Life Running RampantJuly 21, 2012
So here’s my advice for balancing work, family, and training: let the dust build on your furniture and not on you, set the alarm, tell your kid you love him 12 times/day, sweat hard, be humble and kind and authentic, and find depth of meaning in at least 7 parts of your life.
Child, partner, work, sport, friends, self, food. In no particular order.
When a bee swarms, you tell your kid to stand still and it will go away. I decided to step back from blogging for a spell as a result of some unwanted, icky prying into my private life by way of Google, and hopefully the bees have moved elsewhere. To review: I am a running blogger who sometimes writes about the intersections between work, sport, and family. I’m not a gossip monger, mommy blogger, suburban soap opera. If you want tedious race reports and 800-meter splits, I’m your gal. If you want cheap titillation, read EL James.
I’ve also been flat out for the past month, working a full-time job, part-time job, writing the book, mothering, and logging 50+ miles/week, which has shot my blogging time, not to mention my diet and housekeeping. I eat burritos and live in a warren of dust bunnies (which reproduce just as quickly, by the way). And yet, contrary to what you’d think, life is pretty great. I’m determined to prove you can sit at a desk for 9 hours, foster your child’s development, write a book that has meaning to others, and PR in every distance you race. Congruent with what you’d think, my back is killing me.
I’m back in PT for my chronic lumbar pain, which shoots into my glutes, piriformis, and occasionally all the way into my calf. It got me a pimped out office chair at work, but it also gets me spasms and fistfulls of Advil. I have to think that running the bulk of my miles on a treadmill has a lot to do with it, especially because I roll from my bed into my shoes and onto the mill in 10 minutes every morning without opening my eyes, much less warming up my muscles.
My new PT works with the Celtics and is superb, albeit a weight-training despot. I’m used to passive PT that grinds the tension from my muscles with massage and didn’t realize there is any subjectivity to PT technique. My new therapy emphasizes weight training, downplays massage. I actually have to do more than just lie there. It blows, but it works. Damn it. Henry likes coming with me because he sees me grunt and can wear Shaq’s shoes while I do stuff with my adductors.
Against my PT’s warnings, I’m racing a mile tomorrow on my quest to PR at every distance in 2012. Because I last raced a mile three years ago when I wasn’t doing nearly the paces I do now, I’m pretty confident I won’t eff it up. I need to break a 6:26 to PR, and as long as I don’t snap my leg along the way, I know I can do it. The race starts at Porter Square in Cambridge and finishes in front of the Harvard Coop, my one and only chance to safely run down the middle of Mass Ave on a Sunday morning. I can’t wait.
I’ll try to post a race report afterward if you’re keen to know how I fared. Thanks for reading if you’re still visiting my blog, and thanks for your understanding as I wrap up my manuscript in the next couple months, which will soak up the bulk of my word drool. I’ll try to write as much as possible. Of all the things I don’t want this blog to be, it’s a forum for whining, which can be a challenge with my schedule (see paragraph 1). When I run with my training partner and start to make negative statements, he says I get 2 acts of whining per run. I say they’re observations. But I get the point. No whining.
Child, partner, work, sport, friends, self, food.
Let’s move on.