So this past week, I decided to start "training" for the Philly Half-Mary... now for some runners, this would involve long runs, tempo runs, fartleks (swear to God, that's a real thing, non-runners). For me, it meant boosting my mileage and running self-esteem. It worked; I'm still hopelessly optimistic of accomplishing my goal. Here's the lowdown on how it all went.
Day 1, Sunday: Hit the gym first thing instead of church. I pray while I workout. Pray = 1 part marinating on whether to really run the half-mary and 1 part get me through the workout. It is, afterall, Sunday. I spend 30 minutes warming up my knee on the bike (the one where your feet are in front of your hips, not directly under) before hitting the treadmill. I do an easy mile at a 12 minute pace. My knee feels great. I'm clearly an amazing runner and can do anything. The half-mary will be easy-peasy. I decide to top off this killer workout with some knee strengthening and abwork. Jillian Michaels has nothing on me.
Day 2, Monday: We visit preschool, and Olivia does fine until I leave to go talk to one of the directors. She spends the next 45 minutes crying hysterically and is blotchy and heaving when I walk back in. I am crushed but repeat my new mantra: It won't be like this for long. Frank works and has class, and even though he gets home earlier than expected, I decide the best way to proceed is to take the day off. After all, even professionals take a day off, right? And after this morning...
Day 3, Tuesday: Tuesdays will end up being one of my running nights when I head back to work after Labor Day, so I'm planning on hitting the gym when Frank gets home. God apparently feels I've done something wrong and has punished me with crippling stomach pains (thank you, GI system of an 80 year old). Olivia spends the day watching TV so Mommy can rest on the couch. No zoo. No gym. And Olivia starts daycare tomorrow for the morning to help her adjust more smoothly. I'm miserable.
Day 4, Wednesday: Wake up feeling physically better but mentally anxious for Liv's morning at daycare. Drop her off. She is crying mercilessly and attempting to become some sort of appendage jutting out of my torso. I leave quickly knowing in my heart that this is best and head straight for the gym. Not only will the workout get my mind off Liv's tears, but there is zero reception in the fitness center forcing me to move-on. As a result I bike for 30 minutes before running 2 miles on the treadmill. My body feels great in the moment, and since I'm coming back tomorrow, I skip the abs and weights. I feel confident that I will be ready for the half-marathon. I go home and ice the knee. Hours later, it starts throbbing. I eventually take some ibuprofen and consider rethinking my goal to running at least 10 miles of the 13.1 and walking the rest. Totally feasible and achieveable. Totally.
Day 5, Thursday: Same as yesterday regarding daycare. I'm an awful Mom. The image of my daughter screaming and reaching for me as I exit the room are seared into my brain. I do 30 minutes on the bike where your feet are under your hips (the ones used in any spin class). I now see why people take spinning class and rank this machine above the eliptical. In a heat of the moment decision, I actually try to lift my butt of the seat (which is how every spinning class is portrayed on the big screen so it must be the way to go!). My butt gets a half-inch off the surface and immediately betrays me by sitting back down. If it could talk, it would say, "Get a grip, warrior princess, I ain't no fool." I follow it up with strength training and abs. I'm the strongest mom in the world. Tomorrow I'm gonna convince my friend, Amy, to run the half-marathon with me so that our daughters will one-day be inspired by our feat.
Day 6, Friday: I set my alarm to wake me up by 5am so I can hit the gym or pavement before Frank has to go to work. The alarm goes off. It's snooze button central in our bedroom. I decide that no one should wake up to work out at 5:30am the Friday before Labor Day. I'll work out later... or tomorrow. I see Amy at Gymboree class, and she's on-board for the race. We agree to meet for monthly long runs. I'm flying high on her momentum and sign up while Liv is sleeping. I'm now 100% committed. Frank gets home early from work, allowing me to squeeze in a quick neighborhood run. It turns out, our town name includes the word "Hill" because of the terrain. And Hurricane Earl is headed north, so the sun is back! My face feels like its on fire and my thighs hurt in ways that can't be good. BUT my knee feels fine! A tiny speck of light at the end of the tunnel. I run for 21:45, which according to Map My Run is 1.66 miles. Not bad for the 2nd outside run that I've done in months and the first hilly run, too! Olivia is so excited to see me as I walk [uphill] to our front door that I realize if she's at the finish line, I'll know I've done something incredible. This thought is quickly dashed when she begins crying because I'm too sweaty to pick her up. The three of us head inside before the neighborhood thinks I'm neglecting my child.
Day 7, Saturday: Wake up late which along with many other wonderful life moments prohibits me from getting to the gym. I decide God is clearly insisting I take a day off and eat cake -- well, maybe the cake was stress eating but if God didn't want me to eat cake, why on earth would he have created double chocolate layer cake decorated with white chocolate shavings??? I'm not a rocket scientist but it's indulgences like this that may have caused my weight loss to plateau. So I decide to spend 45 minutes gardening, which according to my blackberry app, FatSecret, burns 221 calories. I ride the momentum and do some core strengthening exercises while watching Degrassi. Week one done. I may or may not be screwed. Stay tuned.
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