Temperamentally not a sprinter

Lately I have been wondering how much temperament has to do with the kind of racing we choose. By temperament, I mean our natural inclination toward showing emotion. Are you the kind of person who puts it all out there, or do you hold back? I suspect (though I could be wrong) that most ultramarathoners are more of the hold back variety.

Last night I was helping to coach my daughter Nell's swimteam practice. I told the kids that we were going to swim 4 x 100 freestyle. The first and last laps of the 100's could be easy, but the middle 50 was to be an all out sprint.

Nell is kind of like me. As a kid I was hesitant to show much emotion. For whatever reason, I always tried to present a calm face to the world, regardless of what was going on inside my head and heart. I didn't much enjoy being the center of attention. Did not enjoy praise, and often felt devastated by criticism.

The other morning, Nell told me, more or less out of the blue, that when she is feeling excited she doesn't like to show it.

Why?

She couldn't answer why.

I told her that people like to know when you're excited because it makes them feel excited, too. What I did not tell her (and I think I will now that I have given the matter some thought), is that it has taken me most of my life to reach that simple conclusion. Emotions are worth sharing. Emotions connect us to other people.

But perhaps that simple fact is not one of those things you can just tell someone. Especially someone like Nell. Perhaps it's one of those things that you must live yourself into. I don't know.

But the fact remains that Nell does not like to put it all out there. And this conversation came back to me last night at the pool. Nell does not like to sprint. She had a hard time sprinting the middle 50 during that 4 x 100 set. And it's not because she's lazy. She swims the 10-and-over practice and she's only 8. She loves to go long. I think, temperamentally, however, she does not like to sprint. Sprinting requires a full exertion. You must give it everything you have at that moment. Nell is reluctant to do this. She holds back. She saves herself.

Same thing in soccer. She'll run her little butt off all over the field. She stays in position (usually halfback), she passes, she runs next to the ball. But she does not want the ball itself. She likes to be on the field and she likes to run, but she wants nothing to do with the ball. She cannot get rid of it fast enough.

(Yes, I was like that, too. Which makes it all the more difficult to watch.)

Funny kid.

Perhaps she is destined to be an ultrarunner. It's perfect for people like Nell. There is no danger of being the center of attention. No one can see you way out in the woods. And there is very little sprinting. Actually, I believe it's safe to say that there is no sprinting whatsoever. I have never sprinted in a ultra.

I hate sprinting!

Most Emphatically, Not Running

It's 5:00 on a Wednesday morning. This is the time I'm usually getting back from my morning run with Eddie. But not today. I'm tapering! And from what I hear about the Pittsfield Peaks course, I really do need to rest.

(Eddie. See his tail? He's a skittish dog. Every since we got him last fall.)

But it's so hard. I'm absolutely wired to run. It's built into my muscles and my bones.

Shut up. No running!

Actually this particular morning, it's not that hard. In fact, it's a no-brainer. I didn't sleep much last night and I'm tired. My daughter Nell woke me up last night around 11 because she couldn't sleep. And then I didn't get back to sleep myself for hours.

Nell is 8, which is a fabulous age. I sat on her bed and rubbed her back for 20 minutes until she finally blinked out. It was so pleasant to sit quietly in a dark room physically connected to my daughter. Every night of her first year we did this. She would wake and I would quietly nurse her back to sleep. I loved those times.

Or at least I love the memory of them. I must admit that I am mostly glad the kids aren't babies anymore. There was a six year stretch back there (2001 - 2007) in which I rarely slept through any night. Nursing babies, bad dreams, post-partum stuff: all of this strikes in the wee hours. I am starting to take a good night's sleep for granted. I am grateful for my time last night with Nell.

(Nell on her 8th birthday)

I am starting to take pieces of my life back. When the kids were little, they hated for me to leave. I felt like I was always rushing back home. All of my runs felt frantic. They were all short and guilt-laden, because I knew somebody back home was crying.

Ah, no longer. We are all developing our own interests. Our own lives.

I am off to VT for Pittsfield Peaks and I don't feel too badly about leaving the kids. Brian is coming with me to run the 10-mile race, so Nell, Simon and Ben will stay overnight with Grandma and Grandpa. We are lucky they live so close. We'll leave Friday, late afternoon, and come back Saturday night.

Sunday will be an interesting parenting day!

Even still, leaving them is not easy. The logistics alone are daunting. Pack for three kids, ages 4, 6 and 8, get them to Grandma's house (half an hour away) and soothe worried brows (Nell is at the age when she is starting to worry. I remember when I was 8 myself, crying at the front door as my parents prepared for a weekend away, certain something terrible was going to happen to them).

Then get home, pack a drop bag, a running outfit, bottles, packs, etc, etc. I need a Personal Organizer. This is really not my thing.

I cannot wait to start running! Once I get going up in Pittsfield, all of this will have melted away.

My jogging stroller, Myself

This article ran today in the New London Day newspaper. I had grandiose notions of dolling it up a bit and adding photos for this blog, but the odds of that ever happening are next to nil. SO here it is as printed today:

Brian is thinking about cleaning the garage. Spinning in there amidst the flotsam of recreational equipment – ten bikes of various size and state, two scooters, a tricycle, skates, a pogo stick and assorted helmets, gloves and tools – he zeroes in on the jogging stroller.

“Are you done with this?” he asks.

“Well. Um. No. Yes. I don’t know!”

It’s a complicated question. There was a time, just last year in fact, when I pushed that stroller every day. After saying goodbye to the school buses, Ben would hop in with his headphones and have a little rest in the fresh air while I ran.

We no longer use it much, but that stroller was my lifeline to sanity for years. It was my baby shower present eight years ago when I was pregnant with Nell. I have a picture of myself, impossibly round, pushing the stroller across my friend Cindy’s living room floor. It’s bright blue with pristine wheels and fresh tape on the crossbar.

Looking at it now in the garage, it’s rusty and faded to grey. But then again, so am I. The two back wheels were replaced a couple of years ago, and the tread on the front, non-weight-bearing wheel has worn smooth. Twenty-five or thirty miles a week for seven years: this stroller has been around the block.

From infanthood, all three the kids took their morning naps on the move, propped in the stroller with blankets and headrests. I remember running down Pequot Avenue with Baby Nell, her little feet two nubs just emerging from the base of the stroller’s isosceles triangle.

Out in the garage today, she can barely fold herself in.

After Simon and Ben were born, we found double strollers at yard sales and thrift shops, each of which lasted a year or two before succumbing to overuse. That blue stroller has outlasted them all.

When the kids were babies and toddlers, my friends Nan and Karen would often drive to my house in the mornings to help me push: three adults, two dogs and three kids in a fantastic moving parade. Between stops for handing out apples and water cups, dealing with diapers, and waiting for pooping dogs, we talked our heads off. Our conversations moved and breathed: books, movies, politics, people, kids.

Those life-giving talks were my antennae to the outside world, the world beyond naptimes and toilet training. Days with babies, for all their richness, can get a bit lonely. Those runs cemented our friendship for good.

Looking at that old stroller in the garage today I am torn. What to do with this old friend now? I can’t just throw it out. And I can’t give it away; I’m not even sure it’s still safe.

In the end, Brian drills a hook into the ceiling and hangs it high. The stroller now looks down on us like a local deity, Talisman of the Garage, chuckling at our antics, offering occasional advice and blessing our every run.