April Showers brings May Snow

I thought the old saying went,
"April Showers bring May Flowers."
But, as I glared out the window this morning at the falling snow,
I decided Mother Nature has a funny sense of humor,
and she uses that humor in Utah every spring.

You see...I love to run. A lot.
And, as of this morning I had been rained
out of 2 of my morning runs this week.
And, I only go 4 mornings a week.
Seriously?
Mother Nature didn't win today. I donned my running shoes
semi-weatherproof jacket and ran out the door.

A lot of people don't understand the running thing.
I've tried to explain it, but really,
I'm not very good at explaining why I like to run.
The passion started almost 12 years ago,
and it's so ingrained in me now,
that if I don't run,
I'm ornery...or so Adam says.
He can tell.
"Did you run today?"
is the most popular question in our house,
on an evening when I'm short tempered with the kids.
"No," is usually the answer on those days.
I don't know why? I think it's the endorphins,
or it could be the fat that I imagine piling up on my buns
because I missed one run.
I know it's all in my head,
but I can still feel those fat cells taking up residence!

A few weeks ago I was reading a copy of Runner's World
(courtesy of Christa, who also loves to run, as does Jess,
it must be a family thing) and I found this article.
It explained my running obsession to a "T",
except for the swearing thing.
Because I'm pretty sure the girls I run with would fall over
if they heard a swear word come out of my mouth. Love them!
Maybe you can relate to the story?
P.S. I love the picture.
Enjoy!

Hell Week
by Kristina Pinto
Illustration by Katy Lemay

A cold rain is pelting the road, but I'm desperate to head out for a run. I gingerly test my ankle with a jog down to the base of the driveway, and everything's a go. At a cautious pace that doesn't quite match my zeal, I run away from home for an hour, hoping my injury is behind me. When a running mom gets injured, the whole family pays. After falling a week ago in such a spectacular fashion that I later found gravel in my hair, I sat on my son's playroom floor with my foot elevated. Instead of wondering how I'd manage to fulfill my mom-duties on one foot, I fretted over how I'd find the will to fulfill them because I couldn't run with a sprained ankle. With a look of fear on his face, my husband quipped to our 4-year-old, "What will happen to us now that Mommy can't run?" He knows running keeps me sane, and his expression suggested he was sizing me up for a straight jacket. I just hoped it was made of wicking fabric so I'd at least feel like a runner.

If you're a runner and a mother—or if you live with one—maybe you get what I mean. We were taught that we could have a career and a family and a life outside both. But to make it all work, sometimes we need to run away. Out on the road, there are neither babies nor bosses tugging at our pant legs. The playlist on my iPod may blend Shrek incongruously with Eminem, but otherwise, my runs amount to sweaty, exhausting interludes of peace and quiet.

As a runner-mother, I train and race to be distinctly different from the woman struggling to maneuver the grocery cart shaped like a race car. "Sorry, sorry," I repeat like a mantra in the produce section, as I bump my way around the vegetables. Give me four safety pins and a piece of paper with a number on it, and there are no apologies. I have somewhere I need to go, as fast as possible, and no one gets in my way. The woman on the playground who uses phrases like "Oopsy daisy" spits and swears while running with friends. Pink running skirts are deceiving; there is nothing pretty about the conversations held by running moms on long runs.

As if anticipating the frazzled, potentially unhinged woman I might become, my son asked me one day how my foot felt. He suggested a Band-Aid to help. "Thank you," I said. "A Spider-Man Band-Aid is exactly what I need." As if superhero powers really were at work, my recovery time was quick. No X-rays or psychiatric care required.

Seven long days after my wipe out, I hold my breath as I slip into my Asics. Although my joints creak and my form lacks grace, I find the tough, ruthless athlete I fancy myself to be. I feel particularly hard-core slogging it out in the rain. I come home drenched, with strands of hair plastered to my cheeks. But I must have a look of satisfaction, because my husband and son cheer as if I have just crossed a finish line. Their runner-mother is back.