other activity for the day to help sweat it off and enlists me as his partner in pain.  We have walked the Town Lake 3 mile loop at high noon (good Lord).  We have gone to sweaty yoga a couple times.  We have run miles around the neighborhood, and I'm usually in my same disgusting clothes as I wore before the light of day. 

Yesterday was a particularly hard day.  He was in a slump physically and emotionally – just getting tired of it all.  Me too.  He snapped at me midday and I steered clear for the remainder of the afternoon.   I made him a small snack and took him to practice in the afternoon; we drove in silence as he glared and blasted rap music.  I looked over at him at a stoplight and felt such a strange mix of frustration and admiration.  What he's trying to do would be hard for an adult, and he's just an eleven (almost 12) year old boy – with big dreams.  I smiled at him and I could see a slight upturn in the corner of his mouth.  Not much, but enough to know that my beloved was still in there someplace.  I parked in front of the field and hit the button to pop the back hatch open.  He got out, and scuffed over in his cleats to the back to collect his pads, helmet and water bottle.  He paused. 

"Mom," he said. 

"Yes?"  I made eye contact with him in the rear view mirror.  I was not at all expecting what came out next.

"I'm sorry I'm being awful.  I know I am and I can't help it.  I know how much you're helping me and I want it and I appreciate it.  Don't stop being hard on me, okay?  You have to know I love you."

I swallowed hard.  "I know.  I love you too."  I willed my eyes not to tear up and ruin a perfectly good moment with my son.  They obeyed.  I smiled.  He slipped on his pads, shut the back and walked onto the field.  I watched him, his broad shoulders and long legs making his way across the grass to join the brotherhood. 

Depending on the scale and time of day, he has about a pound and a half to go.  It's going to be close, y'all.  If you pray, please pray for Luke at 9 am central time on Saturday morning.  Pray for light feet, a kind scale, and a sweet moment of hard earned victory for my son.

No matter what happens, we have a plan for Saturday night – and it involves Mexican food. 

Including a margarita for Mom.

Ch Ch Ch Ch Changes

Paige and I switched it up this week, trading our usual position as apprentices to that of coaches.  We were invited to be guest coaches for a running group comprised primarily of teachers from our children's elementary school.  We forgot to bring a clipboard to make us look super official, and I think I forgot my watch too now that I think of it, but between the two of us we managed to make a purposeful, fun morning for some of our favorite people.  Paige was "bad cop' and I was "good cop", she pushed and hollered them through a ladder track workout (200 m, 400 m, 600 m, 800 meters that we renamed, "2, 4, 6, 8 Who Do We Appreciate, Teachers, Teachers, Yay, Teachers!")  and an "Indian run," and I channeled my inner yogi and led the final stretch and cool down.   They got a hard, sweaty workout and we got a chance to give something back to the people who have given countless blessings to our children.  It was an honor.  It was also quite humbling, having more insight into how much energy and heart our coaches pour into us.  Leading is a big responsibility.

Keeping with the theme of change, I should probably fill you in on a major change in the Armstrong household – we sold our house and are moving next month!!  I thought it would take forever to sell the house (it wasn't even officially on the market) but it sold in less than a week.  After a few sleepless nights and heated days of trudging through rent houses (most nicer ones aren't too keen on 3 kids, 4 dogs – gee..?) we found a house that suits us just fine and we're buying it.  We have been wanting to downsize and purge and now we get to do it!  The kids are totally excited to have new rooms and I am in heaven, taking heaps of stuff to Goodwill.  A fresh, clean slate just in time for my 40th birthday.  It's a smaller house, well-built, and full of lots of light – and soon to be full of lots of kids, kids' friends, dogs, and a vast collection of happy memories.  I have to say I cannot wait.  I spent so many years trying not to rush into any major changes with my kids that now I approach this one with glee and gusto.  Finally, everyone is ready at the same time. 

Another change: Luke starts middle school this month.  We have been together for the past couple weeks since he started football conditioning and the girls have been with Lance.  Being alone with my son is such a treat, even with his middle school moods.  He alternates between cool and sweet, and always wants a friend over.  I can remember that era.  Next year he won't have conditioning at the beginning of August because he will play on the 7th grade team at his middle school, and they begin when school starts.  Last night he said, "Mom, I'm going to miss this next year."  I said, "Oh, playing for Pop Warner?" and he replied, "No, this time we have right now."

My heart melted, and not just because we were in the hot car.

The beautiful thing about change is that it provides a contrast for the people and things that offer us strength and stability.  These steady things in life become so visible when everything else is swaying.  I treasure these times of change.  My family is moving, but at the same time and in all the ways that count - we don't move at all.

We're almost to a transition zone, people, around the corner the dog days of summer will stretch into fall.  Which way are you moving?

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes…turn and face the strain

-David Bowie

Last of the Mohicans

Today marked my official re-entry into my training group in Austin.  I gave myself a couple of days upon returning to go on a casual run, trying to get my feet wet (okay, soggy) in this unrelenting heat.  It has been over 100 degrees for over 30 days here. The grass is brown, the air is thick, and patience is wearing thin for folks who have been here all summer.  One thing I will say for folks who have been here sticking it out in these temps: At least their bodies have acclimated somewhat.  Mine is still in Stage One Revolt.

Today we did a long warm-up, followed by 2400 meters on the grass, followed by 6 x 400-meter relay with a partner (Paige).  It was as if all my hard work in California amounted to nothing.  I was a drenched rat with a rasta pony-tangle, breathless, with my face the color of a pomegranate.  On the 2400 meter portion I was DEAD LAST — el fin, the end, the caboose, last of the Mohicans.  The credits were rolling by the time I puffed across the finish line, a sheet of sweat pouring over my eyes like a window in a drive-thru car wash.

Paige was patient with me — God bless her, she always is – even though I am well aware that finishing at the end of the pack (let alone the bitter end) is not her cup of Gatorade.  She has high hopes that I will snap out of my suffocated stupor soon.  So do I.

Gilbert, our coach, was all smiles, reminding us that running is nothing without Joy.  I realized how much I missed him, and the massive quantities of sweat that mark a Texas workout.  I felt clean and happy upon completion.  At least I remembered I needed to bring a beach towel with me, to wrap up for the ride home — lest I swamp my car.

This morning was hard for me, humbling hard.

I came home, showered, made a cup of tea and read this by Oswald Chambers:

"God does not give us overcoming life, he gives us life as we overcome.  The strain is the strength.  If there is no strain, there is no strength.  Are you asking God to give you liberty and joy?  He cannot, unless you accept the strain.  Immediately you face the strain, you will get the strength."

The strain is the strength. I love that.  I thought you might too.  xo

Because We Can

I took a quick trip back to Texas last weekend to collect my daughters from camp.  The temperatures were scorching hot;  I felt like the sun had a vendetta against me, targeting me, melting me, punishing me for seeking solace in California.  I attempted to run one morning, slogging through the thick air like I had been hit with a tranquilizer gun.  I had an out-of-body experience, thinking someone else had been doing all that quality training, certainly not this body – wheezing and sputtering around the trail.  August is going to kill me.  Then I think of my poor son conditioning in full pads for football in the evening heat.  Ay ay ay.  We'll manage.  With lots of AC and frozen yogurt.

Seeing my girls again was perfection.  I had been going around for two weeks with a constant feeling of something amiss, like I lost my keys, forgot my purse, or was missing a deadline, and suddenly, with my two blond-haired darlings back in my presence, all is right with the world. Once we got their bags, I wanted to flee the premises.  I didn't say goodbye to any of our friends; I just made dust on that dirt road and hightailed it toward home.  I wanted them all to myself.  I have been hoarding them like a late-night eater, standing in a dark pantry and stuffing my face.  I want to be the first person to see their eyes open in the morning, and the last person to watch them drift off at night.  They take turns sleeping in my bed.

This is our last week in California, before we go back to Texas for the start of football.  I have been breathing every cool breath deep into my lungs and holding it, trying to memorize how it feels.  Yesterday at speed work with my running group we did a three-mile warm-up, followed by 6 x 1/2 mile hill repeats, followed by a two-mile cool-down.  Instead of complaining on that mutha of hill, I decided to rejoice in the morning chill.  When I was doubled over, gasping for dear life at the top, I made myself notice the breeze.  I don't know when I'll be able to run this well again, so I am enjoying every last foot fall.

I have never done 11 miles on a speed workout.  In fact, I haven't done this much mileage, period, in quite some time.  I am struggling but pleased with the base I'm building.  It feels good to work hard, push the parameters a little bit.  I hope I'll be ready for my RW Challenge in September, if the heat doesn't set me back to zero again.  I'll have to be patient with myself as I acclimate.  The August issue of Runner's World has a great article about running safely in the heat – I have it dog-eared and underlined in my own copy.

In the meantime, I soak in my final coastal days.  I got a tide app on my phone and took my girls down to the beach at low tide.  We ran half the course of the Chuck's race I mentioned in a previous post.  We parked the car and ran three miles along the sand, alternating between shell-seeking pace and bursts of speed, racing along the shore.  My girls are so strong and fit, they can knock out three miles with joy.  That morning sparkles as one of my all time best summer memories – the sun hitting the surf and glinting off my daughters' swinging ponytails, the sound of their laughter mixed with the waves.  Even though our footprints erased behind us, our permanence in that moment left an indelible mark.

We crossed the dry sand to the restaurant where my parents were waiting on our table for lunch (and to take us back to our car afterward).  As we walked to meet them, Grace put her arm around me and said, "Mom, I'm so glad you are a runner.  I like how you're fit and how we do stuff together, how you encourage us to be fit too.  We're lucky."

Yes, we are lucky.  I squeezed her back, biting my lip, my eyes filling up.  Remembering, once again, that this is what I'm training for – moments like this, one after another, in the creation of a life.

When my children were young, I ran for my sanity, I ran for myself, I ran to set a good example because they watched me move.  Today they move alongside me.  We run because we can.

Chucking Awesome

Sunday morning I had a religious experience, and I didn't go to church until later that evening.

At 7 am runners gathered at Leadbetter beach, milling around, chatting and filling out registration forms for a race that costs 0$ to enter.  It's a decent size crowd, especially considering that I saw no advertising whatsoever.  You "get to" run Chuck's Beach Run strictly through word of mouth.  I was lucky enough to hear about the 32nd annual Chuck's run because I got an email from a new friend Claire in my local running group.  Had she not emailed me, I would have missed everything.

The start time of the race is based on tide schedules, so it changes from year to year.  This year the start time was 7:30 sharp.  We gathered by a flag on the beach, some runners in shoes, some barefoot.  I wore shoes because I have a weird pain in my right foot that won't go away.  I figured this was no time to experiment with barefoot sand running, but I was jealous of everyone with naked feet.  We headed west along the sand, rounding a corner I've never passed because the tide was always too high.  The course goes three miles to Hendry's beach, where there is a water stop at the turn-around point, then three miles back.  I was missing my kids terribly, knowing how much they would love the beach run, especially if we stopped at three miles, calling it quits in time for pancakes at the yummy beach restaurant at Hendry's.  I'm going to time the tides and take them on an unauthorized 32nd and 1/2 annual Chuck's run when they return.

My good friend Dawn is in town from Austin and we ran together, at an enjoyable pace that allowed us to soak in every single thing about the perfect morning.  I wish I could describe it for you so you could experience it too…the smell of the sea, the slap of shoes on hard sand, ocean spray splashing up on your calves, the breeze in your face, and the light.  Oh, the light -a warm, yellow, morning glow that made everything look like God's lighting crew had come to set up the perfect photo shoot.  Everything and everyone looks good in light like that.  Smiles looked whiter.  Muscular legs looked even more defined by the dapple of shadows.  The waves made a soundtrack beneath the happy hum of runner voices, traveling in a pack that stretched out across the sand in a meaningful morning pilgrimmage. 

I saw lots of people from my running group, many of them running at their standard speedy pace.  I saw entire families, of multiple generations, running together.  As Dawn and I approached the turn-around I noticed another beautiful thing, every single face that passed me coming the other way was smiling.  I realized I was smiling too, unconscious of it, the way joy manifests itself and overtakes you.  Some friends said, "Hi Kristin" with a quick wave as they motored on, and I had such a sweet sense of belonging, like I was making a little nest in this town I love so much.  You can live someplace, but without community you are simply residing.

I slowed up before the finish line, wanting to prolong the experience as much as possible.  I took my shoes off then, and Dawn and I walked in the waves for a bit.  Runners were swimming in their running clothes, or gathered in groups talking, or lounging in the sand.  Up on the picnic tables in the grass, breakfast was being served.  There were bagels and cream cheese and bananas, and some people contributed grilled hot dogs and bowls of pasta salad.  It looked more like a family reunion picnic than a post-race corral.  No one was in a hurry to head home.  No one was rushing to get to more important things – this was the important thing.

I left my shoes off on the drive home, adding more sand to my already sand-encrusted VW bug.  I looked down at a stoplight, toenails peeking through sand, dry white ocean spray speckling my legs, my pinned race number crunched beneath my seatbelt. 

Then I looked up at my sweaty, freckled face in the rearview mirror, and noticed that I was still smiling.

Some of the finest experiences of all are surprises, word of mouth invitations to partake in something previously unknown.  Be open to them.

Running Home

The best thing about saying goodbye is the opportunity to say hello again.

Last week my wasband Lance and I did an epic camp tour, road-tripping into the Texas hill country at the crack of dawn to line up in an endless line of SUV's just to get close to the front entry of our son's camp.  This was Luke's first year of camp and he had been gone for THREE WEEKS, so believe this mama bear when I say to you that I wanted to be at the front of that line.  We left my house at 5:15 am and we still were two rows back, seems there are other mama bears residing in Texas.  We pulled in about 6:30 and waited – gates open at 8:30 am.  Grace and Isabelle, still on California time like me, passed out in the backseat.  When our alarm went off earlier, at 4:45 am, it was 2:45 am to us – whew!  That is always such an ugly realization when you sleep with your running watch on, and are too lazy to change the time zone.

We read the paper, talked, listened to Grace snore with her stuffy nose, and did calendars - calendars are always top priority when you have divorced parents trying to make it happen without things, or beloved people, falling through the cracks.  Finally I was positively twitchy with excitement, and I could see some moms starting to gather by the gates.  We agreed (likely Lance was ready for me to get out of the car) that I would run ahead and he would bring in the car so we could collect Luke's trunk and laundry bag.  As 8:29 clicked over to 8:30 the crowd started moving.  I started walking, trying to act like a normal person – but it was short lived.  I took off in a dead sprint, hair flying, in search of cabin 6.  If any of my coaches or friends bore witness to my speed (in flip flops) they would create new goals and training plans for me, certain I have been sandbagging for the past 40 years.  I flew – love makes you speedy I suppose.

I rounded the corner, flops flopping, and in a sea of boys I saw him as clearly as if he were standing alone on a hilltop, under a spotlight, waving his arms.  I could tell the instant he caught sight of me, his expression changing from a searching face to a finding face.  Home.  He started running.  I kept running.  We stopped before we body slammed each other, lucky for me because he would win, and threw ourselves into each other's arms.  I have been without my son before, maybe even for three weeks, but never without at least speaking to him.  I felt like someone wandering the desert on an episode of "I Shouldn't be Alive" who was dying of thirst and just found a rushing stream of clean water, or someone who was lost at sea and was just spotted by a plane or passing ship.  The feeling was elation, homecoming, safety, joy.  I used to embrace him, my long arms circling around his childlike frame.  These days he is almost my height and outweighs me, his arms are strong and his back is broad – now we embrace each other.  We stayed like that long enough for me to quench my mommy thirst, drinking him in, and then I pulled back and took a long look at him.

I did a visual inventory, noticing tanned summer skin, a ring of white blond hair at his forehead and over his ears,a new camp t-shirt.  I held his hands and was happy to see he remembered to cut his nails.  His smile lingered on his face as I studied him; he was patient with me.  His eyes were the same ocean eyes I remembered, the gray blue of the Pacific with a patch of sand color making a little island right around his pupils.  But they weren't exactly the same – they were older, having met people and had experiences that I know nothing about.  They reflected a hue of greater responsibility, greater freedom, a glimmer of growing up and away. 

I held his gaze as long as I could, before the cacophony of camp pickup broke the spell of our moment.  Suddenly there were kids everywhere, all in the same t-shirt, searching for parents, cars honking, hollering, hugs, dragging trunks, chaos.  Lance's car appeared and Luke made a dash for it, hopping up on the running board by the driver's door and half hugging Dad and half holding on while he drove in.  The girls woke up and were screaming out the back window, joining the reverie.

It was everything at once, pack the car, see the grounds, visit his favorite activities, buy a few momentos from the camp store.  I watched Luke show his sisters around, including giving them each a camp bracelet that he had purchased with his own "merits" for good behavior – 80 merits each.  And I was overcome with the realization that not only were they not fighting, they had missed each other.   There is hope!  Maybe when I'm long gone they will have holidays together after all! 

We piled back in the car and drove two hours to Grace and Isabelle's camp and did the same process in reverse – unloading, unpacking, untethering myself from my daughters, saying goodbye.  Bittersweet days are some of the finest days of all, running the full gamut of emotion, wasting nothing.

I just had five delicious days alone with Luke, back in California.  I ran at the crack every day so I could be home to lay eyes on him when he first stumbled out of bed.  We did everything we wanted to do, and nothing we didn't.  It was Mom-Son-24/7 Heaven.

He is my same boy, but different.  I never went to camp as a kid so I had no idea what to expect.  Luke is more confident, more comfortable in his skin, more talkative, more easy going after three weeks of negotiating with a full cabin, more grateful.  Maybe three weeks of no air conditioning in the 100 degree Texas heat is the best thing for adolescent boys?  I am not sure.  But I am sure of this – we were both more appreciative of each other for having been apart.

Whatever you may be missing right now – a person, a place, a  feeling, maybe you are injured and missing running – whatever it is, have peace and take heart – remember that any goodbye makes room for a hello.

I get my girls back a week from Saturday, but who's counting?

Ahem.

The Process

I hope everyone had a great 4th of July.  We had a houseful of guests, beloved old friends who came in from Denver, and we went to two parades, a concert at the courthouse, a pizza parlor, and watched fireworks.  It was a full and fabulous day, the kind where you sink into bed at night and have no recollection of falling asleep.

So the next morning when my alarm clock jolted me out of a deep sleep at 5:45 am for a 6:30 track workout, it was a rather rude awakening.  Especially followed by a 3 mile warm up, and four 1 mile intervals at or below a 7:04 pace with a mere 1 minute rest in between, finishing with a two mile cool down.  Have I mentioned my new running group is serious?  And seriously cool.  After just a few weeks as a newbie joiner, I have to admit that I wake up for the people even more than the program – and the program is excellent.  It's a bit daunting to show up to suffer and sweat with people you don't know, but the beauty of runners is no matter what your pace, you can always find common ground.  It isn't the same as running with my usual sweat sisterhood in Austin, of course, but it's a different kind of wonderful.  I look forward to getting out there.

Our friends visiting from Denver are baseball fans, and one evening they shared a quote from the Colorado Rockies relief pitcher, Huston Street.  He said, "I believe there is a universal truth to the process of doing things right."

I loved that quote, which is why I'm sharing it with you.  Think about it for a minute.  No matter what it is that we are attempting, there is a certain undeniable purity (or truth) in the way we approach something if our intention is to do our best.  Whether it's a marriage, an important relationship, our parenting, our faith, our career, our running, or any passion- we position ourselves differently if we have already decided to give our all.   I like the part about doing things right…but the part I love best is the idea of the process.  

I thought about that universal truth this morning, as I joined my new group for a 9 mile jaunt through the hills of Hope Ranch.  The hills were never ending, but there is something about the energy of the pack that keeps you chugging along, no matter the incline.  Hills are an important part of the process.   

That's where I am right now, working on my process.  I'm laying a foundation for my next work project, my next race, my next parenting challenge, my next foray outside my comfort zone.  Whatever it happens to be, I want my base to be solid enough to offer substantial support.

There is a universal truth to the process of doing things right.

Up for the (RW) Challenge? Chicago! 9/11/11

I have a couple more days of me time before my daughters return - and with them all the energy, giggles, drama, and laundry from multiple outfit changes per day.  I am starting to switch gears, or at least have my foot on the mommy-clutch.  I have to prepare my heart, and my schedule, at both ends of their departure – remembering how to let them go, and then transitioning into having them back.

After a track workout this morning (6 x 1,000 meters- ay caramba) I forced myself (throwing a hoodie over my chilly, sweat-soaked attire) to face the fact that I had to go to the grocery store.  That is one thing I often luxuriously ignore when the kids are away, likely because I get so sick of going every other day (or at least it seems like it) I was starving at lunch time and our refrigerator looked like it belonged to Old Mother Hubbard.  This morning I repented and stocked up on all things kid.  I'm getting excited.

I have been working and playing, alternating between the two with a rhythm that makes me feel both peaceful and productive.  I am starting to feel more at home in my new running group, which is a big deal for me since I am usually surrounded by my sacred sweatsisterhood when I run and can be shy with new running peeps.  I tend to enter into new things of this nature slowly, figuring out pace – in this case, both running pace as well as the natural pace of getting to know people.  New people who barge right in are not my cup of tea, so I try not to be one myself.  Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I moved 13 times while growing up, I have intimate knowledge of being the new kid on the block - and now, on the track.

So far everyone has been exceptionally friendly – and fast!  Last Saturday I got grouped with a 8-minute-mile marathon pace group, doing a tempo run at 7:40.  These folks take their training seriously, arriving well before the official start time to add more warm-up miles, then tacking on more miles after the workout ends.  My desire to rebuild my base this summer is definitely going to happen at this rate, sheesh.  I have been asked on several occasions, by Rusty (my coach) and other runners,  what I'm training for and I have responded with some hypoxic mumbling.  Good question.

I have some fun ideas.  Maybe a 40-miler this year, in honor of my 40th birthday (August 23, right around the corner!!!)?  Maybe a fun marathon in a great city? Some more trail races? A race with the intent to PR? A running adventure with my kids?  I have been all over the map with my ideas and needed to settle on something to kick-start my 40th year.  If I'm training this hard already this summer, I may as well have a real goal.

And now I have one!  Or at least my first one, lined up.

I am officially signed up to take part in the Runner's World Challenge- Chicago Half Marathon on September 11.  In addition to running  a great race on a relatively flat course in one of my favorite cities, I will also have the chance to hang out and enjoy some time with my RW friends and fellow editors as well as my extended sweat sisterhood, meaning any of YOU who can come join me!  If you happen to live in Chicago or nearby, get your girls, sign up, and come play with me.  If you live near enough to road trip, conjure your inner Thelma and Louise.  If you have to fly, start looking for deals and figure out who can watch your kids.  It's going to be fun.  I hear there are special things for the Challenge folks, an event before hand, and a private RW Challenge tent area at the finish where I plan to overstay my welcome at the massage area.  I'll try to convince David Willey (my boss) that we need post-race mimosas (or keg beer and pancakes?), but I can't promise that one.

It will be my first race in my NEW AGE GROUP, so come celebrate with me.

Soulstice

Solstice was two days ago, the first official day of summer (tell that to people in Texas) and the longest day of the year (on a scale of daylight -not stomach viruses, waiting to hear back, canceled flights, or car trips).  Luke went to camp and the girls are with their dad so I am alone and free to indulge my whims when it comes to planning my office hours, workouts, reading, obsessively stalking online camp photos in hopes of a happy glimpse of my son, and time with family and friends.  I was feeling particularly sporty on Solstice, so I did a track workout in the morning, bar class midday and a yoga class at night – a Kristin style triathlon, you could say.  With lots of room in the transition zones, just the way I like it.

Kelly was teaching yoga, she's my favorite in Santa Barbara, and she likes the room hot.  She shut all the open windows in the studio and cranked up the heat, letting us know that Solstice was the theme of the class and we were going to sweat in honor of the start of summer.  I haven't sweat much since my arrival with foggy June Gloom, so it sounded good to me.  She began by sharing a reading she received online about putting the Soul back in Solstice.  I could feel the prickles of sweat starting after just a few rounds of flow.

I am in awe of Kelly;she can take any regular pose and offer a spectacular alternative – you can do this, or thiiiiis, and she magically lifts and contorts her body into some weightless pose midair that I could only dream of replicating. Still, it gives me aspiration in my perspiration.  She inspires on all levels using her body and her words to reach her students physically, spiritually, mentally, and emotionally.

She always has a lesson, and usually it feels so personal to me it's like she has been spying in my journal.  "Push yourselves, you'll never know what you can do if you don't go past your edge," she explained upside down, from some crazy handstand-midair split.  "We tend to think that summer is about letting go, chilling out, time off, taking a break.  And it can be that, but it's also about using the heat to fuel change.  Summer is a perfect time to explore your edge.  We do this thing, all of us, we get so close to the point of real growth – and then we shrink back.  We get to the uncomfortable edge, and we pull back.  Always getting close to the change we need, peering at it, but not fully going the distance to make it happen.  I want to encourage you to put the Soul back in Solstice, to think this summer about the growth you really want and need in your life and go there, don't shrink back. We have to be willing to stay with the fire, the discomfort, if we want to generate the heat."

I wanted to have my journal right then!  I am so sad to paraphrase her, because it was so beautiful and I'm shortchanging you.  I had no pen and paper, so instead I pressed my forehead into my mat in child's pose, willing all the words to sink into my brain.  It was a message I needed to hear, and maybe you do too?

I could use summer as an excuse to relax, do nothing, make no significant progress or contribution.  After all, I am a proponent of being vs. always doing.  But it is possible to cultivate stillness and peace while moving in the right direction.  The key is intentionality.  I can find lots of excuses to shrink back from my edge.  "It hurts too much to run that pace." "It's embarrassing, I have no idea what I'm doing, what if I look like a total idiot?" "What if I open my heart and I end up miserable again?" "I can't do that pose, my body doesn't work like that." "What if I go for it and totally miss the mark, when everyone knows I'm trying?  Best not to let anyone know I care."   The list could go on and on. 

I could use a little Soul in my Solstice, a little stoking of my inner fire.  I need to be shaking in bar class, pushing it in my new running group, trying the next version of yoga poses even if I topple over in a loud, clumsy heap, reading some amazing parenting resources, meeting some new people, preparing a proposal of my new book idea instead of being a chicken,  and opening up to new possibilities. 

Summer does not mean stagnant.  Kelly ended class with a reminder that any change requires both submission and commitment.  I drove home with that thought in my mind, trying to envision simultaneously going for it and letting go.

Raising the Barre

June doesn't feel like summer in Santa Barbara.

Not that any of my friends back in Texas will have much sympathy since the thermometer in Austin has been hovering above 100 all month long.  But I have to say it is a shock to the system to go from roasting to freezing in a matter of one airplane flight.  The call it "June Gloom" here, because a thick blanket of fog envelops the area each morning, occasionally lifting in the late afternoon, but mostly lingering.  The first few days I burrowed deep in my comforter, sleeping in (well, with the 2 hour time change it felt like it) and relishing the fact that I did not have to run at 5 am for survival reasons.  I would creep out of bed, bundle up in slippers and my fuzzy robe, sip my tea and consider running for a while before I ever got around to it.  But my rhythm eventually prevails;  I am always and forever a morning girl.  Soon enough my usual routine recalibrated and I was up and out early, heading into the mist, shivering for my first couple miles, hopping up and down at red stoplights trying to work up some heat.  Running is my favorite way to wake up, well second favorite, after kid snuggles and breakfast in bed.

I haven't fully adjusted to the gloom, but my slippers and our fireplace are being put to good use.  I also decided to step out of my comfort zone and try something new on alternating mornings – classes at a Bar Method studio.  For those of you who haven't heard of this latest fitness craze (phasing in sometime after pilates and bikram yoga?) it's based on a ballet training method and incorporates a barre for various torturous positions.

I felt totally out of place on my first visit.  Everyone was lithe and at least 15 years younger than I am, wearing their hair back in a tightly coiled bun emphasizing their wrinkle-free skin.  They have tight bodies, with long, lean muscles and they are very flexible.  I tried not to stare at them too long in the mirror or make unkind comparisons to my very different looking, inflexible, runner legs.  We are all the result of our passions, yes?  The teaching is very disciplined and formal, with constant reminders to tuck and retuck your hips, stand higher on your toes, shoulders back, abs tight.  Every movement is precise and concentrated, barely visible at all – except for me, because I am shaking so hard it appears that I am having a seizure for the majority of class.  The teacher assures me that this is okay, but I still feel like a dolt, especially when the rest of the class is seated on mats against the wall, hands raised overhead grasping the barre, and doing high, graceful leg lifts.  My legs are shaking so hard I cannot keep them lifted, nor can I straighten them.  I don't know if this is normal for most runners, but my hamstrings keep my legs permanently at a 20 degree angle.  I wonder if I stand like this too, or if its just the way my hamstrings revolt whenever I call upon them to follow instructions.  The teacher finally took pity on me and handed me a strap, so I could wrangle my hamstrings into submission.

It was so hard and humbling, and I was so sore afterwards that I signed up for a 30 day pass.  I figure this will surely get easier at some point, right?  Even if it does not, it's always good practice to do something out of the ordinary and mix it up a bit.  Besides, by now running is my steady old friend, the kind that never minds when I meet someone new, always confident of its place in my life.

I got to watch my kids race the kids mile at Nite Moves on Wednesday night, each of them finishing in under 7 minutes. (!!!)  We celebrated with pizza, salad bar (authentic -with ranch dressing and sneeze guard)  and video games at our local hang out. 

Watching my kids cross the line, red-faced, straining and smiling, was my running highlight of the week.  Seeing them raise the bar in their own fitness inspires me reach higher in my own.

Even if I'm shaking.